Way back in the halcyon days of my youth (okay, it was 1999), I was an exchange student in Kyoto, the ancient capital of Japan. One of my good friends was a Filipino guy from Manila. But he had started his program a semester before me -- so while I was freezing my balls off in the unheated dorm in Kyoto, he was on his way back to the glorious Philippines. When my extended winter break came around, I emailed him and said, "I'm coming down."
Well, the Philippines were a trip. I was there for a month and we spent 80% of our time at shopping malls. Finally, we got out the guidebook and the map and decided to do some traveling. We headed up north to the mountain city of Baguio, where we camped in a park. The markets were fun. We then hit the 100 Islands National Park and did an overnight on a tiny coral reef. We drank San Miguel and had a good old time.
After a week we decided to head back to Manila. We stocked up for our trip at a rural marketplace. The last thing we ate before our bus ride back was a string of sausages from the market. Mind you, these sausages were hanging on a clothesline. We had to wave the flies away to get at them. Um, yeah, you get the picture. They actually tasted fine, though.
We got back to Manila and took showers and cleaned off the road dust from our mini excursion. The next day I couldn't shit all day. I am Mr. Clockwork when it comes to shitting, so this was bad. Was it the traveling and the odd schedules we kept? Was it those sausages? Is that possible?
Whatever it was, was killing me. My friend gave me some liniment oil to rub on my abdomen. It felt cool and menthol fresh, but it didn't help. Finally we went to the mall and got a big jar of prune juice. I poured a tall glass and downed it. I poured another. As I drank the second glass, I read something on the label that suggested you should only take eight ounces at a time. Um, oops.
That night, it struck me! I had to shit so bad. I ran to the bathroom, which was right next to our room. It was a combo shower room and toilet, and it was quite humid. I plopped down and let out the first wave of explosive diarrhea. I began to sweat.
When the pains subsided and what I thought was the last of the deadly squitters was done, I wiped and turned to flush -- only to remember that the toilet didn't flush. It was broken. And there was no running water on the second floor. This was a townhouse kind of place, so I had to go down two flights of stairs, get a bucket of water from the drum outside, carry it back up two flights, and dump it down the bowl to flush. What a pain in the ass!
I went back to bed.
Wave two. That prune juice must have liquefied everything inside me. Another gut-wrenching round of shits came. Another two flights down to get the bucket, another two flights up to flush. I think it was during this trip when I spotted a giant Filipino-sized roach hanging out in the bathroom. I squished it and left it there.
Back to bed. I couldn't sleep. Wave three. Repeat of the above. As if shitting your guts out isn't tiring enough, I was running up and down two flights of stairs to fetch pails of water at two in the morning. All told, the shit I took lasted nearly two-and-a-half hours. It was by far the worst I have ever taken.
The next day I was feeling tired -- and totally cleaned out. As my friend and I recapped our travels, the subject turned to strange foods. I stated that I could never eat dog, seeing as how I had a dog back home. To which my friend replied, "You remember that marketplace...? And that pot of stew you thought was beef...?"