July 24th 11:14am - Strikes and a Twenty-Two-Hour Bus Ride

Articulating the town and city names in India and Nepal materializes as manageable to my mind as comprehending quantum entanglement.
After seventeen sources said strikes would prevent us from traveling anywhere, my friend Pakistan and I paused overnight in the Nepalese border town Kakarbhitta. The following day the strikes severed and we obtained a sixteen-hour bus to travel to Kathmandu, Nepal's capital.
At this time I had been in India/Nepal for four days. My bowels were behaving as well as a thirteen-year-old wrapped in tattoos, chain-smoking crack cocaine and clasping a bottle of booze.
My necessary use of the toilet was not conducive to a sixteen-hour bus ride where a bathroom was as notably absent as air conditioning. South American buses were frequently equipped with televisions transmitting movies in English, AC, bathrooms, legroom, reclining seats, and occasionally food/drink and blankets. One overnight bus provided pillows. Indian/Nepalese buses have seats. And windows. Many resemble circus buses outside with midget-seating inside. Our bus was no exception.
At 9pm, after seven hours with one gas-station stop, our bus linked with a long line of similar buses and vehicles that had ceased driving. The air had finally oscillated from sweltering to tepid and a clear night sky illuminated over our heads, the sublime stars scintillating like effervescent dew drops on a grass plane. The shawl of stars charactered calm. I thought we stopped for the view.
When I asked a Nepalese man what was happening, he replied, "Strikes. We stop maybe one hour, maybe one day."
"What?" I answered, as agitated as the time I scuttled to the bathroom, tripped over my suitcase and peed my pants.

"Strikes. More money. We start again later."
Pakistan pointed out star constellations to some Nepalese with a laser pointer acquired in China while I hung my head out the bus window, the balmy breeze lifting my coated hair from my filthy face and running sweat into my eyes. I felt like a gremlin who had fallen into a sewage plant.
Hours later the strike took a hiatus and we proceeded towards our destination.
Rain slanting in the window onto my feet awoke me at 5:15am. I slid the window shut only to realize that the plastic-glass didn't completely cover the window hole. Either my feet or back would get wet. My bleak bowels resurrected. I motioned to the nearest bus employee and pleaded, "Toilet?"
He replied, "Breakfast soon. Toilet there."
I exhaled like I was in labor and attempted sleep. Sleep never came. Gallons of liquid gathered in my rectum, raging to rupture. I read a book. I contemplating awakening Pakistan to converse, but he appeared a contented cherub and it was 6am. I feigned sleep, trying to trick my body. A rhinoceros of excrement nudged my anus. After an hour, I again appealed for a toilet. And received the same response, "Breakfast soon. Toilet there."
I questioned if I knew Lamaze breathing. I read. I inspected the hills from the window. I contemplated snake sex. I relocated to the rear of the bus and, as if I was on speed, investigated my backpack for something to relieve myself in. The best I discovered was a small Ziploc bag. I uncovered a blanket. I strategically situated the blanket around me in hopes to conceal my excrement-in-a-bus inevitability. Then someone sat to my left and I realized that people would know. This coupled with the knowledge that a small Ziploc bag would not contain five gallons of liquid feces accumulating in my body manifested into me waiting. Sweat sprinkled down my face. I concluded that hanging my ass out the window would be better than deluge and discharge on the bus's floor. Agony sporadically spasmed through my anus to my stomach and I realized that after this bus ride, childbirth would be elementary.
Over three hours after the initial poop pangs, we broke for breakfast. As the bus slowed I propelled people from my path like a bull in Pamplona's bullring. Some might have been elderly. I think one carried a child. I catapulted the door open and sped to the bathroom. The bathroom materialized as a hole in the ground with two areas for your feet. Literally. A dirt floor, a hole, and two footsteps. I stoned the door shut, pulled down my pants, and, before fully squatting, buckets of liquid had released from my anus, exploding in and overflowing the provided hole onto the concrete slab serving as floor.
I breathed like Jesus had just personally blessed me and complacently confirmed that birthing the four children that I eventually desire will probably parallel my pain the first two hours of bus/anus agony.