Pooping at the Taj

We visited the Taj Mahal, one of the most beautiful buildings in the world. And I pooped there.

And not in one of the toilets. Not in one of the bathrooms, not in a designated poo hole, not on a squatter, nor even in a ditch. I dropped my pants and my poo on the pristine grounds surrounding one of the Seven New Wonders of the World. Here’s how (and why) it went down.

We arrived in Agra after a frustrating two weeks of trying to sell our motorcycles in Delhi. The frustration was compounded by having to settle for terrible dealer prices in Karol Bagh, plus a difficult time airmailing some of our motorcycle gear back to the States, plus missing our Delhi-to-Agra AC bus.

When we finally did arrive in Agra (via a much shabbier bus) late that night, we needed to find food at a time when most restaurants were closed. We had to make do with a place that lacked the cleanliness of a normal restaurant and also lacked the transparency of a traditional dhaba. In the end, the food that did arrive wasn’t bad; it was a little greasier than we normally go for, but it was a warm meal after a long day. We ate it unquestioningly, and my stomach had no complaints as we headed back to our hostel at 9:30pm.

Our host at the hostel suggested we should get up early and be at the Taj for sunrise. Although we’re not great at getting up early, we agreed to forego a little sleep in order to experience such a beautiful sight. We went to bed around 10:30pm, and at that point in time, my insides were still not making any trouble.

I awoke in the wee hours of the morning needing to do more than wee. I scrambled out of bed and into the shared bathroom, trying to remember if there was toilet paper already in the dispenser. Spoiler alert - there wasn’t. On some level I didn’t care, though, because I made it to the toilet in time. One large splat from down under and one long sigh from my lips later, I began assessing the situation: my stomach was churning, I didn’t have any toilet paper, and everyone in the building was likely asleep. Things were not great at the moment, and they definitely didn’t bode well for the morrow.

I haven’t completely acclimated to Indian toilet procedures, but I made do. For those of you who haven’t experienced the cultural difference of Indian wiping, let me explain. Instead of toilet paper in a rolling dispenser, Indian toilets have faucets with small pitchers. You’re supposed to fill the pitcher with water and use a combination of it and your hand to wipe the poo from your butt. Now, this probably sounds gross to those of you who grew up with toilet paper, but that’s until you hear the rationale: with toilet paper, you remove a little of the poo, but the rest is simply smeared around your crack and remains there until your next shower. The traditional Indian way may seem more icky at first, but I can say from experience (well, call it trial and error) that I have felt more clean after muddling through the local way.

So anyway, it was 2:00am, my stomach was churning, I washed my butt with my hand, I was tired, and I was worried about walking around the Taj Mahal the next day. My poo had been very liquidy, and I worried that some would drip out embarrassingly during our walks. Essentially, I dreaded “anal leakage”, a term I’ve heard during the side effect warnings of medical commercials. I slunk back to bed and drifted in and out of sleep for a few hours before the alarm went off at 5:30am, at which time Sarah and I groggily got ready and headed out the door with a few other people from the hostel.

Getting into the premises of the Taj Mahal required some walking. We trudged half a kilometer to a ticket office to buy entry tickets, then back another kilometer or more to the Taj’s east gate. Or almost. We got to the gate at 5:56am, and there was already a long line of people waiting. The sun would rise at around 6:15am, and hundreds of tourists with cameras were keen on snapping amateur photos of it.

For me and my upset bowels, that kilometer and a half was not good. Things were sloshing and gurgling inside, and clenching my abs tended to make things worse. Being stuck amidst a long line of tourists wasn’t ideal either. I told Sarah that I wasn’t feeling well, but I decided to keep going with the group for the sake of the experience.

We finally did make it inside the grounds, and I must admit it was an incredible sight. The Taj Mahal is stunningly beautiful, and arriving near sunrise made things even nicer because the light striking the building kept changing subtly. At least, the objective part of my brain could recognize the majesty, but most of my attention was taken up by my insides. Which, to an intestinal probe, would not have been a pretty sight. I felt a big poo coming on, and I kept a frantic eye out for ‘Toilet’ signs as the others admired the tomb.

After grimacing through a few pictures, I told Sarah I was heading back to the hostel. My bowels were threatening release, and I didn’t want to lay waste on the white marbled surface of the mausoleum. The hostel was about half a kilometer away, and with butt cheeks clenched, I decided to try to make it there.

I’m proud to say that I made it out of the building and into the surrounding gardens before the dams broke. In fact, I could actually see a sign a few hundred meters away with an arrow pointing to ‘Toilets’ when I felt the first dribbles escaping. I scamper-waddled over to a row of bushes off the main path as my intestines turned themselves inside out. It wasn’t pretty. Though no one had direct eyes on me in the shrubbery, I’m sure a few people saw me scamper off in an awkward crouch. By the time I got to the relative cover of the bushes, there was already a sizable glob of poop in my underwear, so I dug a hole, took off my underwear like a hunched ninja and buried my boxers in the dirt. The rest of my poop was an oozing brown mess that I covered with leaves and topsoil. I decided not to charge the groundskeepers for adding fertilizer to their garden as I sidled out of the gates as nonchalantly as I could.