So having the enduring gastritis, the mending mouth sores, I was able to make the visa run to renew my visa. Sure enough, two hours into the journey I stopped the bus and got out to throw up like a roaring God, bellowing like a bull. I'd also suddenly acquired a new case of the trots - a running torrent that's an occupational bimonthly hazard - soon enough cleaned up. When I got back to BK, I marched straight to a pharmacist and asked for some tablets for the trots. He gave me 8 immodium tablets, 2 straight away, the rest at 6 hourly intervals. And they worked their magic. That afternoon I scribbled down a timetable to leave for Koh Sui, sort out some stuff (trade books, say goodbye to some friends - Thursay looked good, today being monday evening).

I'd given up milk in terms of trying to control the gastritis a few days earlier and bugger me sideways it appeared to be working. By Wednesday I hadn't thrown up for three days, but I still had that uneasy feeling. Still, progress of sorts. It was about now that I suddenly began feeling extreme anal cramps when trying to have a crap. The crap came out fine but was followed by gut wrenching, painful spasms as though I was trying to pass an orange. The spasms came to dominate, even though little came out. Looking at myself in the mirror I saw a huge, extended stomach, like I'd become a beer binger overnight with beer gut to boot, It was obvious. I was constipated. Back to the pharmacist and a fistful of anti-constipation pills should do the trick! I couldn't get over the irony that I must be the only Ferang in SE Asia that needs a laxitive - there's an old saying among ex-pats; you know you've gone native when you can't remember your last solid stool! The pills seemed to have little effect. The constipation was still there, and so was the diahorea. Suddenly I had split seconds to reach the toilet, and on two occasions soiled myself in public. Thankfuly, nobody seemed to notice my cowboy swagger so that the shit wouldn't run down my legs as I carefully made my way back to the hotel to change - thankfully again, it was just around the corner from the restaurant.

Now being Saturday, I was trapped in my room. If I timed it right I good dash to the local supermarket, pick up some crap food and just make it back. By Sunday, I was going to the toilet every fifteen minutes or so, passing blood and little else, the violent spasms causing me to scream out in pain. Being a hotel where a lot of men take back bar-girls for sex they must have listened with envy while imagining the sort of women that could draw such agony of 'delight' from her customer. Every fifteen minutes. No rest at night, no respite during the day and worse - I didn't feek like drinking There was nothing for it.

The next day, I went to the hospital.

yechydda,