This is topic My Indian Adventures in forum Karp Park at The Azure Heights Forum.
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Posted by Boodabonzi (Member # 2958) on 06-07-2005, 08:01 PM:
This is a bit immense but stick with it. It delivers.
India, specifically Kerala, would be beautiful if there was some kind of waste disposal procedure over there. I was in India from the 21st of March to the 11th of April and I lost count of the number of amazing views or beautiful villages or landmarks I went to that were ruined by a pile of garbage or any of a million different types of flotsam and jetsam that you find all over the place. In particular I must have seen thousands of solitary sandals floating around forlornly in almost every water source there was. It almost had me believing that Indian people shit sandals or something. This leads me to my next point.
The mentality in India regarding bodily functions is somewhat different to that that I have lived with in the western world. Now, it can be argued that the French have the worst hygiene in the world. They still have those "hole in the ground" toilets that you have to squat over while concentrating insanely on not touching the walls whilst simultaneously holding your ankles and balancing so that the shit falls out and doesn't just run down your legs. Diarrhoea is not something you want to get in France. Yes indeed, it could be argued that the frog-eating, beret-wearing French are the worst in the world when it comes to their hygiene. And India does indeed have toilets in the same sense that I in England have a toilet so you could say that it is ahead of France. The reason I'm going into it so much is that Indians are arguably a lot worse than the French because, although the French seem content to squat and expulge their gourmet dishes into a fucking cesspit, at least they wait 'til they get to their cesspit.
A lot of men in India wear these Sari style things that pretentious western women and ponsy men wear. It's practical in India of course so what they do is just roll it up so it's quite short and then tuck it into the top so it's a sort of pseudo-rolled-up skirt. As I said, India has conventional toilets (as does France I know, the French just seem to have some kind of infatuation with the shitpool ones) - it has the hole in the ground variety as well - but Christ would they ever use them? On five separate occasions, in broad daylight - twice on the beach and three times into an open sewer on a crowded pavement - I saw men hitch up their Sari, their cock and balls coming fully into view like three tiny obscene easter eggs nestled in a mess of matted black hair, until they (and they all used the same technique here) cup them out of the way, go into a slight sitting position and then just fucking go for it. Shitting in the sodding street. Until you have been to India you won't truly understand how populous the place is. It is packed. Everywhere. And to see people just hitching up, cupping up and letting go in full view of their peers was something else.
Watching an Indian guy take a shit is just the same principle as everyone slowing down for a gory looking car crash - it's so wrong but you can't help it. Their skin is pretty damn dark over there, a lot darker than the Asian people I know in England, and in the heat you could swear it looks like their flesh is melting straight from their ass - either in great, heady, victorious chunks or in a more chocolate sauce that's been left a bit too long in the cupboard way. No wonder these daring defecators live in a country that still has a real problem with Cholera.
Now, it was after the second occasion that I witnessed this local custom that I decided it wasn't just a fluke that some psycho that I had seen shitting on a beach the day before was just in the area the same time as me, this was something people did over here. Not a taboo at all. It was what happened the third time that really got me. The first two guys had taken what I like to describe as "Hero Shits". A hero shit is one of those shits when it comes out so clean and smooth that no wiping is necessary and you only do it out of habit, one that just comes out, plonks into the bowl and then looks lovingly back at you as if to congratulate you on a job well done until you send it to scat heaven.
The third gentleman did not take a hero shit. Indeed, his shit was very villainous indeed. It ran down his legs, it spluttered like a clown car from a Bugs Bunny cartoon. It was the piece de not even near enough resistance. When he had finished he looked around himself - apparently looking for the loo roll and the air freshener in the middle of the street. As none was forthcoming - perhaps because he'd just finished adding to the musty smell that eminates from every sidewalk in Kochi - he proceeded to crab walk up to a goat that was tied to a nearby fence. Then he wiped his arse on the goat. Up and down, then side to side, the goat bleating out some meagre protests but seeming almost familiar with this whole state of affairs.
In Team America Gary says "Wow a flying limousine, now I've seen everything." I wish I could ask him "Have you ever seen a man wipe his arse on a goat?" Because I'm certain that he WON'T have seen everything.
I have more stories from India, not all of them (though a few are) about faeces. Depending on how this thread is received I'm more than happy to fill you all in. (One has boobies).
Posted by Dweedle (Member # 1209) on 06-08-2005, 11:41 AM:
if you haven't read this story already, you should. it's hilarious, and very well written.
[ 06-08-2005, 11:41 AM: Message edited by: Dweedle ]
Posted by Mr. K (Member # 2) on 06-08-2005, 11:46 AM:
Yeah, I don't have a smartass comment to add, but it was a good read. Would enjoy seeing more adventures.
Posted by NintendoLover (Member # 3138) on 06-09-2005, 01:13 AM:
so do brits just randomly add vowels to words
also good story
Posted by Boodabonzi (Member # 2958) on 06-09-2005, 05:06 AM:
it's because of the metric system
Posted by starCaliber (Member # 268) on 06-09-2005, 05:41 AM:
either your writing has come a long way, or I've just never seen you write anything. Thoroughly enjoyable, and shitting humor++
Posted by pkthunder (Member # 67) on 06-09-2005, 02:01 PM:
still good the second time through
Posted by Wintermute (Member # 5) on 06-09-2005, 02:09 PM:
Confess to doubting the good reviews until I gave it a go.
Posted by Anthrax (Member # 335) on 06-09-2005, 04:57 PM:
this story actually made me laugh for a good while
good job duder
Posted by Boodabonzi (Member # 2958) on 06-10-2005, 07:57 AM:
It seems only fair to me of course that after I have filled you all up with horrible thoughts of defenceless livestock being pummelled within an inch of yet another delicious bone filled curry by hordes of dripping, lungi-hitching cretins who lack any concept of modesty or fibre - whether it be moral or nutritious.
Therefore it is with great trepidation that, after a few mandatory requests, I move on the story with boobies. But, before you read on, hand slipped down your sweat-pants, an empty cup of coffee and a tissue procured from the nearest trash can at the ready, with junk in hand, joyously anticipating a titillating adventure into an exotic world of developing world fun and frolics I must beseech you: wank at your peril.
As those of you who will be going straight to heaven now that good old Ratzinger is the Pontiff and all those nasty heathens will be once again rightfully denounced will have noticed - it was the easter period during my stay in India. The region in Kerala I was staying in is one of the most Catholic in the entire country and I saw some amazing things. The evening of Good Friday when I was walking the four miles back to the boat, that would take me the two miles back to the spit of land I was working on, from the nearest phone I walked through about two miles of processing Christians illuminating the night with candles and at four intervals flanking huge, gold-adorned, shackled elephants which carried effigies of Christ. It was something else I can tell you. So, as a born and bred Catholic, I decided I would keep the ole Bugger happy and go to mass on easter Sunday.
I was instructed by the guys in the boatyard to go to the Cathedral in Ernakulum but that was a rickshaw ride away unless I wanted to leave a 4am so I decided I'd go to the church in Kumbalanghy, a mere half-hour walk along the causeway. I asked them what time mass was and they told me I'd be fine if I got there for half nine. A girl, who we'll call Jenna, and a guy, who we'll just call Alex decided that they wanted to see what all the hullabaloo was about after my stories of elephants and actual genuine faith from the night before so they came along as well.
So, off we set at about five to nine. And, on the way there we saw hundreds of the local people, all wishing us a good morning and with massive smiles breaking up the darkness of their skin like a big white banana in a bowl of melted chocolate ice cream (or for some of the less hygienic of them - a bowl of Coco Pops) and dressed in their finest. And every one of them coming the other way. I assured the others that this would be no problem as there was obviously an early morning service while it was still cool that most of the locals would go to but at the same time I cursed Akinti from the boatyard (even if he does cut a good slice of mango).
We got there at about twenty past to find a church deserted but for the generic widows and cripples. I was pissed off - when do you really get to go to Easter mass in India? Never fear, I thought, there must be another service. I located a nun and after a few minutes of gesturing and saying things she would never understand in many different ways and then just more slowly and then simply shouting in desperation (the local language is Malayalam - it is impossible to learn as a westerner) I figured out that there was another service in half an hour. We decided to stay and sat at the back towards the middle so that if Jenna had to be segregated into the women's side we'd still be close. Sure enough people started filing in and I was satisfied that I was going to experience a Malayalam mass. That was until they carried the dead old lady in and placed her on what I had just assumed was some kind of long indian font of some sort. We then sat through two and a half hours of Indian funeral, with all of the wailing women and farting men that come with it. I could tell a lot of people didn't want us there but, at the same time, I feared the reaction if we up and legged it in the middle of a funeral service that over five hundred people had chosen to attend.
Imagine my trepadation then when after the service as we were on our way out an eldery-looking indian lady came over and started talking to us in Malayalam and gesturing to us with the anthropomorphic pickled dates she used as hands. It was a great relief when a pretty young indian girl in a bright green sari came over and explained in clear english that this was her grandmother and she simply wanted to know who we were and why we were here. We explained, and, given the nature of our presence in India she had heard of us. As soon as she'd figured out who we were we were invited back to their house and due to the fact that we were going to be late back anyway we went along. It turned out that we had a really nice time with the family of five - the grandmother (who had her own little house off from the main family) mother and father and the girl Stansi and her younger brother Stansan. They were relatively well off (they had a telephone, a telly and running water in their nevertheless still quite humble abode) so I wasn't too worried about the food that they gave us and I had a great time climbing up their gargantuan fruit trees with Stansan to get some dessert. Needless to say, we were invited back to see them again and we arranged for the next Sunday to meet them after we'd been to church.
Myself and Jenna went along for mass and Alex said he'd meet us afterwards because he's an asshole who can't sit through a couple of hours of religion if he could be in bed otherwise. Anyway, we didn't meet up with the family at Mass so we wandered down to their house and they were there, fresh with a phonecall from Alex saying he'd gotten lost trying to find a toilet (the guy had the screaming shits after a couple of weeks of curry three times a day - that's right; curry for breakfast) and could we come get him. I told him to just get a rickshaw to Kumbalanghy and he could find us himself and eventually he showed up with his left hand thrust deep into his pocket and asked without even saying hello if he could use the toilet. I can only assume his quest for a toilet was unsuccessful and that he had to go for it old school.
When he'd finished getting the chunks of fish bone and rice out from underneath his fingernails we were all sat down by the father and told that they had terrible news. Great I thought, they like us very much but we're being sold into slavery so their daughter can go to university. With that in mind I had to try hard not to breathe a sigh of relief when they told us that the Pope had flipped the miter (at this point you may be asking yourself where are all the boobies so I think it's only fair to let you know that they're just round the next corner). We all said about how sad it was but, because Alex had taken so long getting here, we'd have to go back soon. When they realised this and that it would be the last time they would probably ever see us they got us to write down our addresses and theirs and called up some of their relatives and got us to try and talk to these non-english speaking people half a continent away over a telephone system that I swear is wired with old pieces of string.
Foolishly I rummaged in my bag for my digital camera and asked if we could get some pictures of the family. On seeing the camera they popped out of their melancholy at our imminent departure and the recent departure of their old buddy JP and grabbed Jenna. Again, my mind - a good two weeks away from my girlfriend and in a country where whacking it is not an option (the mosquitoes are bigger than dachsunds with wings and I refused to go expose to them a blood engorged member to chomp on) - assumed the worst, we were going to be forced to perform sex acts on each other Kama Sutra style while their son the aspiring photographer one-hand-shot the pictures. But no, it appeared that they had an older daughter we hadn't heard of who was at university studying fashion and who would love it if Jenna would model some of her clothes. We promised to e-mail the pictures to an address they gave us in the nearest large city and Jenna agreed - with a slightly worried look on her face.
At this point I feel it's only fair to describe Jenna. She's an attractive enough girl, slightly borked teeth and some really - let's use a tactical word here - individual bone structure in the face. But she's slim and has an acceptable if not large rack that sits all nice and pert on her very toned frame. And this girl is toned; she kayaks and jogs and gyms it and she doesn't fuck around either. Her ass is something else, until you fully appreciate it you think maybe it's a bit big, and, for a girl of her size it is slightly big. But then you take in the sheer physics of the situation, this ass is undeniably a bit big, but it seems to hang in mid-air. She must work that stepmaster like it was the boyfriend that beat her because it is just amazing. Yes, to tell you the truth, far away from my girlfriend and with balls swelling to the size of the mangos I was happily munching on every day I did want to hit that shit til next tuesday.
Jenna walks off into a back room with the mother, and, after a few minutes walks out again in one of their daughter's creations. It's best described as typical indian trousers like you'd probably see on the catwalk if you were that way inclined and then a long nighty-style thing on top to cover the boobies (oh that's right - boobies). I'll be able to update with pics when our tour photographer does his job and sorts out the DVD - both of Jenna in her clothes and hopefully of the ass as well (her's not goat-wipist). She looked very pretty so after a few pictures and the neighbours being invited over to see she went back into the back room with the mother to try on something else. She came out again, this time in a full blown tightly fitting sari which was the hottest thing I had seen in the last three odd weeks so when they asked if we wanted more pictures in another sari, despite her forceful look at me, I said sure.
I don't think she will ever forgive me for what happened next. Apparently the next sari they had lined up was a little more complicated in its assembly so the mother would need to help a lot more with the assembly. A few minutes went by and she was still in there and then I heard Jenna say very loudly and very clearly "No it's okay. NO it's OKAY!" This was the only cue I needed, and before the father and brother could stop me I burst into the back room to ensure the safety of my tight-bodied female companion. The sight that met me has burned itself onto my retinas I swear. I can be walking down a dreary english road and then suddenly it's in front of me in full technicolour.
Jenna was standing there in a thong, her pert wee breasts bouncing slightly as she reacted to my entrance. She was standing at a slight angle so I could also see her amazing buttocks sitting there oblivious to their obvious disdain for logic and Newton. It would have been a beautiful tale to regale you all with but for the other sight in the room. Standing in front of me was the half-naked body of the mother. She had told us before that she had been burned by boiling water when she was younger but she didn't say to what extent. Her skin had white blotches on it like seashells on the beach of some huge, bloated volcanic island and there was an even nastier-looking and more massive white scar running from her right shoulder down over her gargantuan floppy breast and onto her arm. Her breasts hung like cuts of meat in a butcher's; lifeless and swinging slightly as she recoiled at my entry. Her nipples were somehow darker than her, apart from the scars, almost black skin and on the scarred breast the gargantuan nipple was somehow unscathed and looked like a mutated black raisin in the world's least appetising bowl of rice pudding.
Not entirely convinced that Jenna wasn't in danger I went to grab her and get her out, thought again, picked up her shirt, threw it to her and then grabbed her as she clutched the shirt over her, despite the situation, still very arousing tits, to get her out. Alex and the rest of the family were behind me in the doorway. This had all happened in a split second it seemed and then it dawned on me that this was most likely a misunderstanding so I let go of Jenna and. without saying anything, backed out, pushing Alex and the others with my arse as I went, and shut the door behind me on those two extremes on the line of arousing sexual nakedness. Everyone was silent until Jenna emerged, redressed in her western clothes with the mother following, also redressed. It turned out that for the sari it was proposed that Jenna should wear next you need to wear a bra or it is see-through. It being about 40 degrees celsius and her not particularly needing one anyway, Jenna was not wearing one. Unperturbed by this predicament the mother had therefore decided to lend Jenna the two duffel sacks on a string she used as hers - not to go get her one of her younger less massive daughter's hosiery; but to give this C-cupped young english maiden the use of her unclassified-undergarment. That was when Jenna protested and that was when I walked in.
This was all explained and we even had an awkward laugh about the whole thing but we did nonetheless hightail it out of there at the next given opportunity. I guess it just goes to show until you have been to India; you really, REALLY haven't seen everything.
Posted by Kingler (Member # 2316) on 06-10-2005, 04:41 PM:
I filled the cup. Also, "Great I thought, they like us very much but we're being sold into slavery so their daughter can go to university." made my lol alot.
Posted by Mr. K (Member # 2) on 06-10-2005, 07:02 PM:
When you send that into the Penthouse Forum, they're going to make you tighten up some of those sentences and punch up the action a little.
Posted by Artie Cuno (Member # 1205) on 06-11-2005, 09:26 AM:
Well, now I know why they wouldn't let us out of the house when I went. o.o;
Yeah, I went to India too; my dad is from there, and we went to visit family. Now, this was twelve years ago, mind, but I remember well enough- you don't forget getting what I can only assume was Bubonic Plague. (There were ass-fucking-loads of rats there; so it seems a fair assumption, considering the state I was in.)
Anyway. One of the big stories would be when the elephant swung by the house. I shit you not, a guy dressed only in a loincloth, on a big-ass Indian elephant (Don't ask for gender, I didn't look at the equipment) just calmly walked his beast into the courtyard and respectfully requested work. And this was treated as an everyday occurance.
I ended up getting a ride on the elephant (Prickly bastard) and then his owner shinned up the coconut trees and started lobbing them down. I'd swear he was trying to peg my grandfather. (Indian Mafia? What Indian mafia?)
...not anywhere near as interesting, but, yeah.
Posted by Kingler (Member # 2316) on 06-11-2005, 05:22 PM:
Anything with a half naked indians, hints at organized crime and an elephants in it has my undivided attention!
[ 06-11-2005, 05:23 PM: Message edited by: Kingler ]
Posted by White Cat (Member # 42) on 06-14-2005, 02:01 AM:
I don't quite get why you felt it necessary to burst in when she said "No, it's okay!"
Posted by Zerot (Member # 1295) on 06-16-2005, 07:07 PM: