Leakybumitis.

WARNING, the following blog contains detailed descriptions of upset stomachs and graphic explanations of the situations surrounding faecal matter. If you are of a weak disposition, don’t read onwards. You have been warned.

After two months of taking the anti-malarial, doxycycline tablets, we realise it is time to quit. We were pretty happy not to get malaria along the way and perhaps a little smug that our stomachs were never even challenged by even a smear of diarrhoea.

From the streets of São Paulo to the swamps of the Pantanal, at no point did we find ourselves running for the toilet, our stomachs seemingly made of steel. We never thought about cleanliness of food as it was never a problem.

However, Doxycycline is part antibiotic and at the point in which you stop taking it, your body has little to no, good bacteria in your gut. The doxycycline acts to fight the bad stuff instead of your good bacteria which has been killed off by the antibiotic element. Any attempt to digest food is rocketed from your intestines, straight into your marmite motorway, which became a real problem in the last days of South America and well into the road trip through California.

On our final night in Lima, we walk to a generic American pizza restaurant and order something in pigeon Spanish which looks good. The pizza arrives and we tuck in to its cheesy delights. Within minutes an almighty churn shakes my very bowels like a shift in the earth. An internal panic sends a shot to my brain. A bead of sweat forms on the brow. The urgency. The immediacy. The instant messaging system that motivates legs to move, effluent engines in gear.

Toilet. Now.

Lucy spends the rest of the meal eating alone as I get accustomed to the pattern on the back of the cubicle door.

The next day arrives and we take a reflective taxi ride to the airport and we look forward to the relative safety of being in the U.S.A. We are set to fly from Lima to Los Angeles connecting at Fort Lauderdale along the way. We choose to fly Spirit Airlines, as it is the cheapest way to travel to L.A. (As you would expect, the plane is a bargain basement affair, devoid of TVs or any sort of in flight entertainment, this factor makes the journey really REALLY drag). Both flights are a lengthy six hours and we decide to self medicate ourselves in preparation.

Weary of the long flights and possible trouser implosions, we prepare ourselves by buying a bumper packet of Imodium. After having a bad night spent on the toilet, I decide we should take four tablets at once, doubling the dose recommended. Three hours into the first leg of the journey, the familiar wave of stomach gurgling kicks in. I scramble to the toilet to release the bum valve and immediate pain emanating from my bowels, except nothing moves. Things remain static and stubborn. The bowl remains clean and I have to leave the tiny toilet, poop prophecy unfulfilled.

I sit back down next to Lucy but a gut wrenching pain intensifies with every hour bringing us multiple waves of stomach cramps, as bowel walls seem to have been created, blocking any sort of movement in a southerly direction. More toilet trips are unproductive as only the most modest skids may be manufactured.

We get off the plane in Fort Lauderdale and despite our stomach pains, know we should try to eat. We try some chicken strips but struggle to swallow more than a few bites. We begin to feel weak and wait two hours for the second leg of the journey to Los Angeles.

The second flight seems to up the pain intensity stakes and we spend much of it doubled over in our seats, helpless in our ability to do anything about it. I rue the decision to double the amount of Imodium and feel close to tears with the pain. I repeatedly apologise to Lucy for my foolhardy dispensary amounts.

After what seems like an immobilised age we land and pick up a near bungled airport shuttle transfer to the Adventure trade winds hostel in L.A.

Upon arrival we approach the check in desk to be greeted by a triumvirate of surly hoochie-mama type receptionists (the staple character type found on Jerry springer/Rikki lake etc). They avoid eye contact, looking past us when describing the direction of our room and make our day at least five percent more wearisome. The staff look annoyed of our presence and begrudgingly give us the key card to our room.

We drag our backpacks far past the reception, pool and other rooms and find ourselves opening the door to a quiet suite in the far corner of the complex. We didn’t pay for a suite but find ourselves collapsing into a giant king size bed. The room feels like incredible luxury and we feel incredibly relieved to have made it in one piece.

At this exact point my bowels loosen and I spend the next three hours on and off and on and off the toilet. Every time I thought I had finished I would feel the motivating drop of my droppings en route to the inevitable exit. Like a Groundhog Day, ad infinitum experience I feel like this loop will never end. At one point I think I fall asleep on the toilet, unable to focus any more.

Finally the wobbly waves of uncontrollable bum splurges subside and we are able to settle to sleep. My last waking moments are spent in a deep sense of relief. You could even call it poophoria…