Kathmandoo

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k 500+ pointsl 100+ pointsm 1+ points - Newb
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My lifelong list of bowel disasters is pathetically short. For whatever reason, my personal poop history has never been particularly interesting or of note beyond the usual "had-to-hold-it-until-I-got-to-the-bathroom-then-let-it-fly" diarrhea stories. Nothing that qualified for a film at eleven.

But there is one incident that remains forever emblazoned in my memory. It was the only time I courted disaster, and disaster returned the courtship ring in a spew of fetid matter beyond my body's capacity to control. I shall recount it here.

It was back in 1992, when I made my fourth trip to the beautiful Himalayan country of Nepal. My travel companion was a friend from my previous job at a science museum and the perfect good-natured hiking buddy. The magic of this land in southwest Asia had enchanted us. We had spent a week in Kathmandu and surrounding areas, hiking, walking, and eating local food with no health repercussions. Then we went to Pokhara, in western Nepal, and hiked for days in the foothills that ring the snowy Himalayas -- Annapurna, Machapuchare -- at altitudes of 9,000 feet.

We returned in fine spirits, spent a few days poking around the bazaar in Kathmandu, and then decided to take a shorter, more relaxed hike around the Kathmandu Valley. So we hired a local guide and porters to lead us on a three-day walk into the hills and villages surrounding the valley.

The morning of the trip, as we ate breakfast in the small $10-a-night hotel, I had my first inklings that there was a sea change going on in my digestive tract. I had that vague malaise feeling as I sipped my tea and nibbled on dry toast. "Damn," I thought. "I better not be coming down with a bug."

We'd been careful to wipe down silverware with alcohol swabs, to use water purification tablets, to buy bottled spring water, to eat fruits that had thick peels, to swab edible fruit skins with alcohol, to wash our hands and to keep them out of our mouths, noses, and eyes -- the whole hygiene we learned in Girl Scouts and Home Ec. This was, after all, a developing nation, and cleanliness was an issue when it came to street vendors and unwashed surfaces. Just a day before, my friend and I had sat high on the steps of a Hindu temple in Durbar Square and watched a man drag a freshly-butchered hog, draped over a rickshaw, across the stone pavement, leaving a trail of blood and gore behind. We'd also seen men peeing in the corners of the market area, taking dumps in the alleys (sans toilet paper), spitting on the stone steps, and blowing snot out of their noses onto the streets. It made us wary of everything we touched.

But we'd remained unscathed for nearly a month, and I was not ready to accept that I could contract any ailment at this stage of the journey. Using the power of denial, I decided to go ahead with the trip. We'd paid in advance, and I didn't want to back out. We took a cab to the edge of the valley, backpacks at the ready, and met our guides in a small village at the base of the Himalayan foothills.

It was a splendid day. Clear skies. Autumn daytime temperatures in the sub-tropical country were in the pleasant 70s and low 80s. Perfect for a journey up to a picturesque village above a Buddhist monastery in the mountains. With our Sherpa, Newari, and Gurung porters watching us expectantly, my friend and I hoisted our packs and prepared to set out.

Then the alarm bells went off in the recesses of my gut. Nausea flooded every inch of my gastrointestinal system, from esophagus to rectal sphincter. It was as though a cement mixer had pulled up, inserted a spout into my mouth and anus, and started pumping thick sludge into my body. I started to panic as I felt the horror of a simultaneous surge: I was about to erupt from both my mouth and my butt. A veritable Mount Vesuvius of vomit and crap.

What to do? There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. We were standing in the middle of a village, with thatch-roofed adobe homes surrounding us. The only object even remotely resembling an outhouse was a large haystack to my right, in front of one of the humble houses.

As my gorge surged in both directions, I made a dash toward the back of that house; but I got only as far as the outhouse before a projectile stream of barf exploded from my mouth and into the stack. At the same moment, a scalding river of white-hot liquid poop shot from my sphincter, finding temporary lodgings in my underwear. I continued my bolt behind the house, leaving my friend and a circle of bewildered locals to draw their conclusions. In back of the house were a few straggly shrubs and trees and a small hillside overlooking more houses. No one was there. Good. I pulled off my pack, squatted to remove the soiled clothes, and dragged out a plastic bag, a box of tissues, some wet wipes, and a clean pair of skivvies. Thank goodness the poop hadn't seeped through the nylon hiking undies -- my pants were spared.

I began the grim task of cleanup. Halfway through, I looked up to see a young boy standing a few yards away, staring at me in blank-faced curiosity. My guess was that he was amazed that foreigners pooped just like he did; or maybe he was wondering why someone would crap in his neighbor's backyard. I mean, how rude is that? I felt bad about it, but...

When I finally came waddling out from my ablutions, my friend and the now-perplexed guides and porters were pacing around. I felt a lot better after voiding the noxious mix of body fluids and semi-solids; but I was still rocky. We decided to return to the hotel, where just one antibiotic pill completely purged the evil E. coli that had plagued my bowels. I discreetly disposed of the plastic bag containing a bounty of loathsome thing: the soiled underwear and the box of wipes and Kleenex that restored dignity to my diarrhea-slathered exit door.

To this day I marvel at the power of projectile vomit and poop, the natural wonder of the body's ability to forcibly evict offending substances that threaten its wellbeing. I just wish that I had heeded the signal it had tried to send me earlier that day that an emergency evacuation was imminent.

25 Comments on "Kathmandoo"

cc's picture

Men peeing and pooping in an alley.You don't have to go to Southeast Asia to see that.Visit Jersey City during happy hour.

The Big Wiper's picture
PoopReport of the Year AwardComment Quality Moderatori 2000+ points

Uh, were you by any chance the stand-in for Linda Blair during the filming of 'The Exorcist?'

Damn!

Pulling My Pants Down For Peace, Plop and Posterity!

Logjam's picture
Comment Quality Moderatori 2000+ points

You carried your bag of shit refuse back to your hotel? I thought it was the Sherpa's job to carry the load.

Logjam

PooperGal's picture
k 500+ pointsl 100+ pointsm 1+ points - Newb

Logjam,
Out of respect for the locals, I took responsibility for my own reeking, seething, steaming burdon. Thank the Man from Glad for ziploc bags.

PooperGal
"Searching for the Origin of the Feces"

PooperGal
"Searching for the Origin of the Feces"

crap flap's picture
m 1+ points - Newb

gross... Not really. Why do people let it go in there pants. I would rather pull my pants down in a crowd and explode everywhere than to actually fill my underwear pants and shoes with hot buttbrown smellomatic diareeha. (dont know how to spell diareeha)

PooperGal's picture
k 500+ pointsl 100+ pointsm 1+ points - Newb

cc,
Not only were they dropping deuces and liquid sunshine in alleys, but also in antique temples and other buildings. The Hindu temple where we were sitting stank of crap, and we saw mounds in each corner.

TBW,
Nothing is as impressive as projectile hurling and diarrhea erupting simultaneously. If the physical force on each end is equal, then I hypothesize that my internal organs were temporarily compressed together like an accordian being squeezed from each side.

The force of each spew was so great that if there hadn't been an exact and equal opposite force happening, I would have been physically projected forward or backward (depending on whether I was puking or crapping) like a rocket-propelled missile.

PooperGal
"Searching for the Origin of the Feces"

PooperGal
"Searching for the Origin of the Feces"

cc's picture

India has mandated all new homes have to be built with indoor plumbing.They had a big problem with outdoor shamelessness.Pehaps Nepal hads the same situation.I would rather pull my pants down and let it fly too,but you could get arrested.I remember a case about a lady who had to use the men's room at a concert because she reached the point of no return and she was busted when she came out.She got her 15 minutes of fame and did the talk show circuit.

PooperGal's picture
k 500+ pointsl 100+ pointsm 1+ points - Newb

When I was in the village, the attack happened so fast that I didn't have time to pull the pants down and let it fly. I was too busy trying to run behind a haystack, and thought I could make it before all hell broke loose. Unfortunately for me, I miscalculated.

In India, I never saw anyone crapping in public. And most of the time in Nepal, guys would try not to do it when people were looking. We happened across them sometimes by accident.

But during bus rides in the countryside and to villages, the buses make pit stops where the men get off the bus, line up along the road, whip out their weenies and take a piss. The women go behind a building or bush, watch each other's backs, and squat to take care of business out of view.
PooperGal
"Searching for the Origin of the Feces"

PooperGal
"Searching for the Origin of the Feces"

L Wrong Hubbard's picture
l 100+ points

I feel your pain. Burning the candle at both ends is hell on earth

Happy trails,
L. Wrong
Chairman & CEO, PPK Industries

Happy trails,
L. Wrong
Chairman & CEO, PPK Industries

The Widowmaker's picture
m 1+ points - Newb

That reminds me of this time I was in Nigeria (don't ask) and I got wicked sick and had to puke in an alley. A small crowd gathered; nobody offered help, but judging from the tones of voice I picked up while heaving up my guts I was the subject of great interest.

I wanted to shout, "Yes, Americans barf too! Here's five bucks, somebody get me a Gatorade before I fucking die!"

But my mouth was a little busy. Wouldn't have mattered anyway though because I might as well have asked for wings as for a Gatorate in a hellhole like Lagos.

Bunga Din's picture
j 1000+ points

I've never experienced a puke poop moment but had a friend who did. He said it proved the existance of Satan.

KeepOnCrappin's picture
k 500+ points

Neither have I ever had a poo-puke moment, but Ive felt like im about to many a time. Once i had explosive diahreea though. THere was so much gas in there, I could have strated a hurricane all by myself. It was like there was 800 thousand RPG's going off at once in my ass, and thats what it felt like too. My ass hurt so much that day it was not even funny. The drap got everywhere, on the seat, wall, tank, etc. I should say that happened while I was working at a summer camp with terrible food. We had tacos, where the cheese wasn't even melted-that should have been the warning sign. Anyway, 3 hours after the tacos comes the gas-it smelled terible, I thought i might get some wet farts. So every three mins i'd rush to the latrine, while everyone pointed and laughed at me. Finally it came, the 800 thousand RPG's. I blasted that crap good. I used half the roll of TP and ran out without looking at my mess as I usulally do.I hobbled around for the next three days, it hurt so bad. Everyone thought I had crotch rot, and so laughed at me more. I ddin;t realize I had destroyed the thing so bad until then next day everyone was saying around camp "It looks like a crap bomb exploded in the staff latrine" I went and look, kn owing it was my devestation.

HOLY CRAP!!!

pardon the pun. There was crap all over the seat, wall, and everywhere else one could see. There was a stench so bad, it could be smelled on the other side of the lack, which is 3 miles long. The crap was actually holding the seat open, it couldn't be closed. How I did that, I wonder, becuase my overly-large ass cover the hole entirely.

[Maybe I should have made this into a story?]

"KOC -- the Cool Crapper" - Rat Droppings

daphne's picture
PoopReport of the Year AwardSite AdminComment Content ModeratorComment Quality Moderatore 6000+ points

Well, great story! Liked it, sorry for your trouble.
I am writing up a story currently myself about the past couple of weeks with a double doodie myself, but it pales in comparison to yours.

.....hugging bunnies since 1969

.....hugging bunnies since 1969
www.daphneszoo.com

PooperGal's picture
k 500+ pointsl 100+ pointsm 1+ points - Newb

Definitely make that into a regular report, KeepOnCrappin. I have read a lot of stories here about explosive poop covering the surface of whole restrooms at gas stations and restaurants, but like you say, it's a mystery how that stuff gets everywhere when one's ass covers the toilet seat/hole. I mean, is it vaporizing out the sides of the ass cheeks and then rematerializing on the walls? What?
PooperGal
"Searching for the Origin of the Feces"

PooperGal
"Searching for the Origin of the Feces"

Splatterbuns's picture
m 1+ points - Newb

Wow, I can't imagine a worse puke/poop moment. It's been a long time since I've actually had a puke/poop moment, and for that I'm thankful. My dad actually remodeled a bathroom once, putting the sink next to the toilet in anticipation of both ends going off at the same time. I've never lived anywhere without the two-side-by side, but would probably just puke in the garbage can if I did.

Fart Poopie's picture
j 1000+ points

Wearing nylon underwear sounds uncomfortable, but it sure saved your pants, didn't it?

PooperGal's picture
k 500+ pointsl 100+ pointsm 1+ points - Newb

It was specially designed for hiking. Very comfortable, a type of hi tech nylon-polyester coated fiber that breathes but wicks away sweat. If my skivvies had been cotton, I would have been in deep doo-doo. Like, dripping from my keister.

PooperGal
"Searching for the Origin of the Feces"

PooperGal
"Searching for the Origin of the Feces"

IT WASNT ME's picture
m 1+ points - Newb

WHY NOT JUST LEAVE THE SHIT CLOTHES BEHIND?

IT WASNT ME

L Wrong Hubbard's picture
l 100+ points

Kathman doo-doo
ha ha

Happy trails,
L. Wrong
Chairman & CEO, PPK Industries

Happy trails,
L. Wrong
Chairman & CEO, PPK Industries

Poop Shooter's picture
k 500+ points

Poo-Puking is terrible.... especially if yer drunk. I've swore off drinking a few times. Poop Shooter

Poop Shooter!

KeepOnCrappin's picture
k 500+ points

That sounds like a story, PS.

"KOC -- the Cool Crapper" - Rat Droppings

Bunga Din's picture
j 1000+ points

This is a great story, solid effort...well the story I mean. Just how does one get to visit Nepal so frequently?

Bunghole In the Jungle's picture
l 100+ points

Pooper Gal,

I very much enjoyed this travelogue and the detail which you gave about the location. Having never been to Nepal, I was envious as I read it. Then I got to the "meat" of the story and I was no longer envious.

Having once only experienced the projectile diarrhea and vomiting (almost simultaneously) from a 24 hour bug, I would never wish that experience on anyone. I felt your pain.

Where do you plan to next visit for your hiking vacation?


_______
"Odor in the court! The judge is eating beans--his wife is in the bathtub counting submarines." Author Unknown

keeping the whack in tally-ho...
Fartuituos!
Serenshittipy!

Rat Droppings's picture
l 100+ points

Your story reminded me of this time exactly a week ago when I did the same thing puke/poo in unison for 12 hours strait with a 102 fever. As much as I'd love to turn it into a humorous story to share with my new friends, there wasn't anything "funny" about it. Great story though, PGirl ya'll really being safe with the alcohol wipes is the way to go obviously to not get sicker more often than you did. Good thing you brought anti-biotics. And I hope you remembered tic-tacs.

_______
"Rectum hell, killed em' both." Author Unknown

"Rectum hell, killed em' both." Author Unknown

tripbeetle's picture

I live in Tokyo, which, to anticipate the story, is lucky, because of any city on earth it not only has toilets everywhere, either public, or in department stores, convenience stores, etc. but even the remotest and grungiest bog has toilet paper, and even spare rolls of it. Not, of course, that I thought I would be needing any.

I was coming back from a few beers in the Shinjuku district of Tokyo and very much felt like a good long crap and a piss. I am a bit squeamish about shitting anywhere but at home, so decided to hold on to the pooh and just make do with a piss.

I don’t know about you, dear reader, but I consistently fart whenever I’m pissing. And having whipped it out and settled down to a very long piddle into the urinal of the first public toilet I happened upon, I, err, farted.

Need I even say it, dear reader? Need I even say it? As you can guess, and as is such a convention in stories of this nature, the result of the fart was way more tangible in many different ways than mere hydrogen sulfide and mercaptan laced hydrogen and nitrogen.

The merest inclination to fart had given carte blanche to the load that my sphincter had been straining to contain, and out it poured in one smooth, uncontrollable movement, no spasms, no churnings, just a long, clean (for want of a much better word) pour.

Thank Fate that that morning I had not worn my usual baggy boxer shorts, all of which were in the wash, but was wearing a pair of quite tightfitting undies I don’t normally wear. The elasticated leg openings succeeded in keeping even ounce of what seemed like the several pounds of warm, semisolid pooh that had cascaded into my pants and now bathed my buttocks.

I positively hobbled into the nearest stall, thanking Fate, yet again, that no one else was around. True to form, there was toilet paper aplenty. I took off my shoes, my jeans, and then, very gingerly, my underpants, and consigned them immediately to the watery depths of the toilet and flushed. I then set to work on my ass, wielding many great wads of toilet paper, many of them wetted with the water from the spout that features on the top of the tank of public toilets in Japan and that comes out when you flush. (The idea is to use it to wash your hands.)

It was a good 15 minutes before I felt reasonably clean again. Miraculously none at all had escaped the undies, so my jeans were untouched. Nevertheless, with my ass as scraped and wiped as it was, the act of walking felt like I was rubbing it in, and sitting, undiesless, was a repulsive idea. So I walked with the daintiest steps possible to the nearest subway, stood during the few minutes it took me to get to my station, and the moment I got in the door I showered compulsively for a long time, and consigned my jeans to the washing machine all by themselves, on the Stubborn dirt cycle, with ridiculous quantities of soap powder, and, when the cycle was over, repeated it.

They tell you all about looking right, then left, then right again before crossing the road when you’re at school, not because it’s polite, but because your wellbeing depends on it. The stricture against farting should be drilled with equal intensity, with the explicit rejoinder that it is not to be avoided for mere reasons of politeness, but that, like that first mere puff on the mildest of badly rolled joints, it can open the gate to a vociferous hell from which escape is by no means guaranteed.

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