The Worst Food Poisoning You'll Ever Have

Dali, China is an artist’s dream. Cafes filled with zines, art galleries and bohemian makeshift art co-ops by the lake’s edge make it an irresistible town to leave. The green mountains gazing back at you and gorgeous seas of yellow canola flower fields bring back memories of a carefree youth not hardened by the politics of Beijing or Shanghai. But the town left me with more than just charm.

I’d been walking along the main drag near the water, exploring street foods and watching kids play on their bikes when I passed a bar with a live band. A man in a chef’s hat, not overly sober, asked me if I wanted some whiskey. I swung back his Jack Daniels and promised to return in the evening.

I liked feeling like a minority while traveling, the only white girl in this Chinese venue. He took me under his wing that night, feeding me whiskey and a broken-English conversation. It was all so amusing to me and soon I found out my new friend was not only the local drunk at this place, but the head chef, a musical act and a server. Watching his circus act flopping between dedicating guitar songs for me, cooking guests rice and veggies and serving booze was delightful until I stood up and forgot I’d downed almost the full bottle of Jack.

He persisted I stay with him but my only goal was getting one foot in front of the next and into a taxi to get back to my hostel. Somewhere between falling asleep and murmuring “food” the driver dropped me off in front of a small restaurant. A trio of ladies looked precariously at my state when I stumbled into my chair and mumbled “hot pot.” They pointed to the fridge so I slumped over to pick out which foods I wanted to cook. One of each.

Hot pots are a patient affair. Each dish, veggie or meat, is cooked until it’s ready to be consumed. When you’re an unsupervised, intoxicated person though, time feels like its moving much slower. I sped up the cooking and drenched my food in hot sauce so the flood of chili oil masked the taste of under cooked meat. Finishing a generous portion, I hiccuped my way back to my hostel bed- somehow, onto the top bunk.

My headache woke me up earlier than my alarm so I nudged my friends to get ready for our scheduled train. I had warned them of my hangover so we rested under trees outside the station, waiting for our train. But I knew something was happening in my gut, something more heinous than alcohol withdrawal. I squirmed and squealed in violent pain, holding my abdomen. They laughed, ignoring my state and assuming the awful feelings came from booze.

I tried telling them something was different. I’ve had many hangovers in my youth but not once have I puked. So I bolted for the station entrance, holding the vomit in my mouth while I waited in line to pee. Bursting into the stall, sweating through every layer, I began puking and shitting simultaneously. I forgot I ordered noodles the night before until I began choking on them as they came up with the rest of that cursed hot pot. I stuck a dirty finger in my throat to prevent myself from suffocating and cut the noodles in half with crusty nails.

But the best way yet to come. This was no ordinary hole in the ground Asian style lavatory. It was a dug out trench that connected to each stall so that when others flushed, I watched their poo floating down under and between my legs joining my vomit for a ride. The sight induced more vomit and a relentless fountain of shit exploding through my anus. Squatted and moaning, I tasted the sweat dripping from my upper lip into my mouth.

After my body has effortlessly squeezed every last liquid through each orifice, I walked pale-faced to my friends who had doubts about my plea of food poisoning. We were late for our train now because of the bathroom fiasco so we had to run. Helplessly behind I would have to crouch every couple of feet to keep oncoming shit from exiting my body.

Continuing to rid my body of the toxins I had consumed in the restaurant that night, we finally arrived at the next stop. At this point there was no shame only deep prayers to make it to any hostel before my body opened up offensive streams of diarrhea, especially if in my pants. I sat in a corner on the bus, shivering and promising never to drink alcohol again.

It wasn’t until the third day of the same daily action that my friends suspected my stories were true and I indeed had food poisoning. Only able to consume raw garlic and rice, I was bedridden while they explored the town. Each day taking innumerable trips to the toilet for urine-like liquid to leave my bumhole. If there is a God, I thank God for all the gluten I ate to give me some fiber.

Eventually with rest, plenty liters of water and medicine, I recovered. Though sometimes, many months from then I’d wonder while sitting in Thailand or Japan if I had shit myself or not. The spiciness of the last meal confusing my digestive system. Finally, I had the last laugh after I heard my friend (the same one who had laughed and brushed off my pain for a hangover), end up shitting himself in an alleyway in Bangkok. His girlfriend using cold soup and baby wipes to clean poo off his ass.

Moral of the story: don’t be a drunk idiot in a foreign place. Cook your foods properly and carry electrolyte powder in case of a bad round of diarrhea.