If you’ve spent time in countries that are considered to be less developed (i.e., third world), one of your welcoming gifts comes in the form of a stomach bug. Unfamiliar bacteria makes its way into your system, typically through food, and wreaks havoc for a few days.
Outside of my trip to Vietnam (one word: yikes), I have been very fortunate in this department, which is rather surprising considering the fact that my immune system fails me quite often at home. That’s not to say that I haven’t gotten sick while moving about — I have. It just typically comes and goes rather quickly. Not this time, though. No, this little bug likes me too much to leave. I mean, I’m not surprised… I’d like me too… but enough is enough. Move. The. F. On. Pleeeeease.
I always play it safe when it comes to H2O, and stick to the two b’s: bottled or boiled. When it comes to food, I’m a bit more relaxed, because part of experiencing a new culture is trying the cuisine. After all, food is what brings people together. I try to be wise — some things scream “stay awaaaaay” — but if food stalls and street vendors are the popular choice among locals, then I’ll be right beside them. I’m a bit more cautious when I know that my time is limited, like now, for example. While I was in Africa, it was a whole different ball game. I had no schedule, no return date, no real responsibilities. I ate whatever was put in front of me, no questions asked. Camel’s milk with goat’s blood? Sure, I’ll have a sip. Unrefrigerated meat with flies buzzing about? Ooookay, why not? And the funny thing is, out of six and a half months, I only had stomach issues once, while in Morocco, and they lasted for all of 24 hours. Go figure.
While lying in bed that first night in Bohol, the nausea kicked in just as my eyelids got heavy. One minute I’m drifting off to sleep, the next I’m hugging a toilet. Lovely. Just lovely.
When the sun came up, my first priority was finding a pharmacy. I walked in, they didn’t speak English and so we played the pantomime game, and a few minutes later, they handed over a pack of pills in exchange for $3. Easy-peasey. Take that ObamaCare.
Next order of business was securing my own form of transportation. I wanted freedom. I wanted winding roads through rice fields. I wanted wind in my face. In other words, I wanted a motorbike.
Navigating my way out of the city was tricky. There is no rhyme or reason to the traffic. Pedestrians walk through the streets. Cars, motorbikes and buses, swerve in every direction. Oh, and the noise. There are horns and whistles blaring NONSTOP. Nonstop, I tell you. The first few minutes I was riddled with anxiety, but after a few close calls, and a few deep breaths, I was having the time of my life.
Once out of the city, I was treated to a maze of roads with greenery as far as the eye can see. The landscape alternated between low-lying rice fields, rivers, and mountains; it was absolutely gorgeous. I cannot think of a better way to have spent my day. Minus wanting to throw up, of course. I could have done without that. Everything else was pretty much perfect — picture perfect.
