Some days, I’m swimming with sea lions and penguins. Other days, I’m just trying to survive without a disaster.
Today falls into the latter category.
Here I am, lying in a bed in Cartagena, convinced food poisoning is going to take me down. I need to muster up the strength to walk to the store for bananas. A five-hour bus ride drained me, and I dread the three flights ahead before I finally reach the Galapagos Islands.
I’m usually full of energy and can’t sit still, so if I’m lying around, you know something’s off.
“Just fifteen more minutes, then I’ll get those bananas,” I tell myself.
“Alright, maybe another fifteen.”
Forty-five minutes later, I shuffle to the Exito Express at a snail’s pace to grab bananas and bottled water. I can’t even filter my own water at this point. I stop by a restaurant to order plain rice. The woman at the door doesn’t get why I only want rice. I explain I’m sick. Luckily, her daughter speaks enough Spanish to clarify my need for just rice.
After eating the bland rice, I slowly make my way back to my hostel, practically crawling. I sleep until my alarm goes off at 3 a.m. Early flights always seem appealing until you’re up at that hour.
Two flights later, I land in Guayaquil, Ecuador. A few weeks back, I snagged an amazing last-minute deal for a Galapagos trip. I start feeling a bit better when I arrive at the luxurious hotel included in the package, but then the pain returns, more intense than before.
I spend the night cuddling a plush pillow in my upscale hotel room, reflecting on my life decisions.
I’m flooded with deep thoughts, mostly wishing for any past ordeal over this one. A root canal from two years ago, rush-hour traffic in Austin during SXSW, a nasty flu over Christmas, and every hangover from college.
Why do I always get food poisoning when I choose to splurge? This has happened before in Indonesia on my birthday in 2011 and in Lake Titicaca in 2015. Both times, I was thankful for clean bathrooms.
The stomach pain is crippling. I hug the fancy pillow tighter and recall my time in India—the land that likely invented dysentery.
Once, during a 12-mile hike in McLeod Ganj, it hit me at the summit. I had to trek down six miles while feeling awful. By the time I reached the bottom, I was too weak to lift my water bottle.
There was another instance on a plane from Delhi to the Himalayas. Let’s just say, anyone who used that bathroom afterward must’ve cursed my name.
I’ve developed a newfound empathy for all those poor souls on the Oregon Trail who succumbed to dysentery and cholera. I literally feel their agony.
With each cramp, I start mentally scrapping my travel plans for the rest of the year. Mongolia in August? Absolutely not. Thailand in October? No way I’m going anywhere with questionable water again.
Food poisoning is the only ailment that makes me long for home. All I want is to return to America and munch on bagels. You never hear of anyone getting food poisoning from a bagel.
Was all this travel worth such discomfort? I recall that time my purse was stolen on a beach in Thailand and when my iPhone vanished in Barcelona—both incidents due to my carelessness.
Then there was the time my foot slipped through a sewer drain in India. Thankfully, it was shallow, so I didn’t injure myself. A kind Tibetan boy helped retrieve my flip-flop from the toxic mess.
What drives me to endure this?
I text one of my closest friends for support. She reminds me that I’ll get through this. I’m a fighter.
I chuckle. Maybe I’m just a little crazy.
I managed to survive the flight to the Galapagos from mainland Ecuador and boarded the ship. The next day, I reluctantly left my air-conditioned cabin and had a serious talk with my stomach before joining the activities.
“Please don’t embarrass me,” I pleaded.
Fifty minutes later, I was snorkeling when a penguin dove into the water beside me. For those brief moments, I forgot all about my stomach discomfort.
[This is the final installment of my South America Diaries series, where I share the realities of traveling and living on the road full-time.]
