The Tank Creatures Rise Up, Throw Off Their Chains and Revolt, Storming My Digestive Tract

There is a limit to the degree of physical suffering one can endure before descending into savagery and beyond the influence of polite civility. When I found myself on Wednesday morning blithely brushing my teeth after spending the night on the floor of my hotel bathroom-turned-vomitorium, it occurred to me that I had reached that point. (I admit, this paragraph was edited to make it much less graphic. You get the idea.)

It started about four hours after the meal in Zhuhai. I spent the three hour-ish journey to Yangjiang in the backseat of the van, watching the new and different landscape roll by. By the time our driver pulled into a small resort-like town on the South China Sea, my stomach was beginning to protest. I thought I was mildly car-sick. I was able to get out and walk on the beach and pose for a few pictures in the rapidly waning light.



Our hosts and Bladerunner are examining a statue on the beach.

We got back into the car and drove up a mountain to a new resort being built. By the time we were walking around the newly-constructed veranda, I'd broken out in a cold sweat. I sat down weakly at a table and began to tremble. I realized I needed to get to the hotel. On hearing this, our hosts immediately ushered us into the car and continued on to Yangjiang. Jacques insisted I sit nearer the front, and began to fuss over me, offering me pillows, water, and "traditional Chinese medicine." I insisted that I was fine -- and at the time, I thought I was. I thought I just had a bad case of motion sickness combined with lingering jet lag.

But as we sped across the countryside toward the city, my perceptions took on a sort of twilight surreality. Chinese characters seemed to make me feel worse. The landscape looked duller and more threatening. As we approached the city, the constant sound of car horns made my head pound. I was starting to realize that something was going on. After what seemed like whole hours, we pulled up in front of the hotel.

The Yu Tian Hotel is, I am told, the nicest hotel in Yangjiang. And, consistent with the rock star treatment we received throughout the entire trip, we landed the nicest suite in the joint. It was a very large room with a beautifully tiled bathroom and a huge elevated tub and separate shower. On the other hand, the drain to the tub was malfunctioning, a state of affairs that apparently had carried over from the last time Bladerunner had stayed there in November.

But the smell of stale cigarette smoke was everywhere. I cannot tolerate that odor. This hastened the inevitable, and I fell on the tiled floor of the bathroom and began to purge.

I hate throwing up. I will fight it until I cannot fight it anymore, but at some point, I recognized that if my body wanted to get rid of what was in my stomach, it would probably be a good idea to let it. Over and over and over again that night I returned to the cold tile floor, until I had nothing left. In the middle of each bout I would return to the bed, shaking from head to toe, and would go into an odd sort of half sleep populated by nightmares and exaggerated fears, until the nausea awoke me another time.

I would rather go through labor again than experience that another time.

When morning came, and I had rid my body of every bit of food I'd consumed the day before, I felt better, but completely drained. I spent most of the day sleeping, while B met with his suppliers. He would check on me in between meetings, torn between sympathy and frustration that I was missing part of the trip. This led to the following conversation, part of which Wasteland posted for your reading pleasure last week:

"I've been where you are, you know."

"What? No you haven't. I don't recall you spending a night throwing up on previous trips."

"No, but I've had diarrhea."

"Diarrhea? Please. I aspired to diarrhea last night. I prayed for diarrhea. When it finally arrived, I threw diarrhea a goddamn ticker tape parade, because diarrhea is like winning the fucking Powerball compared to throwing up seafood and bits of your stomach lining in a hotel room in South China every twenty minutes until there is nothing left to throw up anymore."

This was clearly inarguable, and, apparently recognizing that this was not an argument he was going to win, he went back to being sensitive. He even achieved the heroic deed of securing me four pieces of plain white toast from the hotel restaurant (but only after being brought four pieces of french toast first.) I also received a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice. It was absolutely delicious, and I am convinced it enabled me to live through that day.

When evening arrived, I was still too weak to attend dinner, only having been upright for more than ten minutes twice that day.

"It's probably a good thing you didn't attend dinner," he said after he returned to the room.

"Really? Why?" I should have known better.

"I really don't think you want to know."

"I think I can hear it now. Why?"

"Well, there was this pastry thing with a sort of gelatinous goo on it and there was something in the middle that looked kind of like a grub."

I winced. What an idiot I am.

"Did you eat that?" I asked.

"Yeah, I took a bite. I try almost everything they offer me. It's respectful."

The next morning I was able to make it to breakfast. Two pieces of plain white toast, and more of that divine orange juice.

"I am very sad," fretted Jacques at my condition when we joined him at the table.

"Oh, no, please," I protested. "I'm quite all right now, and you were wonderful to me Tuesday night. I'm only sorry I didn't make it to dinner last night."

Jacques takes his role as host very, very seriously, and I felt I needed to do all I could to minimize his concern.

So, all I saw of Yangjiang I saw from my hotel room, from the road out to Guangzhou, and during the briefest of shopping trips Wednesday night. And I missed the opportunity of a lifetime. Jacques had offered to take me to the village he grew up in on Wednesday to meet some of the people and photograph the rice paddies. But obviously, being able to stand for whole minutes at a time is a prerequisite for such a trip. It kills me that I missed it.

Nine days later, my appetite still -- still -- has not completely returned to normal. And most of you know what an affectionate relationship I have with food. I feel physical hunger, but it's almost as if there's a mechanism in my brain that has switched off.

I suspect the lobster noodle dish, as it was bathed in a sauce that, on reflection, could only have contained butter. This is prime habitat for the kind of unfamiliar microbes that afflict travelers everywhere.

Argh. I feel a little sick just writing about it.