Bangladesh: Mr. Creosote

I don't mind the long days without food. I don't mind siting in a car for an hour or two trying to race somewhere in Dhaka's gridlocked traffic only to find the address is incorrect. I don't mind the smog or the different standards of hygiene, even when we get stuck in traffic on a road with an overflowing sewer (every day). I don't mind eating or drinking the food and drink so politely offered by each host. Cockroaches don't bother me. You get used to the headaches.

But I did have to question my limits today. On one visit, I spent a couple of hours with the staff of a company while the owner (sadly afflicted with a stroke) was trying to talk to me in gibberish dotted with the occasional understandable word. Someone brought the usual plate of nibbles and a drink. After a while, I heard a sound like a cat about to be sick and he proceeded to vomit over the table next to me (within splash distance). 'That's unusual,' I thought. It wasn't so much the vomiting but the fact that the staff acted as if nothing had happened and left the poor chap for five minutes before someone produced a rag to clear up the mess, Mr. Creosote style.

Reflecting on the incident in the car, I realised I had eaten the same things as the unfortunate gentleman. My bottom was not impressed with the prospect.