Royal Flush

Once in my life I believe I did have a punt on the Melbourne Cup, I have put no more than a sum total of $20 into pokie machines, and I don't adhere to a set of lotto numbers, so it is with no confidence whatsoever that I will hereby claim to know that the 'Royal Flush' is the hand which poker players dream to receive, the top of the pile which defeats all its opponents.

I do however, understand with painful accuracy that a 'Royal Flush' of a different sort can be caused by some unseen bacterial army marching into my alimentary canal, planting their flag and proceeding to defeat all of its opponents, in this case the rather flimsy defence that my rapidly weakening body can muster. Recently in Jakarta, both Lain and I succumbed to the onslaught of bacteria that teemed in the unsanitary street stalls from which we were receiving our daily repast. At the time, and up until that point our bodies being in relatively plump, good health, it took us both a full week to recover while limiting our daily output to stumbling down the hotel stairs for breakfast. Now, after several months of relying on two minute noodles to provide us with the energy we require to paddle heavy boats into headwinds for many hours, in the tropical heat, each day our bodies are somewhat depleted of their 'safety margin' and the defences within are sadly running low. 

In Indonesian houses the toilet is slightly different to that which we, in the western world, are more accustomed to. The bowl itself is the Asian style, squat toilet, or more precisely, a hole in the ground. Toilet paper is absent, along with other advances in modern technology such as a flushing cistern. A large rectangular tub, or Mandi, holding perhaps 200L of water is built-in, or in more luxurious establishments is a sawn-off plastic barrel, beside and within easy reach of the bowl or the person squatting above it. Floating in this Mandi is a small plastic scoop with a handle not unlike a large measuring cup and it is with a well-practiced slosh into the bowl with this scoop, and a deft wipe with the left hand, that any soiled areas of ones privates are wiped clean after a visit to the kamar kecil, literally, the 'little room'. The scoop is then used to pour water into the bowl several times in an attempt to wash away the remains of one's visit. 

This rather full explanation of Indonesian plumbing is included here to give the reader some appreciation for the horror we experienced recently when we learnt that the only 'fresh' water we would be able to procure at the small village from which we desperately needed a re-supply, was directly from the Mandi of the ramshackle shop that was supplying us with far from satisfactory supplies for our continuing adventure. Using the same scoop into which so many unsanitary hands had placed themselves I tentatively poured the somewhat dubious liquid into every single one of our water bags, the liquid that was to keep us alive and paddling for the next week. 

It is without exception that every drop since that day has been boiled on our trusty stove, or upon a campfire along some deserted beach, but I continue to have my doubts that even after several rinses with sea water and other 'clean' supplies that our water bags still harbour small battalions of determined bacteria. Perhaps I should not have been surprised when one such force, undoubtedly trained by the SAS of the bacterial elite, snuck behind enemy lines (that of my body's sleeping defences) to mount a full scale war upon my alimentary canal. 

Again running extremely short of water and other supplies, we did not have the luxuries available to us that we found so essential when inflicted in such a way in Jakarta, and despite my body's obvious opposition, we proceeded to paddle fifty kilometres over the next day and a half to again top up on essential supplies (we were down to our last litre of water when we finally found the village that was nowhere near our map suggested it would be).

It was with utter exhaustion that we finally pulled up in a suitable place to rest, well away from the constant barrage of staring locals, for a chance to recuperate, and to give the antibiotics that I am now pumping into my system a chance to hurl a few scud missiles in the direction of the SAS. We have a couple of hundred kilometres to paddle before we'll need to race off for another visa run, and if it gives us a chance to top our bodies up with a few good meals, then it can't come soon enough. At least then Lain might stop referring to me, describing my cadaver-like appearance, as 'The Coat-hanger'.

Photo: Lain drinking in some healthy goodness, and hoping it it clean!