Sudden Evacuation

Diarrhoea. I try to avoid the thing as best I can. It really isn't for me. Other people seem to get it while travelling. I don't. Unfortunately the respect I give diarrhoea has not always been reciprocated. Playing hard to get with the minor illness finally caught up with me in Toktogul.

Had it been the water I drank directly from the spring without boiling it in Arslanbob? Had it been the plov, the tallow-covered rice I'd had for dinner the other night? Or the lagman, the dry meat noodles from the seemingly-popular restaurant the day before? Or was it the chicken-filled pastries, the samsas, I had on one of the minibuses on the way to town?

Questions swirled through my mind like the liquid mix that was swirling through my stomach. Questions that I didn't really care to answer at that very minute. The very minute that I hastily walked, nay, ran down the street back to the guesthouse to get a toilet that had a seat. So many toilets nearby weren't, in fact, toilets. When asking for the bathroom, you were often pointed to a room with a hole in the floor leading to a centuries-old pit filled with the remains of Kyrgyz cuisine from days gone by. Southern Kyrgyzstan was a bit more rough and ready, a bit more old-fashioned than other parts of the country. This elevated its charm in many ways, but not when it came to toilet facilities.

I was so close to the guest house. My stomach continued rumbling as I considered whether I would need to do a load of laundry a few days earlier than expected.

Entering the guest house, the end goal was in sight. I prayed that no one else was here and that the one toilet available in the building was unoccupied. My sphincter muscles could only hold on for so long.

The husband of the couple who owned the guesthouse was in the courtyard and saw me. I tried to avoid eye contact, not because he wasn't a nice man. The couple running the guesthouse were very kind and friendly and always willing to joke around. But I was afraid of the question I knew he was about to ask. Despite only staying in their place for less than twenty-four hours at that point, I knew the first question the husband would ask every time he saw me or anyone else who was staying there. A question he'd ask no matter the time of day, no matter the weather, no matter what expression you had on your face.

"Vodka?" The man spoke English well yet this seemed to be a word that was very important to him. Despite me never seeing him drink an ounce of the stuff he was always offering it to visitors. It was as if he was getting a kickback from the vodka company. The offer was in stark contrast to the conservative, alcohol-free attitudes I found further south.

Needless to say, with my digestive system working double-time, introduction of alcohol was not gonna be a wise decision. Especially not when, at that moment, I was preparing myself for the reality that I would soon have a story entitled 'The Day I Shat Myself in Kyrgyzstan.'

I dismissed the offer of vodka and made it to the porcelain throne in time. I could wait till my next destination to do my laundry.

I didn't get to see a lot of the Toktogul because it was raining for most of the day too. This gave me a good reason to hang around the guest house and reject every offer of alcohol from the man who thought I was too boring to take a swig.