Amoeba’s Revenge

One of the little control mechanisms that we take for granted is our body’s ability to poop at will. More importantly to not poop at any given point. Fortunately the default mode is set to not poop. Even while we are sleeping, the mechanism is firmly in control.
So here we are on the Mayan Riviera for the eight time. The sand is so white that they don’t recommend bringing a white towel because it will get lost. I am aware that in a third world country, you must always be careful to wash the fruit and veggies with agua purificato. I also know that when a knife pierces through the skin of a mango, it will transfer any amoebic impurities to the inside of the mango. These nasty little amoebas seem to have a preference for careless tourists, leaving everyone else entirely alone. I think they resent non locals invading their gorgeous beaches, or perhaps they take morbid pleasure in luring their hapless victims by the warm Caribbean breeze after a soggy cold Vancouver winter.
It’s 4:28AM and I’m convinced that the human body is made up of 99% poop, held together by a thin coating of skin. I never realized that such a volume of brown stuff could ever come from such a nice guy. When all else fails, and the hapless tourist determines to lay on the beach and enjoy their well deserved holiday in spite of a raging case of amoebic dysentery, the amoebas pull out their ultimate weapon. They mess with the default settings on your “do not poop” mechanism. I will never again take for granted my body’s ability to not poop until I give it permission to.
God has so wonderfully arranged our body to function perfectly. The arrogance of youth and atheists, who think they are invincible, nothing can hinder them until a tiny amoeba messes with their body. We walk a thin tight rope of good health, and I thank God for every day I’m not pushing up daisies. We can endure pain, a lot of pain, but when we don’t feel well it really goes to our head. One day we can feel on top of the world, the next day we can feel like we’re dying. The psychological effect of our insides all coming out doesn’t help matters either.
Back in Vancouver, the water is soft and clean. Rolls of 80 grit sandpaper do not mistakenly get sold as toilet paper. My memories of all that attracted me to Tulum, Mexico has faded into the distant past. I’m at home now. All is well.

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