stomach troubles in foreign countries
greetings from Zanzibar!
Hi loves! I’m writing to you from Zanzibar. What is Zanzibar, you ask? Oh, a tropical island off the Eastern coast of Africa, of course! (Tap the ❤️ to say helloooo!)
I’m here a) visiting my sun goddess friend Kelly and b) trading in New York’s frigid winter for a few borrowed weeks of sunshine and turquoise water and tropical fruits.
Oh and gastrointestinal distress! Duh.
I have just come back to the land of the living after a nasty episode of food poisoning (I think?), possibly exacerbated by an excruciating (I know it’s supposed to be fun) (but it was rather excruciating) surf excursion where, slathered in zinc and covered head-to-toe in Neoprene, I remembered, as I do every two years — the point at which my steadily growing curiosity and appetite for adventure wins out over my waning memories of the last time I surfed — that I reallydonotlikesurfing.
In the water, I am less of a Cody Maverick and more like Ferdinand the Bull.
I love gazing around, starry-eyed and tranquil, at the undulating shades of blue, buoyed peacefully by the swell, soaking in a warm bath of sunshine. As far as I’m concerned, a surfboard is really just a fancy floatie.
I forget that I tend to become a bit panicked when this 10-foot surfboard is Velcroed to my ankle, which I am then supposed to a) paddle with all my might through crashing sets of waves and b) successfully wrangle and maneuver and thrust into the momentum of said waves to, ideally, propel me forward in a way that I understand is exciting and even euphoric for some, but is completely discombobulating and actually pretty alarming ?? to me.
I forget that my flight or fight mode will already be well activated by the seawater in my eyes, and up my nose, and the thunder of waves overhead, and the hazardous pit of ten other ‘beginner surfers’ who look just as bewildered as me, surfboards leaping around willy nilly as we try not to body-slam each other or knock each other unconscious.
I forget that in this situation, the literal last thing I’m inclined to do is try and catch one of these waves, which not only requires a ridiculous amount of effort but in all likelihood will only result in more frazzlement and wobbles and saltwater up every possible orifice and this unwieldy foam board thrashing around wildly, like it’s been caught in a tornado, dragging me with it and threatening to thwack my shins and being incredibly uncooperative as I try to get a handle on things and generally not drown as mountains of water unleash their full might over my writhing, helpless body.
So.
But once every two years, I forget all this. I am lured in by the effortless, gangly surfers looking so cool and weightless on those waves, the idea of surfing, the way everyone seems to speak so fondly of this activity as fun (?!) and chill (?!!?!?!?).
And those damn surf instructors!
These tanned, beautiful, well-meaning humans think they are helping (have not yet realized I’m a lost cause) by shouting things like: “EDEN!! HERE IT COMES!!!!!!! THIS ONE! OUTSIDE! OUTSIDE!!!!! SEE IT? ON YOUR LEFT!!!!! PADDLE PADDLE PADDLEEEEEE!!!!!!” and pointing and waving and grinning in what I’m sure is meant to be an encouraging and informative exchange, but for me saps any potential remaining enjoyment from the experience and makes the whole endeavor feel about as zen and bliss-like as driving through midtown Manhattan at 5pm on a Friday.
It is mayhem.
I also think we are just fundamentally mismatched. Where they see a wave coming and cheer yesyesyesyes!, I am having an equal and opposite, and deeply instinctual, reaction that can only be described as dread: nonononoooooooooo—
BOOM. Crash.
So the other day I get back to my hostel, winded and with my ass thoroughly handed to me by this gorgeous yet ruthless slice of paradise and its gorgeous yet sadistic surf instructors, when my stomach began to churn. Initially I chalk this up to surfing for four hours (!) under the blazing African sun (!!) without water breaks (please let it be known I paid for this! I am a willing, paying customer!!!). But the stomach troubles intensify when on my way to my room, I double over and spew chunks of watermelon and saltwater and a bit of this morning’s breakfast into the poor leafy green bushes (who had no idea this was coming).
As night falls, this happens again and again until there is truly nothing left to come up. The contents of my insides are empty and I am reduced to a feverish, sweaty lump.
Is it Death By Surfing, or something I ate? Who knows! All I know is that when I try to get up to use the toilet one last time, my Turkish roommate — who I’ve just met that morning — quietly walks in and asks how my night was, but his voice gets tinny and far away and the next thing I know I am waking up on the floor, my head in his hands, blinking slowly. I have fainted literally into this poor man’s arms. I can’t feel my fingers or toes.
Luckily my roommates are angels and feed me biscuits and sips of water and don’t even bat an eye when it all comes back up five minutes later. They tuck me into bed, curled up around a ceramic bowl, and bring me mango juice in the morning when I am too weak to walk to the kitchen.
And somewhere deep inside of me says ahhhh. Here we are again.
We are Alone and Down Bad in a Foreign Country (AADBIAFC).
I am no stranger to AADBIAFC. We have met in Costa Rica, France (technically over the Atlantic Ocean but still), Thailand…recent episodes include:
Make me sweat, make we waterrrr
I think Tyla’s hit song could be about giardia, which is apparently the world’s “cutest parasite.”
And sure it is very cute. Until it has you sprinting to the toilet five times an hour, nibbling cornflakes and sweating the hours away in bed while waves lap the shore just across the street, brilliant and beckoning and soooo out of reach.
And you are alone in a foreign country (naturally). And you are too embarrassed to ask the only person you know, your beautiful bronze Argentinian neighbor Juan, for medical/emotional/moral support.
Before you ask: I got giardia from drinking out of a stream. Was this preventable? Totally. Could I resist the opportunity to kneel down and sip from Chile’s pristine glacial rivers, that I could have sworn someone somewhere promised me was absolutely safe?! No way! A girl had to live out her forest fairy dreams!
(Except I feel like forest fairies do not get giardia?)
Because you can’t digest anything, giardia also makes you lose weight like crazy. Kind of like Ozempic’s bohemian and free-spirited cousin. (Totally JK. I do not recommend this experience at all. It was literally so horrible haha!)
Death or chicken curry?
Did you know that French Bee, France’s budget airline, offers a $200 redeye from Paris to San Francisco?! Well it does. And I’ve flown it. And learned a thing or two.
The flight does not offer a meal service, because it is tres cheap. My first mistake was arriving starving. As we took off, the sun setting behind the Seine, my rumbling stomach said bonjour, I am tres hungry. If you are brave, you can buy food, so I bought a warm meal (my second mistake): a very beige-looking curry.
The curry arrives, bon appetit, and it’s time to sleep. I am feeling good because even though I struggle sleeping on planes, I came prepared with an edible gummy (mistake number three), guaranteed to knock me out instantly. So I pop it in and prepare to drift off into a sweet, peaceful sleep.
Except for that sometime in between consciousness and sleep, in the dark soft haze, I’m jolted awake by the feeling that something is terribly wrong. My first thought: I am dying?
My heart is thumping, I can’t move; there is a sheen of cold sweat cloaking my body.
I am definitely dying.
I am also stoned.
I look around, eyes wide, contemplating my options.
Crawl to the bathroom?
Can’t. Too far. Also legs won’t work.
Emergency medical landing?
We are 30,000 feet above the Atlantic.
As I contemplate my mortality and the logistics of a water landing in equal measure (sure that once we safely float down to the ocean, a team of doctors will be able to see me right away), a stewardess passes by, takes one look at me, widens her eyes, dashes behind a curtain, and returns moments later with a paper bag and thank god, because all of a sudden chicken curry is exiting my body at full force.
I don’t even have time to be embarrassed because I am flooded with sheer relief that not only am I alive, but we don’t even have to land in the ocean!!!
I clean myself up, sip some water and open a packet of saltine crackers. They are maybe the tastiest crackers I’ve ever had.
The rest of the flight flies by because I am just so glad to be here, you know?
In the spirit of being here, time to shut my laptop and enjoy an afternoon napping by the pool. And maybe a sunset swim! No more surfing. No more curry. Just taking it all pole, pole (Swahili for slowly, slowly). I think Ferdinand would approve.
Xo,
Eden
LOVE U BEAUTIFUL !!!!!!!!