We were having dinner in Managua at a churrasco place, and the first of about 6 earthquakes to hit that night start when I'm about to put a tasty bite of puyaso in my face.
The low gutteral moan and the crescendo, and I'm up and ready to bolt out the open-air window…
It startled me with immediate stomach pains, and I know tummy troubles are on the way.
Earthquakes tell us what? That yes, indeed, my diarrhea problems are immediately and directly related to stress.
I didn't think I was, but clearly: I'm stressed out about being in an earthquake like the 1972 quake that killed 22,000 or some odd people, with a fault line in the city.
Kellan leaves to take our guests to their hotel, and I've got about 5 minutes only to kill before he shows back up with the car.
“We have to go the gas station. Right now.”
We cross, and the security guard informs us “You can't go inside, there is an earthquake.” There is a silent “you idiots” implied.
No option left, says Yaci's Mom, but to go poop behind the well-lit gas station, on a road that directly faces about 10 people who are now sitting out side their house in fear of it crumbling, and will be there the entire duration of the night.
They stand to block me and I crouch down behind that well-lit station and try to do my best at speed-peeing in this scenario.
“Well, that was awesome,” I say as I get up, and am thankful again I had some tissues in my pocket.
Back at home, I make it to the bathroom once before the 6.2 Richter-scale quake hits and I run like a ninja (it's true, Yaci's mom said so!) out into the street.
I'm the ass that has to go inside while the entire block is pulling out plastic chairs to hunker down for the night in the street… to go pee.
Earthquake three—this time louder—while I'm on the toilet and I have to wipe in record time and flee.
I brought the TP with me, but announce: “Listen, I'm going back in. I'm not willing to poop outside in the street with 100 people unless there is actually an earthquake, at that moment.”
I have so many terrible poop stories from Nicaragua.
Why not add another one?
One day, I will write that book: Traveling Poop is the S--t. I will.
Everyone has tragedies of the lower intestine. I have much much worse. What are yours?