Morocco III – Diary of a Bellyache

Well, it happened last night in the hostel, after being kept awake by a gaggle of Spaniards smoking and getting drunk in the room next to me (with shared ceiling space).

I woke up with a low rumble, an ominous squelching gurgle in the belly, then the sharp double-you-in-half pains. I calmly lay in bed until I thought it was time, then gathered my roll of toilet paper and keys and transported myself to the bathroom.

Each wave started with a feverish heat, then a cold sweat so intense I could feel drops of sweat beading on my forehead, upper-lip and stomach and trickling down my ribs.

When it was over I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a pale green waxen reflection.

I knew exactly what it was: a bottle of yoghurt I’d had that afternoon. I checked it was cold, I checked it was within due date and I bought it from a large, clean store. But the moral is you never can tell how dairy has been kept in transport.

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