How crackhouseceilidhband got into The Guardian for the wrong reasons
Libya, Christmas 2004. I was there doing some work which involved poking around at old rocks and the suchlike. On Christmas Eve we took a short trip to the Ubari sand sea to play in the dunes. I was a tad distracted as I felt a little queasy. I dismissed it, ran through the sand as the sun set, then returned to the camp for dinner.

At midnight the trouble started. I found myself vomiting copiously into a cracked bucket while hovering over a squat toilet unable to halt the flow of shit. TMI? It gets a lot worse. Also, bear in mind I was staying in a hut of sorts with sporadic electricity, an even more sporadic water supply, an average nightly temperature of around 1 degree celsius, and a phenomenal amount of mosquitos.

For three long days I spent my time running from mosquito-net-draped mattress to dodgy toilet and bucket, expelling bile and excrement of Type 7 on the Bristol Stool Scale. I was weak, burning, cold and really tired. Every ounce of strength was mustered to stop myself from just lying in a bed of my own filth. I was very, very ill. I couldn't even keep water in me.

On the fourth day one of my colleagues insisted I go to hospital. I was bundled into the back of a pick-up truck and driven on pothole-laced roads to the next town (miles away...) to a near-empty room with just a desk and a distinguished looking man in it. Our translator told me to give my name, my father's name and my husband's name. I could answer the first two at least but couldn't be arsed to make up an imaginary husband. The doctor looked at me for a moment, muttered something about amoebic dysentry, scribbled something on a scrap of paper, and handed it to our translator. He ushered me back to the pick-up and we drove to the nearby pharmacy, a small, badly shelved room in the next village.

I sat, weakly shivering in the pick-up as the translator went to pick up the drugs. I had lost over a stone in weight by this time, and there's not that much of me to begin with. I was also trying not to boke - or worse - in the pick-up.

The translator returned bearing a plastic bag which he triumphantly handed over to me. It was full of syringes. I blanched, wondered how the hell one actually administers injections, and then politely asked if I could have the tablets instead. He returned a few moments later with three different medications - an antibiotic, something to stop the pain and a third drug with the name "Spasmopan". I kid you not. I didn't care how ill I felt, I was not taking anything called Spasmopan.

For three more days I repeated the cycle of shit-vomit-sleep (sometimes achieving all three at once). I found that the only thing I could consume was halal chicken stock cubes, which were fortunately in plentiful supply. One fateful night I left the toilet having spewed my guts up into the leaky bucket while shitting dirty water, preparing to return to my germy bed. As I went to flush the toilet I found that the water supply had gone off. In my shivery state I did the only thing I could think of - I wrote a note saying "Please flush this! Do not look!". The next day I was thrilled to discover that one of my workmates had flushed it... but he gleefully informed me that he'd had a quick peek as well.

I flew home early as I was so utterly weakened. I still wasn't fit to travel but what BA didn't know wouldn't harm them. On returning, I went to my doctor and relayed my tale. I showed him the drugs I'd been given. He laughed and said "No, dear. We don't use those in Europe". He requested a stool sample. Now, no one ever tells you how best to provide this, but here's my top tip: use an old takeaway container in the toilet.

A week later I found out I had contracted the cryptosporidium parasite. It's a bugger to get rid off. The crowning glory was when, two days later, I received a letter from the Council telling me I was banned from all their swimming pools for two weeks. The only thing to top that was the trip I'd been on got a write up in the Guardian and my contribution - my named contribution as a leading researcher - was listed as me having contracted cryptosporidiosis. Er, thanks.

And here's the Spasmopan:

( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:31, 12 replies)

...
Reading this makes my nose cold.

*click*
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:34, closed)

wants
spasmopan.

hard
(Halfy By light alone, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:44, closed)

^
Well, there's 20 tablets left and they don't expire 'til June.
( crackhouseceilidhband Fuck off back to Mumsnet, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:47, closed)

.
Top dieting tips - thanks ;-)
(Biff..., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 15:54, closed)

My worst nightmare ....
I had a similar experience although no-where near as bad as yours and I was in the comfort of my own bed. To suffer that in a third world country with no proper bed or toilet facilities, *shudders*

Although my dopey sister left me for half the day, in my bed, unable to move and with only a glass of water to re-hydrate myself. I had to crawl on my hands and knees to the bathroom to get more water. I got her back though by shitting the bed on several occasions and she had to clean up. Ha.
( girlinthehole, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:02, closed)

Crypto
Nasty. Mrs fireflier worked for a number of years doing analytical work for the local water board (as was). This was kind of the biggie that they really didn't like seeing.

TRUFAX

A sewage works which is working properly doesn't smell. If it does, the bacteriological balance is wrong.
( Fireflier La la la la, not listening on, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:03, closed)

I'm not sure...
...if it was the fact your story featured a word with 'spas' in it, or the true horror of your trip - but have a *clicky* for your tale.
(Nogin the Nog is the good one! Beware Nogbad the Bad!, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:05, closed)

Lawks-a-lordy!
That is just about my #1 worst nightmare. I feel a bit sick now.

*click* :)
( Devil_In_Tights the *real* DiT!, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:41, closed)

.
That's even worse than my own exploding bum in a third world country stories. Have a click.
( mistaspakkaman and the inedible shifting caterpillars, Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:47, closed)

Should I really be clicking 'I like this'?
I have anyway, but poor you...
( Davros' Granddad a voice of calm reason in a world of spastics., Thu 27 Mar 2008, 16:56, closed)

i remember
an episode of forensic detectives/diagnosis unknown that focused on cryptosporidium in the town's water supply. the council knew all about it, but hid it because they didn't want to pay for new equipment.
( Smash Monkey lowering the tone of the whole internet, Fri 28 Mar 2008, 17:43, closed)

^^
em, last summer in Galway the entire city's waterworks had cryptosporidium. for about 4 months. and the city knew there was a danger about it for years but didn't want to pay for new equiptment.
(electrogirl no one thinks about the implications of a clown su, Sat 29 Mar 2008, 0:30, closed)