Digestive Double Feature

Letting It Out

It was regional meeting weekend in Huancayo, but I was feeling miserable.  I only dragged myself there to buy giardia medicine that isn’t available in my site.  I did the most basic errands, nibbled on food at family dinner, but mostly rested in the 10 person hostel room we were sharing. 

One afternoon, I was lying in bed, cruising Facebook, and composing my own twelve-part fart harmonies.  All my protozoan guests were jogging around my intestines and creating a hindenbergian quantity of gas.  If I didn’t have a release valve, I would’ve burst or been found bobbing against the ceiling. 

Then, to my chagrin, girl Alex from Yauyos walked in.  She was disheveled and had runny mascara, so clearly something was up.  She immediately started on her tale of woe, which, like most Peace Corps meltdowns, was an accumulation of crappy things that ended up as a steaming mountain of misery. 

I tried to listen empathetically, but most of my attention went toward holding in my farts.  I’d let a tiny one squeak out and say, “Uh huh” or “Oh, really?” too loudly to try to cover it.  Alex only became more upset and my stomach began to make grumpy dinosaur sounds in protest.  After realizing she had been going on for a while, Alex said, “I’m sorry I’m dumping all this on you.  It’s just been so much piling up that now I can’t help but let it out.”

“Alex,” I replied, “I have to tell you, this giardia is still really bad and I can’t stop farting.  I’ve been holding it in, but I can’t keep it up much longer.  I’m happy to listen, but I’m going to need to be farting while you’re talking.”

                And that’s how we both let it out.  Alex told me her woes and I tooted my sympathies until we both took exhaustion naps. 

A Close One

I quickened my pace and kept my head down.  I pulled my sun hat down low over my brow and didn’t greet anyone.  I murmured dozens of frantic pleas to god or the pachamama or whatever deity holds sway over this freezing stretch of pampa.  My stomach roiled and it felt like my intestines were in my shoes.  My breath came quick and I shifted to short, rapid strides.  Just let me make it.  I turned the corner and saw the “Servicio Higienico” sign.  My fingers fumbled for my coin purse to get my 50 centimos ready.  Please please let me make it.  It’s so far to walk home.  I handed my coin to the lady and sprinted in to the stall.  Please please.  I made it, but just barely.  And now I owe all sorts of good deeds and favors to Jesus, Krishna, Joseph Smith, and the Big Potato in the sky.