Bladder Hell - Neil

The air conditioner is losing the battle with the sunshine and body heat creating a glassed-in sauna for the 30 of us suffering on this 10 hour “VIP” bus ride from Luang Prabang to Vientienne. Lush panoramic views of jungle and blue skies dotted with cotton-puff clouds and waterfalls taunt those of us trapped in the convection oven. My bladder is inconsolate. The bus yaws and pitches and rolls about like a mechanical bull pitching our anatomies and jostling all the fluid in us that hasn’t already turned to sticky sweat. The harmonics of the bus set up no soothing rhythm. No comfort or pleasure that might be found on the back of a galloping horse or the cadence of a train. Instead dissonance prevails – bones are jarred, the head is rocked about, and my bladder is squashed and pressed on every inopportune bounce. The onboard bathroom, which one of the passengers now staggers towards, is only a different type of sensory torture. One man pitches down the stairs towards it as the bus lurches. On the previous 4 hour stint I myself braved that bathroom journey and stench. Standing , as men often do, I found continence had gripped me. One needs safety – a calm moment for the body to relax and let the fluids flow, and with my head banging into the 10” too-low ceiling and the bus lurching me about from side to side that calm, reflective moment never came . I lowered the toilet seat which slid off the perch as the hinges had long since rusted through. Replacing it I eventually eeked out the contents of my wary bladder, but by then my stomach was churning with nausea from riding backwards in this smelly cubical. So now I sit – inwardly peevish, outwardly stoic. Asking the childhood question “ARE WE THERE YET?” I check my watch again – surely there is only a little more to endure. Sadly only ten minutes have passed since last check. Five more hours to go.


Eplilogue: We reached the guesthouse and both of us were pleased with our clean Western style non-lurching toilet. h