Three days of travel went by. I was being as careful as I could about everything. I drank nothing but filtered, bottled spring water. No ice was present in my drinks. I didn't eat the salsa that had been sitting on restaurant tables collecting dust, flies, and who knows what else. I never rinsed my toothbrush with water other than the bottled stuff, and I never, ever opened my mouth while I was in the shower. Why? Let it suffice to say that Montezuma has some powerful allies in Honduras these days.
So there I was, in a remote village in Honduras, surrounded by grassy plains to the east and jungle to the west. Night fell upon the village. After buying dinner at the home of one of the locals, I was off to bed in my comfortable sleeping bag inside my tent. I awoke the next morning feeling at peace and happy to be alive. Then, suddenly, that peace was gone almost as quickly as it had come. Something is not right, I thought. It felt like my intestines had done a back flip. I consoled myself with the idea that the time for my morning dump was drawing nigh and figured I could wait a little while in order to try to regain that it's-a-new-day feeling for a bit longer.
Alas, it was not meant to be. Not less than thirty seconds later, someone or something hit the eject button. I instantly felt like there was a tear in the space/time continuum. Within my mind and body, everything was racing. Every alarm, buzzer, whistle, warning light, and roadside flare in my head was going off. My gut felt like I had swallowed a giant inner tube that was rapidly being filled with Jello. My innards were quivering and the pressure was becoming too great to bear.
But the outside world was moving in super-slow motion. I fumbled around, trying to unzip the tent. I eventually managed to open the door and bolt out. To my horror, the nearest toilet was about a hundred yards away.
(And when I say "toilet," I mean the outdoor variety, featuring a wooden board with hole in it positioned over a pit filled with the vilest concoction imaginable. And who knows what the pores in that board have soaked up over the years.)
So I started toward my goal, walking at first, pretending nothing was wrong; but all it took was the next gurgle from the depths of hell and I was off like a rocket, cheeks clenched.
Did I make it, you ask? No, not a chance. I filled my britches as though they were a turkey or an éclair. I continued running toward the board with a hole in it, and reached my destination just in time to unleash a second load. I was lucky no one was up yet to see all of this take place.
Filled with rage and embarrassment, I chucked my pants into the high grasses, hoping they would be lost forever, but not before I stepped on an anthill and got a good dozen or so painful bites. I then headed back to my tent with my shirt pulled down to cover my dangly parts. How could it get any worse? I thought.
My guide gave me a pair of his shorts to wear, as I hadn't brought a change of clothes, since we were headed back to our base camp that morning. But less then thirty minutes later I was tearing up sod on my way back to the outdoor john. Only this time the villagers were awake and a group of five women were behind me, about thirty yards away. I knew I wasn't going to make it, and I didn't want to ruin my guide's skivvies (which were also my last resort before having to walk around without any pants at all), so I had no other choice but to drop my shorts and let loose on the path, in front of the ladies (who were kind enough to walk past without laughing) and in the sight of anyone in the village looking in my direction.
I have never been more embarrassed in my whole life. I was later told that I was the buzz of the town. I honestly couldn't blame them for having fun at my expense.
For the next three hours I was like clockwork. Every fifteen minutes I would exit my tent, hunched over in pain, and release about a teaspoon of yellow slime in sight of everyone. I was in too much pain to run to the john; I prayed that my intestines would just blast out of my backside so I could be done with this.
After those three hours of torture, the battle was over. I was so dehydrated that I didn't urinate for three days afterwards.
But get this: the people in the village must have felt sorry for me, because in those three hours of torture they took up a collection and handed me a four-foot stack of pants.
I was blown away. These people -- people who probably didn't know where their next meal was coming from -- were willing to give me, an American who has never gone hungry, the clothes off their backs. On top of that, some women found my more-than-soiled jeans in the grasses, washed them good as new, and returned them to me. In my rage, I had forgotten that my passport and about $1,300 were in the pockets of those pants. The women washed the money and gave it all back to me, along with my passport, which somehow escaped the ordeal unscathed. It was more money then they would see in a lifetime, and I got it all back. If I hadn't, I wouldn't have been able to get food or transportation back to the States.
The Honduran people are absolutely amazing. When it was all said and done, I did return home safely, and I had lost fifteen pounds. Through it all I learned that pooping yourself to death would not be fun; but pooping yourself just shy of death makes for quite an adventure.