Backpacking in India: a cautionary tale about farting

Budget travel brings an unavoidable level of intimacy. Oversharing in extremis. De-briefings requested and given after each visit to the toilet.

Thankfully the stereotype – stricken for hours in the bathroom riding the Porcelain Pony – didn’t happen to us. We were careful. Eating mostly in hotel restaurants, or a Wimpy in downtown Dehli. Julie and Graham are vegetarian. For convenience, I abstained from meat too.

In Goa we ate in the garden restaurant attached to our hotel. We hung out there after dinner. Reading books and drinking Kingfisher Beer.

Julie leaned over slightly – the seated equivalent of a leg-lift. All social etiquette abandoned, she said ‘I’m going to fart’. A risky endeavour for sure.

The cheeky smile disappeared. Puzzled shock turned to horror. Her South Wales lilt confirmed: ‘Oh no… I think I’ve shat myself’. Yes. It was a Code Brown.

She gripped the bottom of her culottes, forming a tight seal to prevent leakage. Then, trying not to draw attention, shuffled through the hotel lobby. Not easy when you’re bent over, crab-walking. Graeme and I trotted along behind supportively (giggling).

Back in our room, drama over, Julie got cleaned up. Tongue-in-cheek, we lectured her. ‘We’re in India Julie… farting is a no no… you just don’t risk it’. And so on.

The Crime Scene
The Crime Scene


Author’s note: the author asked for permission from the main protagonist before sharing her story. She didn’t give a shit.


Another author’s note: first timer here? Welcome. This story is part of a series that begins here.

Smelling what Im cooking

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