BOOK EXCERPT

ADVENTURES OF A CONTINENTAL DRIFTER

Delhi Belly
 
Delhi Belly. Even iron-gut travelers have become intimately associated with the term. You can read about it in guide books or listen to graphic tales from tourists who have managed to survive. Delhi Belly. Such gastronomic combustion can turn a normal bowel movement into a volcanic eruption on par with the legendary Krakatoa blast. Delhi "oh-my-aching" Belly. Don't drink the water. Don't eat leafy green salads. Don't even think about eating fruit unless the skin can be peeled and discarded. Lord, if only I had followed that advice.

I happened to be sitting in the back seat of a chauffer-driven car when Delhi Belly came into my life. Don't be impressed by the "chauffer-driven" thing. My limo was in fact a sputtering Peugeot without air-conditioning. For what you'd pay for a one-night stay in a three-star hotel in New York, my driver agreed to take me from Delhi to Agra and on to Jaipur before returning to Delhi on day three. A common route for tourists, the "Golden Triangle," covers more than four hundred dusty miles and reveals some of India's greatest treasures: the Pink City, Hawa Mahal, Agra Fort, and of course, the magnificent Taj Mahal. The price included the car, driver, petrol, one-night's accommodation in two different three-star hotels even hotel accommodation for my driver.

As we drove past the outskirts of Delhi, the veil of rural India slowly lifted, revealing miles of parched earth for as far as I could see. Only a few scabrous trees dotted a landscape that a hazy white-hot sun had sucked the life from. From the speeding car I saw crumbling brick structures around which peasants gathered. Sacred cows attempted to escape the heat by lounging in muddy holes. Flatbed trucks stacked high with burlap sacks on top of which sat turban-wearing workmen flew by. Looking at all this through the dusty car window, I felt the first painful stomach cramps. Next came a curious bubbling noise from deep within the bowels. I won't go into detail about what happened next. Trust me, you don't want to know. But when the car screeched to a desperate halt along the highway miles from the nearest toilet I staggered into the dusty field, bare-assed and poised for purpose. So powerful was the back-door blast, so fiery the discharge, I closed my eyes, clenched my teeth, and prepared to be launched into orbit.

Delhi Belly. I had it. I had it bad. My driver had to pull over two more times before we finally reached Agra that afternoon. I checked in a the hotel desk and made a mad dash for the in-room facilities. There I remained for some thirty wretched minutes. After crawling from the bathroom, haggard and dehydrated, I laid on the bed, attempting to gather my strength. It was about 3:00 p.m. The Taj Mahal closed at sunset. The following morning we would be leaving for Jaipur. The window of opportunity was closing. This would be my only chance to visit the world's most beautiful building. In spite of the cramping and dizziness, I threw myself out of the room and into the waiting car.

One look at the Taj Mahal was well worth the intestinal fortitude required to get me there. At the far end of the courtyard, past the towering red sandstone gate and the awe-struck hordes rushing through it, beyond the sculpted geometric garden and the long linear fountain slicing down its center, lay the most stunning building I've ever laid eyes upon. Sitting high atop a broad marble platform, the Taj Mahal is a dream in white marble. If Fabergé had designed palaces instead of opulent eggs, this is what he would have conceived. The grand structure has not one, but four identical façcades. Each one is graced with a one-hundred-foot central arch and embedded with thousands upon thousands of tiny precious stones that make up an incomparable flower motif. A giant two-hundred-forty-foot translucent marble dome sits atop the building. The dome is said to shimmer in the moonlight.

Although the Taj appears to be a grand palace, it is in fact a grand mausoleum. When Mumtaz Mahal died during childbirth in 1631, her husband, the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan, became so distraught his hair is said to have turned grey overnight. Soon after, he made plans to build a final resting place for his beloved. It took twenty-two years and required the efforts of more than twenty thousand workmen, but in 1653 the Taj Mahal was completed. It stands on the southern bank of the Yamuna River, a three-hundred-fifty-year-old tribute to lost love.

Armed guards patrolled the area in and around the building. I had the feeling I was being watched because I was being watched. So were the other visitors. Not only is India's preeminent symbol under constant threat of terrorist attacks (this is the reason for the security checkpoint at the entrance), it's also a target for petty looters. If you look closely at the precious stones imbedded in the marble façcades, you'll see where some have been mysteriously pried out.

I sat on a bench in the courtyard, admiring the world's loveliest building, basking in its luminescent glow, when suddenly there was a rumbling from inside. Not in the interior chamber where Mumtaz Mahal's body lay, but in the deep dark recesses of my warped digestive system. The runs. The trots. Mumtaz Mahal's Revenge. Whatever you want to call it, it was coming. I held my head in my hands, thinking solid thoughts, conjuring up images of concrete and steel. But in this battle of mind over matter, matter would not be denied. I rushed from the courtyard, through the towering red sandstone gates, and into the waiting car which my trusty driver navigated through the crowded streets of Agra and delivered me posthaste to the hotel.

While dashing past the front desk on my way to the elevator, the desk clerk called my name. "We need to see your passport, sir," he said. I stopped, turned, leapt in front of the desk, swaying and clenching my cheeks.

"I don't have it with me," I said.

"We must see it."

"I don't have it."

"Is it in your room?"

"No."

"Where is it, sir?"

"It's in Delhi."

He picked up the phone. The hotel manager appeared instantly. "I really need to get to my room," I said. The manager shook my hand and guided me toward a sofa in the middle of the lobby. Sitting down required a colossal act of courage on my part.

He sighed as he leaned forward, as would a doctor before explaining that the tumor is malignant. "I'm sorry," he said. "All guests must provide a passport."

"I know, "I said, nodding my head. "My passport is back in Delhi."

"Why did you leave your passport in Delhi?"

Sweat dripping from my temples, knees trembling, my belly thoroughly Delhied, I told the whole sordid story...

PHOTOS OF INDIA

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