Before our first trip to India, my husband Anthony and I were warned constantly that it wasn’t a matter of if, but when we’d get sick from the food.

“Trust me,” a friend said. “You’ll look at the toilet and think, My body made that?"

When we actually arrived in Delhi, our local guide repeated the warnings we’d gotten back home.

“You cannot eat anywhere you want. The other places, they are not clean,” he explained. “There I can eat and my stomach is OK. But your stomach is not OK.”

And so, like A+ gold-star students, we followed the directions of our guidebooks to the letter, stuffing our suitcases with anti-bacterial hand lotion and wipes, anti-gas pills, antacid pills, anti-diarrhea pills, and travel-sized rolls of toilet paper. We memorized the instructions in our guidebook. Nothing fresh unless you’d cut or peeled it yourself. No water except for that which had come in bottles, and even then, make sure said bottles had been sealed and hadn’t been tampered with.

But, in fact, our problem turned out not to be shitting too much, but rather too little. The Indian tourism industry has become so efficient at safely shepherding Westerners past the country’s landmark sights that pale-skinned travelers like ourselves could glide by easily without being touched by more than a few crumbs of dirt. The only mortal danger my husband and I faced while we were there, was death by constipation.

I dated our gastro challenges back to our first morning in Delhi, when we went down to breakfast in the gilded and wood-paneled Hotel Imperial. We stuck to eggs, oatmeal, and grilled tomatoes, avoiding all uncooked fruits and vegetables that we couldn’t peel ourselves, as well as the pitchers of freshly squeezed juice provided by polite servers in bowties. Watching our fellow tourists gleefully piling their plates high with glistening slices of cut melon and dragon fruit speckled with tiny black seeds or filling up their glasses with pulpy fruit juice, we felt both superior and envious.Suckers! I thought, wishing for just one bite of luscious red watermelon.

“Trust me,” Anthony said, “that fruit is not worth hours of agony on the toilet.”

“Dysentery, dysentery,” I reminded myself and moved on.

After a hectic ride through town, during which our driver was forced to take all kinds of maneuvers to avoid the protests over the recent gang-rape tragedy, we flew to Kathmandu across the border in Nepal, where the next day, we visited ancient palaces carved with wooden skulls and cement-domedstupatemples festooned with flapping lines of Buddhist flags in red, yellow, green, blue, and white. As we walked the ancient streets, we passed steaming metal bins filled with savory dumplings and sizzling orange fritters that made our stomachs growl. But any temptation to sample the street food would quickly dissipate as a countervailing scent of human excrement, piss, and rotting garbage wafted in from the river.龙腾网 http://www.ltaaa.com
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在我和我丈夫 Anthony 去印度旅行之前，我们不断被警告：吃了那边的食物肯定会生病。

“相信我，”一个朋友说道。“你会盯着马桶，想着：这玩意儿真是我拉出来的？”

当我们真到了德里，当地的导游也反复地提醒我们这点。

“别四处乱吃。有些地方的吃的很不卫生。”他解释说。“我可以随便吃，而且我的胃不会出问题。你们的胃可就不一样了。”

于是，我们就像三好学生一样，不折不扣的按我们的旅游指南行事，把行李箱塞满了杀菌洗手液、湿巾、抗酸药、止泻药、旅行装卫生纸。我们还记得旅游指南里的说明。除非是你亲手切开和削皮的，其他的一律不新鲜。只能喝瓶装水，但还要检查包装是否密封完整，是否被动过手脚。
结果我们有了新的问题：拉不出屎了。

印度的旅游产业已经发达到可以为我们这些西方人保驾护航，使我们这些苍白种肤的游客可以走遍印度的所有著名景点而不沾染一点脏东西。对我和我老公来说，最致命的威胁就是便秘了。

对我们胃部的挑战始于在德里的以一个早晨。我们去镀金的、木板镶嵌的帝国饭店去吃早饭。我们只点了鸡蛋、燕麦和熟西红柿，避免食用不是我们亲手削皮的生水果和蔬菜。对那些打着领结的和善侍者提供的鲜榨果汁我们也毫不理睬。看着其他的旅客一碟一碟的吃着切好的西瓜和火龙果，喝着带果肉的果汁，我们既嫉妒又优越。一群蠢货！我一边这样想着，一边渴望着能咬一口那多汁的西瓜。

“相信我，” Anthony 说道，“为了那点水果而狂跑厕所，这可不值当。”

“痢疾、痢疾，”我不断提醒着自己。

穿城而过的这段旅途可真够刺激。我们的司机使尽方法躲避那些抗议最近轮奸惨剧的人群。我们乘飞机来到了尼泊尔的加德满都。第二天，我们参观了刻着木质骷髅的古老的宫殿和装饰着红黄蓝白的风马旗的水泥半圆形佛塔。当我们走在古老的街道上，看见装在冒着热气的金属盒子里的可口饺子，还有滋滋响的橙子油煎饼，我们的肚子直咕咕叫。但是我们的食欲马上被飘来的排泄物和腐烂垃圾的味道给弄没了。

Like stereotypical “enlightened” travelers from Western countries, we told our guide, “We want to eat where you eat. Take us where the locals go.” In response, our avuncular bushy-mustached guide smiled patiently and led us to a restaurant where the dishes were printed in English on laminated menus, and all the other customers had white faces like ours. Behind us were several tourists from Texas. On our other side was a group from New York.

Sighing, we sat down and ordered several “safe” foods: rice, meats, and vegetables that had been cooked into mush.

That evening, both our stomachs were rumbling as if ready for action. Waiting for my husband to finish in the bathroom, I thought I would explode, but when I actually made it inside and sat down on the toilet, all that came out was gas. After 20 minutes, in which my thighs went completely numb, I gave up. “Anything happen?” Anthony asked when I came out. “Me neither.”

The following morning, our stomachs inflated with hot, painful unproductive gas, we toured narrow lanes of shops where hawkers beckoned us with offers of hot tea and “best” prices. Starved for fiber, we stared hungrily at pyramids of fruit glistening with dirty tap water, which the vendors sprayed over their wares to make them look more attractive. We passed women in saris steadying baskets on their heads with one hand while answering a cell phone with the other, dead bodies wrapped in saffron-colored cloths being born on wooden biers to the river for cremation, and placid cows sauntering through the traffic, pausing only to take thick, muddy dumps.

I was jealous of the cows.

We ended our day at Boudhanath, a magnificent and moving Buddhist stupa where monks in burgundy robes swayed and chanted in unison while incense smoke and Buddhist prayer flags blew over their heads. Worshippers spun prayer wheels and prostrated themselves on the ground. It was a moving experience, both sensual and spiritual, and I would have liked to stay there for a long while taking it in—but I there was something pounding in my stomach, demanding to be let out.

“I’m ready to go,” I told our guide.

As soon as we got to our hotel room, I ran to the toilet, pulled down my pants, and waited. Again, all that came out was more gas.

That afternoon, we took action. After farting our way down the long main drive of our hotel grounds, we waved to the smiling security guards at the entrance, then ventured down the dusty potholed main road in search of a pharmacy.

In most of the neighborhoods we visited in Nepal, the storefronts looked fairly similar to each other, more like auto garages with the door rolled up and shelves crammed with wares on display. If the wares happened to be pastries, you were in a bakery. If they were books and notebooks and pens, you were in a stationary store.

At the edge of a busy traffic circle, we found a storefront where the glass cases were stuffed with various boxes of pharmaceutical products. Two men stood behind the counter talking with a third man next to us and smoking. As we approached, they smiled expectantly in our direction.

My husband and I looked at each other, and then he said, “Hello. We are looking for medicine for the stomach.” He rubbed his stomach. “Not feeling well.”

像所有“聪明”的西方国家的旅行者，我们跟导游说：“你在哪吃我们就在哪吃，带我们去当地人吃饭的地方吧。”我们那个慈祥的、留着浓密小胡子的导游面带微笑，把我们领到了一个有英文菜单的餐馆。里面所有的客人都跟我们一样。我们身后的是从德克萨斯来的几个游客。我们前面的是个从纽约来的旅行团。

叹息了一声，我们坐下来点了几道“安全”食品：米饭、肉和蔬菜。它们都烂得成糊了。

当晚，我们俩的肚子都开始咕噜咕噜的叫，似乎是有大号的意思。我边想着这回终于要爆发了边等我老公从厕所出来。当我真正坐在了马桶上，排出的却都是气体。20分钟后，我的腿都没知觉了，我决定放弃。“怎么样？”Anthony问我。“我也没有。”

第二天早上，我们的肚子里全是气。我们去狭窄的店铺街转了转，小贩们用热茶和便宜的价格招呼着我们。我们缺少纤维摄入。我们俩对闪烁着脏自来水的水果塔虎视眈眈。小贩们为了让产品卖相更好而往上喷水。我们路过一个穿着莎丽的女子，她一只手稳着头上的篮子，一只手接电话。身上裹着橘黄色布的尸体躺在木棺材里，等着火化。奶牛们在车流中闲逛，偶尔停下拉出大坨的牛粪。
我真心嫉妒奶牛。

今日旅行的终点站是博达哈佛塔。这是一座雄伟、震撼人心的佛塔，穿着酒红色袍子的喇嘛们整齐划一的边摇摆边诵经。焚香飘散，风幡摇曳。祈祷者们转动转经筒，跪拜在地上。这个场景很震撼，无论是感官上还是心灵上。我想在这里多停留一会，记住这一刻。但是有东西在我胃里折腾，亟待解放。

“咱们走吧，”我跟导游说。

一到宾馆，我就冲进厕所，脱下裤子，耐心等待。可是又一次空欢喜，排出的全是气。

当天下午我采取行动了。走出饭店的路上，我们放了一路屁。我们向站在入口处的微笑的保安招手，接着就走向了满是灰尘和坑洼的大路上，寻找着药房。

尼泊尔里大部分社区的店面都极为相似，就跟门帘卷上的车库似的，里面的架子上挤满了商品。如果商品是点心就是面包房；如果是书、本子和钢笔，那就是文具店。

在环路边缘，我们找到了一家店面是塞满药盒的玻璃柜的店。有两个人在柜台后面与站在我们旁边的人边抽烟边聊天。当我们走近时，他们向我们充满期望的微笑。

我老公和我对视了一下，然后他说：“您好，我们想买胃药。”他揉着肚子。“这里不舒服。”

其中一个人马上点了点头然后微笑着说：“有的有的。”他去玻璃柜里拿出了一盒止泻药。

One of the men behind the counter nodded quickly and smiled. “Yes, yes,” he said and reached into the glass case for a box of anti-diarrhea meds.

“No, no,” Anthony said, unable to explain.

“He wants to go to the bathroom, but he cannot go to the bathroom,” I piped up. “He wants medicine to help him go to the bathroom.”

“Very bad,” Anthony said. “Many days.”

The man standing next to us said, “You want a laxative?”

“Yes, yes!” we cried.

He quickly explained in Nepalese what we wanted. The other two men laughed and one of them rummaged through the various drawers until he found a white box. Rather than sell us the whole box, he pulled out a foil sheet of pills and handed it to us.

“Ducolax,” Anthony read aloud. “Yes, this is what we want. Thank you!”

After paying the pharmacists 30 cents and answering the inevitable “Where are you from?” we rushed back to our hotel room. Anthony popped out his pill first then gave me one. We made a toast with bottles of water—had they been sealed? Had we checked the bottoms to make sure they hadn’t been tampered with? We were too weary to care—and then we drank to our gastrointestinal health.

Hours later, we were rewarded with brown turds, as long as our forearms.

***

From Kathmandu, we flew back into India to Varanasi to float on the Ganges River, which our guidebook warned was thoroughly contaminated with fecal bacteria and we should take care to avoid contact with at all costs. At one point, a few droplets of water coming off the oars of our boat splattered on the back of my hand. On instinct, I reached for my anti-bacterial lotion.

Next we flew to Khajuraho, to see the erotic carvings on Hindu temples that dated back hundreds of years. This time, when we asked if we could eat at a local restaurant, our guide showed us to a completely empty dining room. We ate our hot vegetable mashes in silence, until a Colombian tour group we recognized from the plane ride between Kathmandu and Varanasi walked in, sat down, stood up again, and then walked out.

Meanwhile, we were back to our old constipated selves. Each morning, afternoon, and evening, we’d lock ourselves in whatever clean bathroom we could find, sit on the toilet, and expel a symphony of flatulence—but nothing else. At meals, I madly peeled oranges like one of those rabid street monkeys who attacked food handed out by tourists with cameras. I sucked down vegetables cooked into mush. I avoided rice, bananas, anything binding. All useless. I could have taken another laxative, but I wanted to go naturally, and it struck me as ridiculous that in India of all places, I was having trouble finding food that would make me shit.

“不不，” Anthony 说。“有好多天了。”

站在我们旁边的人说，“你想买泻药？”

“对的对的！”我们喊道。

他迅速用尼泊尔语解释了一下我们想买什么。另外两个人笑了起来，其中一个在抽屉里到处翻腾，可算找到了一个白色盒子。他递给我们其中一板药而不是整个盒子。

“泻剂，”Anthony大声读道。“对，这就是我们要找的。多谢！”

在我们付给药剂师30美分，然后又回答了不可避免的“你们从哪里来？”这问题后，我们火速返回酒店房间。Anthony抠出药片之后递给了我一片。我们用瓶装水干杯—这水是密封的吗？我们有没有检查瓶底以确认它不是假冒的？我们太累了，已经不在意了。然后我们为了胃肠健康一饮而尽。

几个小时之后，我们终于排出褐色的便便了，跟我们的小臂一边长。

***

我们从加德满都飞回了印度瓦拉纳西去恒河游览。旅游指南上说那里全是粪便细菌，不惜任何代价也要避免接触。还是有几滴水从桨溅到了我的手背上。出于本能，我拿出了杀菌洗手液。

下一站是卡久拉霍，我们去看了几百年前印度寺庙的情色雕刻。这时我们问是否可以到当地饭馆吃饭，导游给我们带到了一个没人的餐厅。我们默默地吃着炖烂的蔬菜，直到一个我们在从加德满都到瓦拉纳西的飞机上碰见过哥伦比亚旅游团走了进来。他们坐下又站了起来，之后走了出去。

我们又开始便秘了。每天早晨、下午和晚上，我们把自己关在能找到的干净洗手间里，坐在马桶上，排除一大串胃胀气—别的没了。吃饭时，我开始疯狂地剥橙子，就像从带着相机的游客手里抢食物的狂躁猴子一样。我吮吸着蔬菜泥。我不吃米饭，香蕉或者任何不利于排便的食物。什么都没用，我其实可以再吃一片泻药，可是我想自然地排便。真够可笑的，在印度这种地方竟然找不出让我拉肚子的吃的。

Finally, on the train to Agra, to see the Taj Mahal, I decided to experiment with juice.

We were riding the Shatabdi Express, a train that had been praised to us as one of the finest in India, but actually struck us more as Long Island Rail Road than Orient Express. After it arrived two hours late, we settled into our dingy blue seats and were served a dinner tray by a surly, exhausted-looking steward. Our meal included a plastic-wrapped bun studded with bits of jellied fruit, a bag of dried potato sticks, a plastic cup containing sweet crumbs of something called “Soan Cake,” and a drink box of mango punch, which I sipped.

“That’s juice!” my husband cried out in horror.

“It’s packaged,” I said. “I’m sure it’s safe.”

“I’m not taking the risk,” he said, wincing as he let out a small but audible spurt of gas. We’d long passed feeling any shame about farting in public. “You’ll be sorry.”

But the next day I wasn’t sorry. I was just constipated. Strolling through the manicured lawns of the Taj, I kept one eye on the glorious white dome and minarets, and the other peeled for any deserted corner where I could fart.

***

We wound up our trip in the white city of Udaipur, which our local guide described as the Venice of India. By this time, I’d expanded my flirtation with juice and was now indulging in melons, raw onion, and even cucumbers. No luck. Finally, I asked Anthony to hand me one of our magic green pills.

The next day, however, there’d been no discernible effect on my digestion. After a day of touring a temple, where we were sprinkled with holy but environmentally contaminated Ganges water, and visiting the city palace, as well as my umpteenth mashed spinach and cheese lunch, I was all gas.

When we got back to our hotel, I found out why. By mistake, Anthony had given me one of our anti-diarrhea meds, which were the same color and size as the laxatives we’d bought in Kathmandu.

That night, I took the right pill, and the next day, we flew back to Delhi for our final 24 hours in India.

In the middle of lunch, I gave Anthony a knowing look.

“See ya,” he said.

But my gastro adventure didn’t end in that restaurant bathroom. It continued that evening and all the next day as we flew home across the ocean, and I shat my way back to health.

最后我们坐上去阿格拉的火车，去看泰姬陵。我决定试试果汁。

我们乘坐莎塔布迪快车，据说这是印度最高档的火车了。可是我们觉得比起东方快车，它更像长岛的铁路。火车晚点了两个小时。我们坐在肮脏的蓝色车座上，一位阴沉、疲惫的乘务员给我们拿来了餐盘。这顿饭包括塑料包装的抹着水果冻的小面包、一包干土豆条、一塑料杯叫做“索安蛋糕”的甜味面包渣儿，和一软包装芒果潘趣，我啜了一小口。

“这可是果汁！”我丈夫充满恐惧的喊道。

“这个是包装好了的，”我说。“我肯定这没问题。”

“我才不冒这险呢，”他说，边放了个蔫屁，脸边抽搐。我们早就对在公众场合放屁没有羞耻感了。“你会后悔的。”

可是第二天我什么事都没有，只是便秘。在泰姬陵修剪整齐的草地上漫步，我一只眼欣赏着辉煌的白色圆顶和尖塔，一只眼睛寻找着我能放屁的僻静角落。

***

我们旅行的终点是乌达浦尔，据导游说这里是印度的威尼斯。这时我已不满足于喝果汁了，而沉浸在西瓜、生洋葱、甚至黄瓜中。可还是没动静。最终我只得靠 Anthony 神奇的小绿药片。

第二天我的消化吸收也没有什么显著的改善。我们参观了寺庙，在那里被泼了一身圣洁的但是被污染的恒河水。之后参观了城市宫殿。在第无数次的食用了煮烂的菠菜和芝士后，除了排气还是一无所出。

当我们回到了酒店，我才终于找出了原因。Anthony 给我的是止泻药，它跟我们在加德满都买的泻药颜色大小都一样。

当晚我吃了正确的药片。第二天我们飞回了德里，度过在印度的最后24小时。

吃午饭时，我给了 Anthony 一个心照不宣的颜色。

“一会儿见，”他说。

但我的便秘并没有在那饭馆里的卫生间解决掉。它持续到了第二天当我们坐飞机跨洋回国的时候。之后我可算拉了个痛快，拉出了健康。

来自：http://www.vice.com/read/our-constipation-tour-of-india

国外网友的印度便秘之旅