Food Poisoning

Food poisoning is something that as a PCV you just kind of expect to encounter sooner or later. The change in diet alone can be enough to make a person sick, not to mention that once in awhile the veggies could use a little more washing and sometimes that boiled chicken hasn’t been boiled quite long enough. I got sick for the first time within 48 hours of arriving in the country, but besides that and a couple isolated incidents during training, I had been reasonably healthy for the past 4 months. That was until I shared this fact with one of my Ecuadorian friends and made the foolish mistake of not knocking on wood. I soon found myself laying in a strange bed, surrounding by Ecuadorians, throwing up what seemed to be everything I had eaten in the past year.

**12 hours earlier**

It was Sunday afternoon and my friend, Paola, and I were making are usual trip to the market to buy groceries to make lunch. Even on the hottest of days, Ecuadorians love them some soup. We were buying chicken, cilantro, rice, carrots, potatoes, and onion to make an Ecuadorian version of chicken and rice soup. Since the soup takes awhile to make, I picked up some mini-mangoes to eat while we were waiting. We ate lunch with Paola’s entire family and then the two of us went our separate ways for the rest of the afternoon. I went to the internet café to get my Facebook and Skype fix, and Paola went to run a few errands.

Later that evening, Paola called me up to see if I wanted to meet her for batidos, which are a 50 cent delicious cross between a milkshake and a smoothie, and number 4 on my top 5 list of things I love about Ecuador. I answered her with an enthusiastic “yes,” when I realized that my stomach was not sharing my excitement. A little worried at first, I blew it off thinking that my stomach would change its bad attitude once it actually saw the batidos. When we go to the batido stand, however, my stomach’s attitude only got worse.

“What kind do you want?” Paola asked me.

“Um…I don’t think I’m going to get one.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not feeling the best.”

“A batido will make you feel better.” She joked.

“I think I need to lay down.”

Paola ordered an Oreo flavored batido, which is usually my favorite. Now looking at it I saw something that was no more desirable than a plastic cup full of seaweed. I scolded my stomach for being so rude.

Since Paola’s house was only a block away, she insisted that I go there to lay down. At this point I was feeling so uncomfortable I couldn’t even politely decline twice, with the intention to accept on the third offer. You know, the thing we do in the States when somebody offers to pick up the bill for lunch.

“Its on me.”

“No way!”

“Come on, let me get the bill.”

“I don’t think so, buddy!”

“Really its no big deal.”

“Well, if you insist…”

I got to Paola’s house, laid down, and assumed the fetal position. I began to mentally list everything I had consumed that day. Yogurt and granola for breakfast, 2 juice boxes, chicken and rice soup, and 3 mini-mangoes. The soup was more than likely my culprit. I asked for a bucket. Lunch’s chicken soup made it’s first appearance.

There are few things more uncomfortable than throwing up. I would say that breaking a bone, losing a limb, and getting electrocuted are among those few things. What made this episode even more uncomfortable for me was the fact that I knew the whole neighborhood could hear me. Literally. It wasn’t long until a few neighbors stopped by to see what all of the commotion was about.

“What’s wrong with you?”

For some strange reason I was not in the mood to answer questions.

“She’s sick.” Paola answered for me.

“Well, what did you eat?”

I would rather not think about what I ate right now, thank you.

“Granola, yogurt, soup…” Whether it was the soup that had upset my stomach or not, my brain had already labeled it guilty and collaborated with the rest of my body to get rid of it. Consequently, just mentioning what I had eaten for lunch was enough to start “chicken and rice soup” round two. The neighbor’s didn’t excuse themselves or look away, but rather politely waited for me to finish so that I could answer their question.

“So what did you eat again?”

Get out.

“Mangoes.”

“Mangoes!? Well there you go!” Said the woman from next door. “It was the mangoes!”

It seemed weird to me that the mangoes would get blamed over the soup.

The other two neighbors nodded their heads in agreement and then as if all they had come to do was solve the case of ´What Made the Gringa Sick,´ they told me to feel better, and left.


The across the street neighbors were next. A young woman and her two little boys. The woman had a pill of some sort in her hand.

“Hey Jennifer,” she spoke quietly as if I were sleeping and she needed to wake me up. “what did you eat today?”

DON´T make me think about the soup.

“Mangoes.”

She nodded her head knowingly.

“Here,” she handed me the pill in her hand. “this will make you feel better.”

Excuse me ma’am, are you a doctor?

“Thank you.” I took the pill from her. The thought of taking it upset my stomach. More chicken and rice soup.


The two children held on to their mother’s hands and stared at me without blinking. I muttered something in English. One of the boys let go of his mom’s hand and ran out of the house. I imagined that he was probably informing the neighborhood that not only was the gringa sick, but now she was speaking in tongues as well. The mother and her other child wished me well and left.


My friend told me that I needed to drink some tea and offered to make me some. The absolute last thing I wanted to do at this point was smell tea let alone actually put some of it in my stomach. I refused the tea as politely as I could, but she insisted and left the room.


Shortly after Paola left, her mother came into the room. She was walking fast as if she were a busy doctor making an urgent house call. She also had something in her hand.

“I heard you were sick.” Word was spreading quickly. “What did you eat?”


I put the saddest look on my face that I could come up with and just shook my head as if to say ‘I’m really too sick to answer that question, you can stand there and feel sorry for me, but no questions please.’ Paola’s mother didn’t wait for an answer. She flipped me onto my back and lifted my shirt up. Before I had a chance to protest, she opened a jar of something that smelled exactly like Vick’s VapoRub and began to rub it all over my stomach. “Its menthol,” she explained, “this will make you stop vomiting.” I forced a smile. “I’ll check on you in an hour.” She said as she screwed the lid back on the jar and walked out the door.


I laid there next to a bucket of chicken and rice soup, shirt halfway up, reeking of Vick’s. I was wondering who would come next, and what remedy they would offer, when Paola returned with my tea.


“Absolutely not.” My stomach said.

I agreed.

“I can’t drink that.”

“Come on, just drink a little, you will feel better.”

“No.”


I didn’t want to be rude, but I just couldn’t help it. I had been throwing up for about 4 hours now and felt like I was almost done. That tea was going to make it start all over again. My friend looked hurt. I thought about how she had walked all the way over to her mother’s house to use the stove because she didn’t own one herself. She had walked over there, made a cup of tea just for me, and now I was refusing to drink it. I took the tea from her hand and lifted it to my mouth. The smell made me nauseous. I looked at Paola who’s face encouraged me to “just take a sip.” I took a sip. My stomach was not happy, but did not reject the tea right away. A half-hour probably passed before I got the entire cup of tea down, and about 15 more minutes passed before the entire cup of tea came back up. I was frustrated. I thought about how if I was sick back home my mom would offer me Saltine crackers and a Sprite. If I didn’t want to take them right away it would be fine, and people would not watch me puke. I missed that. But then I thought about how my friend had given up her bed to me without a second thought. I thought about how everyone wanted to help however they could (granted I’m sure they were enjoying the show), whether it was by making me some tea, giving me a mysterious pill, covering me in an Ecuadorian version of Vick’s, or taking their best shot at a diagnosis. I thanked my friend for the tea (she didn’t see me throw it up) and tried to go to sleep. I thought about how I would never again a) brag about being healthy, and b) forget to knock on wood if I did.


I have finally moved into my new apartment, and its very nice to have my own space. My host mother and I didn´t really see eye-to-eye on the whole moving out thing, and haven´t really talked since. I plan on bringing a Christmas present over to her as a peace offering, so wish me luck with that. I will put up pictures of my new place soon.

I would like to thank everyone who participated in the "What Kind of Poop is It?!" competition. (And by everyone, I mean my brother and my dad) After a lot of careful consideration, I would like to announce my brother, Scott, and my dad (who guessed lizard and moth larvae, respectively) as the winners. The two of them will receive the afore mentioned all expense paid trip to Ecuador (restrictions apply) as well as my unconditional love and affection. Thanks for playing!