In 2003 I took a work trip to Ethiopia and Tanzania; two beautiful countries steeped in history, culture and tradition. It was an amazing and intense experience engaging the five senses but the most memorable evening was dinner at Handi Indian restaurant in Nairobi, Kenya.With my generous host, I drank Tusker Beer and an outlandish (and ill-advised) quantity of Chivas whisky. Sure maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to eat fiery Madras Curry and mystery meat samosas before boarding an all-night flight but I love a good adventure. After taking two pills provided by my host I hoped to end what were the very early stages of dysentery. You know the ones, risky gas seepage, very hot stomach.
I vividly recall walking up to the BA counter in Nairobi airport after several delayed entries to the departures wing of the airport as our vehicle was stopped and searched for bombs repeatedly while I longed to run out of the car and relieve my increasingly pressurized bowel cavity in some nearby bushes.
Once I reached the third from the front position in the BA lineup I realized I could go no further and proceeded to haul my extraordinarily heavy and expensive, new, khaki-colored Filson garment bag and outfitter bag to the nearest men’s room I could find. Naturally, my nearest hope for relief was down at the far end of the terminal which without air conditioning was proving to be pretty hot.
Or at least I thought it was hot because my white cotton oxford was stuck with sweat to my back and my body was starting to do some strange dance I have since come to name the gotta shit shuffle. Not an easy thing to do walking with the gotta shit shuffle while carrying heavy luggage, sweating profusely, clenching ones butt cheeks closely together, and muttering profanities about the British being so polite that it takes hours to check in each departing passenger to avoid completely soiling my Bill's Khakis.
Once I reached the men’s I burst through the door, opened a stall and began to frantically disrobe. It was no sooner had I sat down and released the contents of my being that I began to take stock of my surroundings. The bathroom was actually one of the filthiest cubicles I have even seen. A dim light shining overhead exposed flies and mosquitoes who bore unknown filth and disease and were waiting to bite my fat ass as I sat in gastric misery.
But then I noticed something else: the place really stunk and the walls and floor seemed to be covered with this yellow substance as was my precious piece of luggage loaded with my dirty clothes. I got up and looked behind me and to my horror realized what had happened as I stared at the wall above the toilet. I had literally exploded in that stall covering everything with my own feces. I think if I wasn’t so disgusted by what I saw I would have wept openly.
Instead I tried to look on the bright side: I felt better, I was flying Business Class back to Geneva via London, a cold beer awaited…etc. I just needed to clean myself up with some toilet paper and paper towels, wipe off my luggage, splash some water on my face and I’d be good to go. Then another horrifying piece of reality hit me as I glanced over at the various paper dispensers adorning the rest room. No paper. Anywhere. I scurried to take off my socks and boxer shorts, which by some divine intervention remained poop-free. I then “used my available resources” as they say and proceeded to leave the scene of the crime with my slightly less clean khaki luggage.
As I walked back to the check-in counter I was noticed something following me. My smell. How I was going to fly 9 hours on an airplane without offending an entire cabin full of passengers was a mystery to me. Maybe it wasn’t that bad I kept telling myself. I had no visible evidence on me of what had happened so maybe I was OK. As I cleared customs and security I began to feel that rumble again. I knew there was no way out now and I would just have to hold it together (so to speak) until I got on the plane.
I managed to drop my belongings at my seat and dash to the men’s and literally bathe in the tiny sink after exploding again. For the next 8 hours 40 minutes, 4,250 miles I repeated this exercise 7 times. Fortunately I was seated just one row back from the toilet so my walk was pretty short. Needless to say by the time the plane pulled up to the gate at 5:30 a.m. I was dehydrated, exhausted, humiliated, and needing someone to be nice to me.
Since I hadn’t had too far to walk in the plane I missed another startling piece of reality which I quickly discovered once I had disembarked the flight and was heading toward UK immigration. It turns out that after nearly 9 hours of shitting your legs and posterior are raw and extremely sore. In fact, I walked gingerly at first then found myself in some sort of bowlegged crab walk designed to reduce the sparks and flames that were firing simultaneously out of my nether regions. Some of the passengers from my flight were now passing me muttering sympathetic phrases like “check out The Ministry of Silly Walks” or “fire in the hole”.
I was concerned with just one thing at this point. Powder. Need lots of powder and maybe an ice pack to extinguish the fire. I hobbled over to the nearest Boots, what the British call a chemist and what we call a drug store only to see the harsh reality of the chains drawn down across the storefront. “Ahhhhhhhhh” OK plan B. I go to the BA lounge and take a shower and try to relax. Since the British are so civilized they have a drinks station which has all the fixings for a Bloody Mary. I pour a gigantic tumbler of Smirnoff over a few ice cubes, an ounce or two of tomato juice, a dash of Worcestershire sauce and a healthy quantity of Tabasco. I finish it off with a lemon slice.
Eventually I reassembled myself with my old clothing and bolstered by the vodka at least I felt temporarily better. My next mission was to hover in front of the Boots store and fake some sort of life threatening illness which could only be cured by the repeated application of baby powder. Fortunately, the store was opening as I walked up so my charade was not required. I stocked up on powder, rubbing alcohol, Neosporin, Cortaid, and antifungal cream unsure what sort of maltov-crotch cocktail would be required to soothe my radiating baboon ass.
At this point I was so happy I was hugging strangers in the terminal and singing victory songs. I walked into Thomas Pink and picked up two new pairs of cotton boxers (I still had the 2 hour flight to Geneva so wasn’t taking any chances), a fresh shirt and socks. Despite everything, I was feeling pretty confident that the worst was over. After another shower and re-application of various and sundry powders, lotions, and salves I was a new man.
I then concentrated on the trying to re-hydrate and take some sustenance. One of my favorite things about Heathrow is that the weary traveler is rewarded with a Caviar House & Prunier in all four terminals. These little Oasis’s in the desert of fast food and airport lounge leftover snacks are a godsend. At Caviar House they sell beautiful little combinations of finely smoked salmon from Ireland, Scandinavia, and delicious oysters. They also sell expensive and delicious caviar in case that wasn’t obvious given the establishment’s moniker. The great thing about Caviar House is that you can sit in the terminal and watch the throngs of plebes walk by from the comfort of your bar stool in a cordoned off paradise as you enjoy some truly remarkable seafood and sip champagne or cold European beer.
All in all a great trip with a few key lessons. Always travel with your pals: Ciprofloxacin, baby powder and ointment, and be wary of strange pharmaceuticals in strange lands.
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