One Last Heist

A bug. Not my bug.

Have you ever noticed in bank robber movies there is always the old experienced bank robber who is going in for one last heist before retirement? This job will be his last job, but then, because it’s a movie, hi-jinx ensue and you get the feeling that the old experienced bank robber really should have quit while he was ahead. Well, I think that is a good metaphor for us these days. We tried to pull off one last heist, and well, hi-jinx ensued. A few weeks ago we were chatting with a young fellow traveler at our hotel in Phnom Penh and explaining all about our trip. We kept knocking on wood, saying “we have been really lucky, nothing bad has happened.” Wise, experienced, travelers, or bank robbers, would have known then that it was time to retire. We should have stood up from that conversation, gone straight to the computer and booked ourselves on the next flight home. We didn’t do that. We got on a bus to Saigon, and well, you know how well that turned out.

Now, I get to rewrite some sentences I wrote not too long ago. We expected it to happen. We planned for it to happen. We were warned it would happen. But, when it finally happened, it still sucked. In this case, I am not talking about theft, I am talking about the inevitable food poisoning, or stomach bug or whatever you would like to call my misery for the last seven days. It hit me on our first night on the South coast of Cambodia and I found myself vomiting throughout the garden of our hotel. Things did not improve quickly. A marching band took residence in my head and I ached all over. All of this is expected on a long trip - eating odd food in foreign lands - but, expected or unexpected, it was terrible. The travel clinic at Kaiser sent us on our way with 2 doses of antibiotic each for just such an emergency. I managed to keep those drugs down. I thought I was getting better. As it turns out, I was not getting better enough.

If I was going to pick a hotel in which it would really be OK for me to vomit all over the garden, this was the best one possible. The large grounds were lush and jungle-y. The staff were lovely. Andrew taught them how to make a rehydration drink and they walked single pieces of bread to my room at meal times. We were some of the only guests and if I did make it outside the room, it was beautiful and not too hot and I could even see the ocean from the dining terrace. On the down side, there was a gecko that lived in the thatch above our bed and pooped on the head of the bed, several times a day. Occasionally gecko shits whizzed passed my nose as I was lying in bed. Given how I was feeling, these little presents seemed like a serious insult.

When it became clear I really wasn’t getting better, we went to the nearest big town and went to a local clinic. The doctor looked at the drugs the travel clinic prescribed me disapprovingly said, “we do not treat GI problems with this drug in Cambodia.” He went on to explain that, in Cambodia, the drug the travel clinic gave me is good for three things: 1. Chest infections 2. Skin infections 3. Sexually transmitted diseases. So, if I had gotten the clap in Cambodia I would have been good to go, but the run of the mill stomach bacteria was going to take more powerful guns.

I now have two antibiotics I get to take for the next seven days. I think I am getting better, although I am withholding judgment. I am hoping this heist movie has a happy ending.