Having spent a year and three months abroad, I have not come away unscathed. Although the majority of my experiences have been filled with the kindness of strangers, adorable dogs, inspiring art, and otherwise drama-free days of applying balm to my mosquito bites, I did have to learn some lessons the hard way. Case in point: this blog post begins and ends in the toilet. Without further ado…

Tiruvannamalai, India

While I had come to Tiruvannamalai for holy reasons, I found myself performing a decidedly unholy act. Unfortunately, I had to learn this: Never put your hand in an Indian toilet. I had been taking a shower when the water trickled to a slow and complete stop—a tricky situation since I was fully lathered head-to-toe. Standing over a dry tap with soap running into my eyes, I pondered what to do. I could wait, which I did for about five minutes, but my experience when the tap runs dry in India is that it can remain dry for a day or longer. Was I going to remain for days with soap in my eyes and shampoo in my hair? 

Folks, what I’m about to admit next is nothing I am proud of but—I peered into the toilet and… uh…next thing I know I’m splashing toilet water on my face. Yes—toilet water—after I had painstakingly cleansed my face with medicated Eucerin sensitive skin cleanser. I liken it to tempting fate and simultaneously praying to God for a pass—16 years old, driving with a beer in my hand, please God, no cops!—but no such luck.

Within seconds, the most sickening, rotten, foul stench nearly knocked me out. By disturbing water in the toilet bowl, I had unearthed years—or centuries—of excrement and waste that had been dormant in the bowels of the septic system. It was as if sewage from the time of Gandhi had awakened and it was all over my face.

I nearly retched, but in that moment, the tap sputtered to life and I dove under it. The next day, I bought a large bucket and always had reserve water on hand—and yes—it did come in handy because taps running dry is a way of life in India.

Laundry at Ramana Ashram

Young brahmins of the ashram washing their dhotis in the traditional manner, which entails slapping it with all their might onto a concrete surface. A common site all over Tiruvannamalai—housewives slam the holy hell out of the family’s clothes, including gold-trimmed saris.

What’s old is new

Sonu demonstrates how to make new necklaces look antique.

Sonu and Yamid: Kashmiri boys work at a shop in Tiruvannamalai during high-season. When the season is finished, they—along with all other Kashmiri shop keepers—return to their homes. Some have businesses, some will go back to school. Yamid says he loves to fish and will go fishing.

Love on her terms

This ashram dog adopted me as her nap-time pillow, often trotting in and slumping against my knee while I meditated. It wasn’t a quiet affair, as it entailed doggie dreams filled with whining, growling, and paw-flicking. Or she would scratch, lick, or vigorously bite her backside while shoving more forcefully into me. When she was bored or saw a monkey to chase, she’d sprint away without as much as a backwards glance. But she’d find me the next day.

It’s a dog’s world

This gorgeous creature was always napping when I came by. Completely knocked out, sleeping with such abandon. On more than one occasion, he remained oblivious to the Danish roll left for his afternoon treat (courtesy of Leslie and his animal sanctuary). If you can believe it, all these photos were taken on different days.

More lessons I learned

1) Listen to your dentist.

2) It is not wise to chew on only one side of your mouth for four months.

3) Yummy fried dahl-snacks are molar-killers.

I’ll back up here and explain that my itinerary resembled a cha-cha-cha—in that I went to three countries two times, and in the same order—India, Malaysia, and Thailand—as if I had to lap my first trip, which I did, and here is why.

When I was in Thailand in 2016, I visited a dentist for a check-up and teeth cleaning. He discovered a molar with a hairline crack. The dentist recommended putting a crown on it, warning that if it fully cracked, it could be very dangerous. I thought, “Eh, 50-50—it could crack, or it could not.” Throwing caution to the wind, I flew to India.

Within the first two weeks of my arrival, crunching on yummy fried dahl-snack (Haldiram’s!)—my molar split “Crack!”—and filled me with searing nerve pain. Tiruvannamalai is a small temple town that takes four hours to reach by car from the airport. Meaning, if I wanted to go to a more modern dentist, I would have to go all the way back to the airport. But I thought, if I go that far, I might as well fly to Thailand and receive treatment at my dentist’s super modern, clean, hygienic clinic, and enjoy Thai hospitality and service. But having just arrived in Tiruvannamalai, with a plan to stay for four months, I decided on the brilliant plan to:

1) Never eat yummy fried dahl-snacks.

2) Chew only on the left side of my mouth.

My plan seemed to work, and as long as I stuck to smoothies and puddings. However, at three months, sickening nerve pain rendered me nearly incapacitated. It traveled to my ear and eye and I had constant right-side headaches. I continued to stubbornly cling to my dream of staying for a full four months to commemorate Mahashivratri—a holy celebration. I asked some expats for a recommendation and traveled by rickshaw to the village dentist.

The clinic was dirty; dirt on the floors, ledges and sills. This is India, with unpaved roads and no air conditioning, therefore, people leave doors wide open while the wind blows in the dirt. Although understandable, I was not impressed or comforted about the clinic conditions.

The dentist prepared me for the x-ray by putting a lead apron on herself. Only. No lead apron for me—the patient! Then she stuck her finger in my mouth to prop up the film against my molar and shouted, “Shoot!”

I thought she shouted, “Chew!” So I bit down hard.

“No!” She exclaimed, or “Ow!”—it was hard to tell.

She said the x-ray was unclear; there was a shadow. She proposed I come back the next day so she could do some drilling and exploring. I nodded, walked across the dusty floor and never went back.

I was stubborn—still trying to hang on until the holy celebration. I took natural antibiotics. I drank colloidal silver. But finally I had to admit—I had to leave. Had to depart. The nerve pain was unbearable. I said goodbye to my friend Frédéric and he said, “I’m not sad because I know I’ll meet you here again”—meaning—the power of Arunachala would pull me back like the irresistible attraction of iron to a magnet. A moth to a flame. Yes, I-moth to Arunachala-flame.

Georgetown, Penang: Art is life

I didn’t fly directly to Thailand but back to Penang, to make a 60-day visa. Something told me I would need more than 30-days to deal with my cracked tooth. While I waited for the visa to be processed, I wandered along Georgetown’s streets and alleys to view murals painted onto sides of houses and walls; where iron-sculptures whimsically hung in the air on shuttered windows. I also soaked up the vibes at Hin Bus Depot—the artist’s cooperative that operates not only a gallery, but a performing arts space, working studios and three on-site cafés!

I had the distinct impression that everything in Georgetown was an installation, where exposed brick and a peeling door were works of art. I felt myself to be part of the installation—a wandering, twirling mobile.

Some may look at this padlocked gate and think “derelict”; I look at it and see derelict-art.

A peeling rustic door of a property in Georgetown.

Wall painting on one of the buildings at Hin Bus Depot.

Chiang Mai, Thailand: A new mouth

Upon arriving in Chiang Mai, I immediately went to the dentist. Entering the clinic, I slid out of my sandals at the shoe rack, and slid into clinic slippers to wear inside. The receptionist instructed me to wait in the upstairs lounge that boasted pink couches, a plasma TV, an elegant restroom, and complimentary water. The morning light spilled in from the large windows, and everything was so gleaming that I could hear the cleanliness—”ting-ting!”—bounce off shiny surfaces.

A dental assistant called me in. She wore a pink smock, pink hair-cover, and a face mask. I entered the room, which was large and spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows. If it weren’t for the dental accoutrements, I could easily imagine it to be a spa. It’s hard not to feel pampered with not just one—but two—sometimes three—dental assistants providing suction, wiping water from the face, gently pressing cotton in the mouth. It was like being tended to by a group of pink smurfs.

The dentist examined my mouth and rattled off a laundry-list of problems—his deft hands quickly moving the probe from tooth to tooth as he announced a cracked molar, broken fillings, a broken bridge. It was akin to a mechanic lifting the hood of a car and saying, “belt, hose, transmission, battery, spark plug, brake pad, gear shift—oh, and by the way—low on windshield wiper fluid.” Sigh. I was on the “Leave No Tooth Behind” care protocol. I had to accept it—after all—I was in this mess because I hadn’t listened to my dentist in the first place. I walked downstairs and submitted his treatment plan. The receptionist told me to come back in two days.

*     *     *

While waiting in the lounge, I noticed an object resembling a miniature tennis racket, but the “strings” were metal and electrocuted mosquitoes. Then I realized that I’d been absent-mindedly scratching my ankle, and had small bites. While the clinic was superiorly hygienic, it was not hermetically sealed. Thus, every time the door opened, mosquitoes had the opportunity to fly in.

An assistant called me in. I sat in the chair and closed my eyes, settling in and mentally preparing for a long, grueling appointment. As I opened my eyes, one of the surfs smacked her hands in front of my face, nearly slapping my cheeks. Simultaneously, the dentist said “Open wide.” Just then, I realized the assistant had—in one fell swoop—killed a mosquito, shook it off, and grabbed the suction, ready to shove it in my mouth. I don’t know why it struck me as hilarious, but it did. I really appreciated her reflexes. But in any case, I started to crack up. The dentist murmured something in Thai. He waited, poised with injection in hand. Pink smurf assistant waited, poised with suction in hand. Other assistants waited. They were so quiet and polite that it made me laugh harder—like I literally couldn’t stop, and knowing they were waiting for me to stop laughing only added to the laughing. Could they be more deadpan? Finally I calmed down, opened my mouth, and got my spark plugs drilled.

Lesson for VIP Bus: Properly lock the bathroom door

Folks, I don’t normally use toilets on a bus, and here is why: They are narrower than coffins and located over the rear tires where the bus jumps up and down. There are no shock absorbers. The risk of falling in the toilet is a real and present danger. So usually, I purposely cut off water and go into dehydration mode before a long journey. Sadly, recent bladder infections don’t allow this anymore, so there came a moment when I had to use the toilet.

Walking to the back of the bus was fraught with sudden jerks that nearly pitched me into passenger laps and had me grasping on every seat rest as I made my way down the aisle. I stepped inside the coffin-toilet, and this is where logistics have to be carefully managed. Must lift the skirt all the way above the waist so it doesn’t fall into the toilet or urinal that’s nearly touching my knee—and tuck it under my armpits because I can’t hold up my skirt and hold the rail at the same time. And believe me—I needed the rail. With the violent jerks and jumps on the bus, it was like a cruel game of using a toilet on a whirl-a-twirl-bumper-car-death-drop-roller-coaster ride.

Sorry to get so graphic here, but here’s how it goes: skirt hitched up, hover over toilet seat because the water/urine in the shallow bowl splashes up; tense quad muscles like crazy (chair pose anyone?), hold onto rail and try to aim pee in the toilet…or wherever. So with all this going on, I thought I had locked the door. I had not.

Suddenly and unceremoniously, a young Thai guy flung the door open. I shrieked! He shrieked! I shrieked again and yanked the door closed all the while holding onto the rail and not crashing into the toilet. I had scared the bejesus out of him. I don’t know what was more scary; my shrieking in his face, or seeing me with my skirt up, hovering over the toilet while holding onto the rail. Sadly, I’ve scarred him for life. As for me, I’m pretty proud of myself—I never broke chair pose.