Putting the "Grim" in Pilgrimage.

**Squeamish Reader Advisory: Gross Content**

I'm Not Making this Stuff Up
Occasionally people tell me things in response to my blogs like, "you're a funny writer." I accept the compliments, but with a guilty conscience and an ever-growing impostor complex. You see, I don't write anything funny. I just go to India, really weird things happen to me, I write the unexaggerated truth, and people find it amusing. There's little skill or creativity involved on my part. I give you, as an example, my four day trip to Rishikesh--a trip which was meant as a relaxing, yoga-filled getaway, and without any effort from me, quickly devolved into (excuse my French) a hilarious shit-show for your entertainment.
Day 1: The Journey Begins
Bus travel is the cheaper, less glamorous alternative to train travel. This is a universal truth. Unfortunately, I am almost never one of those people that is organized enough to book train tickets in advance, and for this reason I have found myself many times in my life in many places in the world spending harrowing evenings trying to fall asleep on overnight buses. My Rishikesh trip was no different. I felt a little awkward as the ride began not because I was the only gori (slang: white person) on board, but because I was the only passenger to start blowing up an inflatable neck-pillow when we sat down. I'll spare you the rest of the details of my journey to Rishikesh--like the ride itself, the description would be long and boring.

Rishikesh is situated in the foothills of the Himalayas and the mouth of the Ganges river, a beautiful, lush, green setting (especially beautiful after weeks of looking at the arid Jaipur desert). As it is a very sacred place it has become the "yoga capital of the world," a popular pilgrimage spot for Hindu worshipers, ashram-goers, sadhus, and hippy tourists. I checked into where I would be staying, The Shri Sant Sewas Ashram and was happy to behold the beautiful Ganges view from my balcony (pictured above). Within a few hours of my arrival I had found myself a nice yoga class to go to. I was looking forward to more yoga and in addition was formulating plans for hikes, temple-visits, massages, photo-taking adventures, cooking classes and a few days of leisurely fun. Very content, I sat down for a delicious dinner at a very cute restaurant. That evening I returned to my hotel and sat on the balcony listening to the quiet singing of pilgrims bathing in the Ganges below and watching big bats fly around in the clouds above. "What a relaxing place this is!" I thought, "What a mundane blog entry this will make!"

I went to bed. A few hours later I woke up suddenly. I ran to the bathroom. Explosive, projectile misery. Thus began my 23rd birthday.

Day 2: "Happy Birthday Katie! Love, India"
Probably just around midnight, I became reacquainted (in all of the disgusting ways) with that delicious dinner I had eaten earlier...and when the dinner was long gone, with every previous meal I have ever eaten. Now, I have experienced upset stomachs and even India-caliber upset stomachs before, but this was nothing like that. No, this was something far more sinister.

The sun began rising outside and I began saying goodbye to each of the fun plans I had made for my birthday and praying to Lord Shiva to kill me. Hours went by as I lay crumpled on my bathroom floor, intestines screaming, trying to exercise this cruel, cruel demon from my body.

In the bleakest hour of my misery I did receive a very nice birthday phone-call from one Mr. Alex Young. Unfortunately for him, as my first human contact of the day, he was burdened with my delirious complaints. For that, I am sorry. I also probably sent my mother into undue panic when I sent her a frantic international text message reading "very ill," without providing any details or follow-up. Also, sorry.

I was finally able to pull myself out of bed around midday to cross the street and buy a Coke which, unlike water, I was able to keep down. That gave me enough energy to sit upright in bed and stare out the window for several more hours.

Toward the end of the day I mustered up the motivation to leave the room one more time. I had one goal for my birthday which not even my digestive system was going to keep me from enacting. Studying Hindi all this time, I had been preparing a single line that I really wanted to say to someone. Looking something like a slimy sea-creature, I crawled from my room at the ashram and headed up the street to a little shop where I wanted to buy a Tibetan singing bowl (see video). I didn't really have enough energy to do my best haggling, but when the shop-keeper named the price I responded with the words I had been practicing for weeks, "लेकिन, मेरा जन्मदिन आज है..." (But, today is my birthday...) He gave me a nice discount. That was all I wanted.

I went to bed around 7pm, happy to say goodbye to that treacherous day. It would have been a disastrous birthday if I didn't find it all so dark and ironic and hilarious.

Day 3: Recovery Begins
I was still not well enough the next morning to have any interest in eating food or going to yoga classes. I thought, instead, a little stroll around Rishikesh might be nice. If you know anything about my infamous sense of direction or my inability to judge distances, however, you probably know that "little strolls" are things I should never attempt, especially not in humid 100 degree heat on an empty stomach. Along the road there were many small adventures, each one probably worthy of an entire blog entry, but I'll leave all that up to your imagination. One story involved more uninvited contact with a cow.

If I was going to be deathly ill while traveling, I figured at least Rishikesh was probably the place to be. Here, in this center for spirituality, surely I could find some mystical healer to bring me back to my old self. The ashram where I was staying houses a "world famous" massage center so I though perhaps an Ayurvedic Massage might do the trick.

I made my appointment, showed up, and was ushered back to a little room where an ancient Indian woman was squatting in the corner. I have had a few massages in my life, and I have worked in two spas with yoga jobs, so I feel like I have a pretty good understanding of how the whole massage scenario is supposed to play out and it's typically not like this. The woman and I smiled and stared awkwardly at each other for several seconds. I set down my purse and removed my shoes. She didn't seem to speak English, but she began making gestures that communicated something about my clothing. Hmmm...I looked around the room...No dim lighting? No discreet dressing room? No towels or robes? She kept nodding and beckoning. I seemed to be past the point of no return and I long ago lost any hope of maintaining any dignity in this country, so it seemed like my only option was to disrobe. I just really hoped this woman was going to be professional about this. At least she didn't point or laugh.

She called me over to the suspicious mattress on the floor and began dousing me with what I suppose were very healing Ayurvedic oils for the massage. As she massaged she kind of sang and muttered to herself and occasionally belched. As we hadn't exchanged any words throughout the whole process, I assumed she spoke no English, but midway through the massage, she paused to ask the inevitable, "You are married?" and then had a good laugh at the fact that I was not. The massage was very...thorough. It felt nice, I suppose, but the amount of anxiety that the situation caused me probably outweighed any healing benefits. I left the massage mildly violated, 500 Rupees poorer, and covered head-to-to in impossible-to-wash-off oil.

Day 4: So Long and Thanks for all the Memories
I was ready to leave Rishikesh. It's a beautiful place and I'll happily go back there some day, but not in the middle of summer, and not on the bus, and not alone, and I'll try not to get food poisoning, and I won't remove my clothes for any strange, burping old women. That much I've learned.

I ate breakfast (finally able to eat food--kind of) surrounded by monkeys at a cafe overlooking the river. Then I packed my bags and headed out.

But if only that were the end.

A long bus journey awaited me yet. There are no direct buses out of Rishikesh, one has to first take a local bus (horrific) to the next big city, Haridwar, an hour away, get anywhere. I made it by bus to Haridwar, though my bus back to Jaipur, of course, was leaving from a location on the other side of town. So by the time my rickshaw driver deposited me at the appropriate place I had already had a long and confusing morning of travel and it was literally, only the beginning.

My bus to Jaipur, it appeared, was leaving from a vacant field outside of Haridwar where a few buses were parked and several men sat around a plastic picnic table yelling at each other. I approached the table with my ticket outstretched before me saying, "Jaipur? Jaipur?" The first man at the table said to me "Your bus is the red bus. It leaves at 5." Then immediately after that, the man next to him said, "Your bus is the white bus. It leaves at 4." As it was now only 3, rather than trying to make sense of these instructions I walked away from the table to sit down.

My patience was wearing very thin. I still felt queasy. There was nowhere to sit. The sun was very hot. I sat down on my backpack in the tiny patch of shade under a pathetic excuse for a "tree" and ants started crawling all over me. I was about to lose it--I was just debating whether it would be more appropriate to laugh or cry. I did neither. Instead, I did the only think I could think of to calm myself down in a situation like this, took out a handi-wipe and washed my hands.

Soon after, an Indian woman appeared from nowhere and in Hindi started asking me questions like, "Why are you alone? Who are you with?" and I didn't understand the rest of what she was saying but, given the trend, it was probably something like, "Why aren't you married at your age?" Then some other bystanders began trying to take my picture.

When it came close to 4 o'clock I approached the table of bus guys again and, in what was probably a very obnoxious tone, started demanding to be put on a bus. Finally, I got on a bus, and finally, it started moving. As we rolled away I saw, out of my window another bus with pink hubcaps. I thought maybe that was a sign that I would be ok.

Or maybe it was just a sign that I was on the wrong bus...