On my way to meet my good friend. I’m sick, so sick; the world is passing by. I manage to look out, it’s beautiful. I want to be in it, but I am too delirious. I pass out. An hour later I wake up, still a couple of hours away from a long awaited rendez vous with my good friend. I waddle out to a pit hole lavatory; I see my feces is transparent. I am sick, no doubt about it. I heard a French speaking voice next to me and quickly grabbed the elderly man by his shirt, pointed to the man with the glowing red stomach on the packet I received at the roadside chemist a couple of days earlier. I guess it was the closest the clerk could find to the hand signals I made, attempting to describe my condition; diarrhoea. The man understood looked kindly at me as I asked him to translate the hopefully healing words; written on this glossy plastic canister in his native languag. He uttered a careful “For when you can not go to toilet, laxative no?” in a very distinct and cautious French-Anglo accent.