When you have diarhhea really bad, you'll be laying there in bed or sitting or walking, and a mass of foulness somewhere near the end of your small intestine will say, "Well, we're leaving. Now. You have 15 seconds." Now, of course mother nature gave us all a doorman to help too many guests from leaving without one's making ample preparations for their reception outside the house. And I have a strong doorman, experienced and hardy. But for these particular guests, he has to call in favors from other muscles around the entire campus. So yes, if I can't make it to the crapper on time, you'll see me leaning against a tree or what-have-you, one leg bent, my face red, and muscles from the arches of my feet to the front of my torso to the back of my neck joining the struggle.

So then I make it to the toilet, after the mass has been turned back, broken some furniture and gone back for more reinforcements. I have been provided with a hole the size of an orange in which to deposit my guests. And when the blast radius is closer to the size of a smallish frisbee, so that even when I grab onto something and attempt to lower my ass closer to the dirt, let's just say that unlike Elvis Costello, my aim is RARELY true. After all, it's not as if I'm dealing with a high-precision instrument.

On their way out, they leave comments: "The DJ stinks, the CD's keep skipping, those assholes from Pasadena are drunk and making a mess, and you're out of fiber." I say, "Right. Thanks." They smash their beer bottles on the ground as the one in front goes, "Taxi!"

***

As you may have deduced, I've moved out to the village. I sleep on my thermarest on the ground under a net, I cook over coals, I walk about 45 minutes to the nearest market, I draw my water from a well, I listen to my short-wave radio and burn a lot of candles at night. Not really a big deal. Like I said back in the Bangladesh days, these things take a few days to get used to. They're not the hard things--they're the romantic things.

***

Biglongthing: My visa. They're giving me trouble with the next phase of it: The temporary residence permit. After the first 90 days you need one. For some inexplicable reason, my application's been rejected. So I've been calling in favors from friends of friends (the third-world way of getting stuff done when you need to make everyone play nicely). Peter says that when I meet with one of the contacts, I'll need to provide something, a token to make sure they know I appreciate what they're doing for me, and to make them more amicable towards me and my situation. He suggests a bottle of Fanta.

and I laughed.