When preparing to go to India, I expected the worst.

Horror stories of food poisoning, getting ripped off and being constantly in unsanitary or crowded conditions put me on guard, but I knew it would be a personal challenge with optimal rewards if I could see it through.

So when I first arrived in Delhi, I wasn’t too shocked at the chaos around me. To ease my transition into the country, I opted to pay extra to have my guest house, Hotel Rak International, pick me up directly from the airport. As I walked out of the arrival gate and saw my name on the placard, I was relieved that, so far, everything was going smoothly.

As I followed the driver to the parking garage, adjusting to what would become the familiar feeling of a 30-pound bag on my back under the blazing sun, I kept looking for the vehicle that would take me into my first glimpse of Delhi. Shiny new cars full of air conditioning and shocks lined past me, and to my disappointment, continued to stay past me as we walked on.

Finally, I spotted a small, dark paint-chipped car, covered in dirt and rust, with fallen upholstery showing through its grimy windows. Clearly, this car had come to the Delhi International Airport car park to die.

“Please don’t let this be the car, please don’t let this be the car…” I thought in my head. But as we headed toward it, ignoring its shimmering neighbors, I knew I was in for quite a ride.

Now, if you’ve been following my blog, you know one of my biggest complaints living in Malaysia was driving alongside people who all apparently have a death wish. I didn’t actually think it was possible to find worse drivers until I went to India, where traffic laws are virtually non-existent. Red lights are pretty much ignored, and the basic rule of the road is the bigger vehicle has the right of way and, when in doubt, blare your horn as loud as and for as long as you can and hope for the best.

Obviously, I somehow managed to survive the journey, but my car ride was just the first in a series of rude awakenings that marked my arrival in India.

After settling into my guest house, what I can only describe as “clean enough,” I walked around the Paharganj neighborhood to get a feel for things.

Noisy, crowded and dirty, Delhi is an excellent representation of the country’s worst traits, especially in the north. All around, people, cars, rickshaws and motorbikes compete for space on narrow roads, while random cows and goats hold their territories, forcing others to move around them.

For non-Indians, especially white people, you are a combination between a circus freak, celebrity and walking wallet, something to be stared at intently and then harassed into buying whatever grossly-inflated scarf/travel package/transportation they’re selling. Other times, everyone and their mother insists on taking a photograph with you (sometimes without your permission) and, at times, even asking for your autograph!

No matter what you’re doing, where you’re going and who you’re speaking with (or rather, trying to avoid), it seems nearly everyone has a burning desire to know your life story. I found myself trapped in about 100 line-of-questionings that went something like this:

–          “Which country?”

–          “Your name?”

–          “Where are you going?”

–          “Student?”

–          “What’s your job?”

–          “Do you have a boyfriend?/Are you married?”

–          “What is your phone number/email?”

My natural instinct when someone says “hello” to me is to greet them back, but I quickly learned in India that any acknowledgment whatsoever of the mostly creepy Indian men harassing me led to this questioning, and I had to turn the Erica bitch factor way up.

While most of the time India is harmless, there were two occasions in the beginning that definitely made me question whether or not I would cut it there for the subsequent three months.

On my second day, while walking down the street with two male friends, a motorcyclist reached out and grabbed my chest while passing by. At first, I thought it was an accident, the streets are narrow after all, but my friend confirmed that the grab was, in fact, deliberate.

This incident, while unpleasant, was relatively tame, and I brushed it off fairly easily. The second incident a few days later left me much more disturbed.

My friend Daniel and I had decided to go to Jama Masjid, the largest mosque in India. While Daniel was taking pictures on the square, I was sitting on the wall alone, minding my own business, when this boy, about 10 years old, comes up to me and tells me I’m sexy  (Mind you, I’m wearing a super ugly, floral print house-coat-like thing that was required upon entrance).

The conversation then proceeded like this:

ME: “Excuse me?”

BOY: “You’re sexy.”

ME: “Do you even know what means?”

BOY: “I fuck you.”

ME: “…”

Yeah. I was sexually harassed by a child. At a mosque.

Now, as much as I wanted to backhand this kid, I found it quite sad (and telling) that a child is making comments like this to begin with, so I just walked away and ignored him.

And that was my welcome to India.

When one thinks of India, several things may come to mind: curry, yoga, saris, Bollywood. But probably the number one symbol to represent the subcontinent is one of the world’s greatest monuments: the Taj Mahal.

Built in the 1600s of white marble, the Taj was built by the Mughal emperor Shah Jahan to house the remains of his favorite wife, Mumtaz Mahal. And I’m not going to lie, it is every bit as beautiful as it looks in pictures and even more stunning in person.

Imagine my surprise to find that arguably the world’s most beautiful piece of architecture is housed in the world’s most un-beautiful city: Agra. Yes, apparently none of the several million dollars generated each year in revenue by the Taj goes to maintaining the charming metropolis surrounding it.

When I first entered Agra, the prospect of seeing the Taj plus the lack of sleep from our lively bus ride the night before (I swear I spent at least four minutes airbound) left me too excited, if not loopy, to notice much of my surroundings. It wasn’t until after sunset when we left the Taj and my buzz started to wear down that I realized how much of a dump we were in.

Now, to be fair, my friends and I arrived in Agra the night before Deepavali, one of India’s most important holidays, so perhaps the city was a bit rowdier and crowded than normal. We had decided to make the trip for the day and to try to catch a night train to Varanasi that evening.

After the Taj closed, we went to grab dinner before heading to the train station, and I realized that my attempts to stay hydrated in the Indian heat were catching up with me. After ordering, I asked to use the bathroom but was told it was out or order, so I told my friends I was heading out to find a toilet and would be back soon.

As I walked down the crowded road, dodging people, motorbikes and aggressive salesmen, I found tons of flowers, incense, souvenirs and street food. What I did not find were toilets.

Somehow in a city of 1.3 million inhabitants plus about 3 million tourists annually, there are approximately five working bathrooms, none of which were located on the street where I was having dinner. In my 15-minute walk down the road, I found only one other restaurant, containing a “toilet” consisting of a white basin on the floor with a canal that apparently led to somewhere (I swear, I didn’t see a hole anywhere!).

Clearly, this was not going to happen.

After that failed attempt I continued my walk…and walked…and walked…and finally asked one of the local craft sellers for the nearest bathroom. First, he said there weren’t any, but after seeing my desperation proceeded to lead me to a dark alley and pointed to the side of the road… I smiled politely and thanked him but dashed out the minute he left.

Again, this was not going to happen.

I gave up my bathroom attempts and headed back to the restaurant where, after scarfing down my now-cold meal, my friends and I headed to the train station to try our luck at last-minute tickets.

“The train station,” I thought, “I’ll find a decent toilet there.” My sagging little bladder filled with hope.

Turns out, finding a clean toilet at the Agra train station is just as futile as getting last-minute train tickets during Deepavali.

My first attempt at relief was in the bathroom located in the first waiting room we tried at the station. Upon entering, my nostrils filled with an overwhelming smell of human excrement. As I followed my nose, I found the source of the aroma from the large toilet stall in the back, containing your choice of a Western commode or an Asian squatter, neither of which had clearly ever been cleaned a day in their lives.

I groaned but crossed my fingers and my legs and hoped to have better luck with the waiting room down the platform.

This one looked much more promising. The waiting room was smaller but empty and was a welcome relief from the noise outside. It wasn’t until I opened the door to the bathroom and discovered human feces on the ground that even my bladder began to groan.

The poo wasn’t even contained in the stall! Not only had the lady just missed the hole in the Asian squatter, but she had apparently not realized she wasn’t finished when she walked out the door and had continued her excretions on the floor outside the stall. The sight of the rat that walked through the waiting room right after just added to the enthusiasm of my big, “hell no!”

Eventually, I managed to find an acceptable toilet in the station that wasn’t covered in human excrement and didn’t make me want to vomit upon entrance. (My toilet snobbery, however, would continue throughout India, eventually earning me the nickname “Camel Pee”…)

In the end, I had Agra to thank for providing me with two memorable experiences that will stay with me for a lifetime.

It has been awhile since my last blog.

When I left for India, I had every intention of maintaining the documentation of my life abroad, but as it turned out, that was much easier said than done.

I made the decision to not bring my laptop with me to India, and without easy access to a computer and the necessary time and privacy I like when writing my blogs, it just didn’t happen. In the choice between spending my time and energy in either writing about India or experiencing India, I chose the latter.

That being said, I had some AMAZING experiences in India, and I’ve decided to write about them anyway, in retrospect.

In the forthcoming days and weeks, I will be uploading the best (and worst!) of my experiences there and share what really was the trip of a lifetime.

Just a preview of things to come:

–          The Taj Mahal: the good, the bad and the nasty

–          Why you shouldn’t jump out of trains

–          Sexual harassment…by a child… in a mosque…

–          The ups and downs of riding a camel

–          Balaji: sludge and exorcisms, enough said!

–          The most anticipated hug ever.

–          Why yoga and meditation are awesome and will change the world

–          My18-hour train ride from hell

If you’re wondering where I am now, I’m currently back in Malaysia until I figure out my next move. While I do plan on coming home sometime this year, my current plan is to keep exploring Asia (including possibly returning to India) and eventually make my way home via Europe (savings allowing).

Until then, stay tuned!