On what was meant to be our last night in Phnom Penh, T and I decided to go to a local Indian restaurant for dinner. BIG MISTAKE. I had a mango lassi, and we shared two dishes for dinner. As soon as I tasted the lassi, my brain said something was wrong, but my stomach overruled it, crying, “ME LIKEY THE LASSI! LASSI BE GOOD!” As you can see, my stomach is not as wise as my brain, and it soon paid the price.

I awoke the next morning with my first case of Delhi Belly. I had not expected it to come in Cambodia, but there you have it. It started with some truly disgusting burps that tasted like rotten egg, and progressed from there. T took one look at me and made an executive decision to stay in Phnom Penh and not get the bus to Kampot. He went downstairs to speak to our friend at the front desk, who kindly changed our tickets despite the fact that we were supposed to be leaving in an hour.

It was a full 48 hours before I could even consider eating another meal, and two more days in the beautiful Relax Guesthouse (I have never been so grateful for good cable in my life). I spent most of the time moaning about how stupid I was to stop taking my digestive supplements and swearing to take them every day to follow. T was the best nurse ever, going out to buy me some crackers and 47 cans of Sprite, and not kicking me in the head for ruining our plans. This is why I married this man.

I don’t ever want to eat Indian food again. That could be a problem in about two weeks.