Con't.

This is the story of how I paid $80 to finally evacuate my bowels in Sub-Saharan Africa. If you are not particularly fascinated by the human body's miraculous ability to alternately take on our daily abuses and thoroughly violate every ounce of free will we possess in the same turn, you are about to be incredibly unamused.

Here goes.

We find our heroine again just as she was on the brink of two revelations concerning life, the universe, and everything as well as the completely unannounced and involuntary urge of her own stomach to ring itself dry. So presented with the fast-approaching situation, we made a bee-line for the lean-to toilet to begin haggling with the restroom monitor over the price of admittance, from one Cedi (1.44 USD) just to have the opportunity and an additional four for the privilege of vomming in the entryway while trying to count change. The responsibility was thus handed off to Liz, much to the shock and dismay of the attendant.

I stumbled through shouts and drunks only to find the single (occupied) toilet. At least will power brought me that far, but chose to give out upon sight of the (unoccupied) shower stall next to it. This earned me more shouts accompanied by a surprise bowl of water emptied over my head with the request to sober up immediately. "I'm not drunk!" I pleaded, which is always the exact wrong thing to say to somebody who is also sober. "I just ate bad food!" Wrong again. More water.

I swatted the offender away, wild-eyed now with the next realization of many to follow that night that it was my opposite end's turn to speak its mind. I flung myself into the stall and slammed the door on the growing angry mob, praying between alternating sobs and farts. Graphic? You don't even know the half of it. At least now I know that my list of worst nightmares need no longer include food poisoning in the sketchiest restroom in Western Africa.

Liz was shouting outside now and let her in as we swatted away money-seeking hands. I don't even know what to say about the fact that this is the stuff of our best friendships. We celebrate our one-year anniversary in November. After swapping ends a few more times I give in to the pounding on the door and we wrestle through the crowd.

One taxi ride to a reputable hotel in Accra later, I indignantly tell the owner that he may absolutely not be allowed to rip me off for 110 USD - he'll only get me for a humble 70. We three crawled into the one queen sized bed, and I tried to be thankful for such low-maintainence travel companions. I woke up in the morning to Renee offering two bottles of water (the only clean water available), Aspirin and a sick bag for the ricketiest one hour bus ride back to port I've ever taken. I swear, it was as if the thing were built by the blind following Ikea instructions. Once back on ship I made my way to sick bay to find something that would help stem the flow. The nurse, apparently feeling a little under the weather herself, inquired about my most recent bowel movement - "Oh, about three minutes ago" - and the last time I hurled - "Just after I got on the bus. It's been an eventful day and it's only 11. On the bright side, this clears my two week-long constipation streak." "Girl, you and me both." Honestly, sometimes it's nice to know you're not the only one. I crawled miserably into bed with my five dollar Pepto Bismol tablet and discovered that today's looping childrens' movie was Matilda. Praise be.

You win this time Ghana, but I'll be back out with full force once I get off this damn toilet.