The Worst Club In Asia

Thursday 28th January 2010, 1.50pm, Chittana Guest House - Luang Prabang

Woe is me, somebody please strike up the violin because I don't think I could feel much sorrier for myself than I do at this moment in time. I was cruelly struck down overnight with the kind of stomach bug familiar to Western constitutions all over South East Asia. It's somewhat of a travelling institution, if you don't get it at one point or another then really you've missed out on being part of the club that openly and unblushingly discusses their bowel movements and toileting habits in group conversation, sometimes over dinner. It is a backpackers' phenomenon, this fervent willingness to tell anyone who'll listen about how an excess of noodles and indistinguishable street food has either prevented or catapulted your ability to poo. Apologies, I don't mean to be crass, it's just I'm part of the Stomach Bug Crew now, and apparently we just love to talk about bodily waste.

I am very cross though, because I was already initiated into this club for a miserable 24 hours in Sihanoukville, I have my club card and I do not wish to renew my membership. On that occasion, Ella made me go out, forced a couple of vodka and Red Bulls down me, and hey presto I was fine. But now I have no Ella to "nurse" me and no desire to consume anything (given that my body even hates water today), all I have is a hollow tummy and a strop on - I so desperately want to go out and see Luang Prabang, grrrrrrr.

I managed to potter around town for a few hours this morning, I also had a sneaky ice cappuccino in a perfect Starbucks-modelled coffee house called JoMa Bakery - it's a chain, I couldn't help myself. Do not give me that condescending raised eyebrow please, if I'm going to be running to the toilet every 10 minutes because of water consumption then I figured I may as well drink something fun and delicious before I throw it up. Plus, it's a winning situation, calories won't touch me today, I already feel about 7lbs lighter. Fuck it, I might go and get some cake. That's the spirit.

Current plan of action stands at lying here for a while longer until insides stop convulsing, then hitting the streets and attempting sight-seeing (whilst being constantly mindful of where the nearest bathroom is and how long it will take me to get there). Additionally, while I'm out I can find people to talk about my gastro-intestinal issues with, Ella would usually love this chat being a card carrying club member herself, but I'm sure I'll have no shortage of other partakers. As I said, besides 'where have you been and where are you going', 'will you add me and tag me?', and 'Malaria tablets: actually doing something or just a placebo?', 'the number of times I go to the toilet in a week' is excruciatingly and hilariously, every traveller's favourite conversation topic.

P.S. No it wasn't the spaghetti, I didn't have any in the end. I had about 3 mouthfuls of Tom Yam (spicy fish soup) before setting my spoon down and pelting home. Personally I blame half a pizza I ate on Tuesday lunchtime... it tasted like jam, which places the pizza directly at the forefront of my suspicion. Lesson = do not eat food that tastes like jam if it is not jam.