20 years ago today – Day 267

Monday, November 25th – Esfahan

By late evening, before Vincent and Coen had gone to sleep, I was awake again and running to the toilet. I have lost count how many times I have gone to the toilet but it has been painful and torturous. I am shitting a black liquid with no solids in it. Vincent says it means I am shitting partially digested blood. If I was bleeding in my lower bowels it would be red, but a black colour means it is my small intestine that is bleeding. The blood has to travel the full length of my bowels, which is how it gets partially digested.

I feel like hell, but it gets much worse. I discover that my money belt, which I tucked away in my cycling handlebar bag yesterday before I went for a walk, is gone. I had left it there because our hotel looked so secure and I didn't feel like carrying it. My I'm panicking. Neither Coen nor Vincent has seen it and I remember clearly putting it where it no longer is. My head is screaming louder than my bowels.

I remember the young man who was repairing the faucet in the bathroom when I returned from my walk. Since I had only been gone a half hour I assume he must be the one who robbed me. I go to see the manager, Rashid, at the front desk, and he assures me he still has my passport. Thank gawd for that. He takes my information and tells me he will file a police report on my behalf.

I return to my room to use the toilet. Vincent and Coen are still there. They remind me that they are nurses in the Netherlands and explain that when the skin lining the small intestine has been destroyed or severely damaged I could shit water until I dehydrate and die, which is what happens when someone has cholera. They have brought small packets of salts and mineral supplements with them and they have been out to buy me two 2-litre bottles of water. They instruct me to drink a glass with a package of supplements every time I am sick. The supplements cause the water to be absorbed by my stomach instead of it racing right through me like a runaway train. Vincent says it's a good sign that I am shitting less and less, that the bleeding is slowing, but it will take a full week for the skin in my small intestine to grow back and re-establish my equilibrium. I shouldn't travel until it does. They tell me to rest as much as I can and then they leave to do some sightseeing with Stephen and Kate.

Rashid comes up to my room an hour later, after I have had two more visits to the can, and says the police would like me to come down to the station on Abas Adan St, half a kilometre away, to formally file my report. He apologizes again for this happening to me and when he sees the serious state of my health, he kindly offers me free accommodation in his hotel until I recover. He has told them the name and address of young man who was working on the faucet and they said they would question him. They have told Rashid to come down too, to make a statement, though we do not need to come together. I was afraid of this, in my condition, but of course it is necessary.

I make the trip to the station on my own two hours later, in the early afternoon, after my insides have settled down. I feel like Death warmed over. The police are extremely polite and apologize to me for what has happened. They offer to make me tea, but I explain that I am on a strict diet of water and Imodium. They understand what I mean and they nod with sympathetic looks.

Their kindness is juxtaposed by screams of pain coming from a man being tortured in a nearby room in the back of the station. One does not want to get into the police bad books in this country, which can happen quite easily, I have heard. I tell them what I know, that only my money belt has been stolen, and in it was my birth certificate, credit card, debit card, medical record and about US$150. The debit and credit cards are no good here so there is no threat of them being used. I need them for further withdrawals when I get to Pakistan though, if they can be recovered.

The screams coming from the back room keep interrupting my verbal report. The constable taking down my answers notices that they are upsetting me and suggests I might want to come back tomorrow when I am feeling stronger. I thank him for his consideration. What a weird situation to be in. Toto, we’re not in Toronto anymore!

I have managed the trip to and from the station and my hotel, half a kilometre each way, without an embarrassing “accident”. My long cotton pants are a pale blue colour so black liquid would have stood out very obviously. I have a few more bouts of diarrhea before the evening ends. They are becoming smaller, but if they don’t stop soon my anus will be bleeding too. I keep drinking the water and taking the supplement packages.

The Dutch boys come in and ask how I have managed. I tell them about the trip to the police station and that the bouts are slowly decreasing. They seemed relieved. I feel blessed by their support but that soon evaporates. Vincent tells me that since I am doing better he and Coen are leaving with Kate and Stephen tomorrow morning to continue on cycling through the cities of Yazd, Kerman and Bam south-east of here.

“Leaving?” I ask. “Didn’t you want to stay in Esfahan three days to see the sights?” Apparently, Kate wants to move on. She and Stephen have already been in Esfahan three days and they don’t care if we haven’t been, or that I am seriously sick. I am choked. I want to ask why he and Coen would abandoned me at this point of need to cycle with such a selfish people, but he isn’t asking my permission. They have already decided.

All my worst fears are coming true. I only have US$90 sewn behind a patch on one of my panniers and no way to procure more cash. The only Canadian government office in Iran is the embassy in Tehran, not here, and I am being abandoned while I am bleeding internally. My Iranian visitor visa will expire in ten days.

Vincent reassures me that we can meet up again in Zahedan, near the Pakistani border next weekend. I can fly there or take the train or bus the 1200 km. He has done his homework before speaking to me. The ticket is ridiculously cheap, less than $10 even by plane. I won’t be able to eat for a while and my accommodation is paid for so I should be able to manage on the little money I have, he tells me. He’s probably right, but if I do not reconnect with them in Zahedan I am truly fucked. I need to travel with them until I get to Quetta, the first large city in Pakistan, where I can access western banks again, and I may need their help getting a cash advance as my cards are gone. My reflex reaction is to get all negative and pouty, but I don’t dare give them any reason not to want to ride with me from Zahedan. I do my best to suffer my horror invisibly.

So I have more on my mind than just my intestines when I crawl into bed tonight. But instead of worrying about reconnecting in Zahedan next weekend, my mind drifts back to the screaming in the police station. What if the young man who stole my money belt was being tortured? I don’t think it was as it sounded like an adult man, not someone in his late teens, but I have heard reports of authorities here punishing thieves by cutting off their hands. The thought horrifies me. My small bit of cash certainly does not justify that, but they don’t play by my rules here. The last thoughts I remember before I fade into unconsciousness concern the young man’s whereabouts. He has such a sweet face.