Back in 1992, I set off on an adventure with two good friends with whom I'd traveled through Africa in the late eighties. One was an American, let's call him Tom; the other was from Iceland. We'll call him Stig. Our plan was to backpack for three months through Indonesia, crossing Sumatra, Java, and Bali and going as far as we could get from there before having to head back.

We met up in Bangkok, which was the cheapest place to get to at that time. After a couple of nights dossing down on Khao Sahn Road, we decided to head up to Kanchanaburi, on the river Kwai, for some peace and quiet to work out our route. We found a fine guesthouse by the river and booked into a three bedroom with an eight-foot by eight-foot "wet room" as an en-suite. Shower on the wall, basin and squat toilet, fully tiled in white from floor to ceiling.

The first day we just hung out, walked over the bridge built by British POWs of the Japanese (though it has been rebuilt), and looked around town. It was fine, but we needed some adventure. So next morning we decided to have a look at Burma, which was a half-day's drive away. We rented a big fuck-off jeep from the guesthouse owner and set off. This was a quality vehicle, fully laden with unnecessary lights, bull bars, and the rest. The owner was a little scared to rent his prize possession to a bunch of mad foreigners, so we had to leave our passports with him as part of the bargain. Big mistake.

When we visit a country we have a golden rule: you have to sleep there at least one night, eat a local meal, drink the local beer (or whatever), and take a shit. We knew that sleeping over was not an option as we only had a day, so we opted for a half-visit. Trouble was, we had no visas and no passports. So, instead of crossing at the official border, we drove down a small track, finding a village after about ten kilometers. We got beer and Stig took a forced shit of about two inches laid by the jeep. Not a great deal of satisfaction, but we'd done it as far as we could.

On the way back, we got arrested by the Burmese/Myanmar army. Luckily they spoke English, and after three hours of interrogation they decided that we were insane Westerners. We were escorted to the border and had a photo session. Hands were shaken, pledges were made, and addresses exchanged.

Back at the guesthouse, we showered and then went downtown for dinner. Good local fare, nothing too spicy, and a couple of beers. We were on a high now. We'd been deported from Burma -- not a regular occurrence -- and weren't in a shithole jail cell. Celebration was the order of the night, so we strolled down the main drag and found an area of outside bars. Singha is the Thai beer, and it is crap. There are a couple of varieties, but none is worth talking about. They also have Mekong Whisky, which is a cross between aviation fuel and the worst western whisky you can think of. We downed much Singha -- and then the squid man came.

He had a trolley or cart with dried squid on a rack. We'd never had this delicacy before, and one aim of the trip was to try every foreign food possible. So Tom bought three squids. I thought it was okay, not that great. Stig ventured that it tasted worse than his own stool -- this is from a man who eats dried sea birds, fish, and horse back home.

I humored Tom and had two more squid. Stig said, not quietly, that we were both fucked in our heads. I'd had enough Singha beer by then and kept to the Mekong whisky. Stig did the same. Tom, however, saw the squid man across the street and started bellowing at him to come over. He did, and Tom ate four more. Another major mistake.

After escorting our American friend back to the room and taking our respective pisses, Stig and I took to our beds. Tom had been sitting very quietly on the edge of his bed, saying nothing. He then walked into the toilet door head on. We watched as he subsequently slowly pulled it open and then lurched in.

Vomiting occurred, and we heard defecation of a very wet manner. We left him to it.

In the early hours of the morning I had a great urge to piss, needing to get rid of the heinous quantity of Singha beer that I'd taken on board, not to mention the foul Mekong Whisky. I got out of bed and opened the bathroom door to find Tom lying on the floor with his head over the squatter.

He'd clearly been spewing and shitting for some time. There was vomit all around the squat hole, runny mainly, and liquid shit all over the place. Tom lay with his head by the hole, clearly alive, but his left side was lying in his own spew and shit. I briefly considered bouncing my piss off his face into the hole. He wouldn't have known. But I did the honorable thing and went outside.

All the rooms faced onto the river and nobody was around. I pissed over the timber railings out onto the river. The night was still and there was a large moon. The river was black and my piss streamed out into it like tracer fire. I hunted imaginary Viet Cong until the ammo finished.

Much later, Stig woke me up with a slap in the face. "Look at this fuck," was all he said. I walked to the bathroom door and saw what Tom had created: his personal toilet bowl. He'd rolled over in the night since I'd last seen him and had covered all his clothes (okay, just a t-shirt and shorts) in his own filth. His shorts were partly down his legs, obviously the result of a vain attempt to reach the squatter hole at some point, and his shirt and hair were covered in spew and shite.

We left him with a couple of bottles of water, instructions to clean up, and headed off to breakfast. This was the start of a grand adventure -- and lots of loose bowels.