I just got back from a fabulous 2 week holiday in Vietnam. The Husband and I decided the kids were big enough for an Asian Adventure, so we packed our bags and set off.
Having travelled through South East Asia extensively in my younger years, I was excited to see what the kids made of the sights, smells and sounds of a busy city like Ho Chi Minh.
The first 24 hours were a bit crazy. We got used to walking our precious crotch spawn in front of hundreds of motor scooters and watched, spellbound, as they manoeuvred around us. Then there was an accidental trip to a fresh market where the kids watched chickens lose their heads, frogs squirming in a bowl with no skin, and various other creatures in their death throes in tubs on the side of the road. There were BBQ street food stalls on every corner, the alluring scent of the charcoal filling our lungs, along with the traffic fumes.
It was fabulous.
But traveling with two small children in Asia does mean some sacrifices to the things we would have done before having kids. Certain risks you’d take have to be considered carefully, or cancelled entirely. We were walking a tightrope of pushing them just hard enough for great learning experience, and not hard enough to ruin their holiday or traumatise them for life.
So it was decided I would do the street food scooter tour alone…..
The first stop was a place for some Bún bò Huế. Holy crap. Amazing. So simple and flavoursome.
The second stop was for some BBQ food including frog (jumping chicken, delicious), goat and seafood.
I was in heaven. The beers were flowing, the conversation was great, and the buzz of the street restaurants revived my younger traveller self and gave me a taste of my former life. Someone that had been buried in recent years by the responsibility and pressures of working life and parenthood.
The final stop is where I think things unravelled a bit. Though I can’t prove a thing, it was in “Mafia Town”, District 4, where things seemed just that little bit more sketchy and I was ushered across the streets by the more street-wise scooter hostesses.
It was here I ate the Balut Egg (duck foetus) that I claim is responsible for my recent, rapid, weight loss.
So what did it taste like? Well, the yolk tasted like a very rich egg yolk, and the rest of it tasted like sauce. I was a wee bit drunk by this stage (obviously) and I can’t say it was a memorable flavour. But I certainly wouldn’t describe it as gross.
Coming back to my apartment on the bike was a dream. Whizzing through the streets on the back of a scooter at night made me feel so alive! I was soaking up every second. Though my thrills were to be short lived.
The next morning as we left for Phu Quoc Island, my daughter shat her pants in reception. Unperturbed, I disposed of the decimated unmentionables and we pressed on. It was a sign of things to come….
By that evening I was losing my body weight in molten arse lava. It was shooting out of me with alarming force, but I still managed to indulge in my daily activities of not fucking much. But by day three, things were dire. The lava had turned to pure, fetid liquid, and was forcing itself from my sphincter like a fire hose on the hour every hour. Every ounce of my concentration was directed at controlling the relentless flow and ensuring it wasn’t up the walls of the bathroom or all over my back. All while playing it cool with the family. I certainly didn’t need any “I told you so’s” so early in our adventure.
I clenched on for dear life. Kicking myself that I had not packed some Vaseline.
Until I broke down in the lobby and begged for a doctor….. My asshole was burning like the charcoals I had been so enamoured with on the first day of our trip. It felt like Satan himself had breathed fire onto my leather cheerio.
The Drs wanted to put me on a drip, but I refused. Instead asking for “all the oral medication you can give me”. And that they did. By the next morning their concoctions of charcoal powder, probiotic solution and rehydration sachets had worked their magic. I was cured! And all for the princely sum of 3 Million Dong (roughly AU $180). Who cares, I was no longer shitting through the eye of a needle, and was at least a good 2kgs lighter.
So what’s the moral of the story? Was it the egg? Possibly. But then it could have been the ice, the salad, the many other meals I digested during my three days in Ho Chi Minh. It sure makes for a good story.
Fuck you travellers tummy. It’s everyones worst nightmare when visiting another country, but it needn’t be the end of your enjoyment. If, like me, you find yourself shooting a torrent of turd into the toilet bowl, just break out those insurance papers and get your fiery asshole to a Dr, pronto.
Liked it? Then you might like my range of hilarious gifts. Check them out! www.farkewemporium.com