Jet lag, foreign cuisines and crowded trains:
“Traveling and constipation are good bedfellows,”
said no one ever, but should have.

It was my fourth day in Beijing without going number two. That’s four days of breakfast, lunch, dinner, some snacks, some drinks, all backed up and getting weird in thirty feet of cramped intestines. I had experienced backups in my travels, but ninety-six hours was ridiculous.

I was visiting China to carry out a rejected Fulbright/National Geographic fellowship. I had intended to spend nine months studying Traditional Chinese Medicine—a broad range of 2,000-year-old medical practices—but when my proposal didn’t make the cut I told my host advisor, Dr. Peicheng Zhang at the Institute for Materia Medica in Beijing, that I was coming anyway.

By the second day in Beijing, I had adjusted to the deep stares my “blue eyes and yellow hair” were attracting, the city’s frenetic pace, weaving mopeds and flashing stores with staff shouting discounts through headset microphones, but the food still vexed me. The dishes I was eating from curbside vendors were going into my body, but not coming out, dropping into a seemingly bottomless pit of tangled noodles.

I was sightseeing when I felt those got-to-go pangs and scurried for a public bathroom. When I reached a stall, I fumbled with my belt and surveyed my surroundings. There was a sharp, foul odor and a glistening yellow stream at my feet, evidence of poor aim. Near the door was a cylindrical trash can topped-off with dirty toilet paper. Since the plumbing in China isn’t robust enough to transport paper, you don’t flush it, you store it. With everyone else’s. I eyed the trash can and imagined what creatures were bedding down in its filthy ecosystem: parasites, bacteria, Velociraptors.

 No, I thought. There will be no pooping today.

You might think my GI tract sent side-splitting pain signals to my brain, forcing a bowel movement, despite my mind’s resistance. Perhaps there was a gaseous ejection, a shot across the bow, if you will? Maybe an accident?

No. My brain and bowels concurred.

And I held it.

With such Zen-like control over my colon, I predicted that I could go days, even weeks without defecating. I might never have to go again, I thought, and continued with my fellowship studies.

My Beijing guide was a soft-spoken medicinal chemist named Ziming who met me at my hostel and taxied us to his lab at the Institute for Materia Medica. Waiting for us in Dr. Zhang’s office were watermelon and grapes, which we munched on before Dr. Zhang, a quiet but brilliant man, joined us to discuss his lab’s research that involved extracting and analyzing natural compounds from medicinal plants and herbs.

After the interview, the three of us joined other postdocs at the communal ping pong table, where Ziming, paddle in hand, told me that he had read my Fulbright proposal and said he would be honored to take me to pharmacies, hospitals, institutes and universities that practiced or studied Traditional Chinese Medicine.

The Zhang lab took me out to dinner for traditional Beijing cuisine later that night. We used hot water to wash our chopsticks and plates, and then the table filled with white rice, vegetables and various meats, followed by the main dish: succulent Peking duck, which was crispy on the outside, juicy on inside, and came with the warning, “Once bitten, forever smitten.”

I spent two more days crisscrossing Beijing with Ziming, visiting Tongrentang, a traditional herbal pharmacy, and then the Hospital of Acupuncture of Moxibustion, where I underwent acupuncture with a traditional doctor.

I said goodbye to the Zhang lab and was waiting for a train in a crowded terminal when I realized that my insides had become bunched-up like the travelers around me vying for exits. I admitted that there was nothing Zen about my perceived control over my bowels. Like everyone else, I was a slave to the meals I had eaten 48 hours prior.

Truth be told, Nature had been calling all along, and I wasn’t going because I was afraid: Of the parasites, the bacteria, the raptors. I knew the constipation had to stop and the train station was my Waterloo.

I hustled into the station’s bathroom, opened a stall door and locked eyes with a Chinese man hovering over a squat toilet. He glanced up from his cell phone, a cigarette dangling from his lips, a blank expression on his face. Oops, sorry. The next stall was vacant and I squeezed my 40-pound backpack into the narrow space.

I hung my pack on the door and frowned at the trash can. As I took a deep breath, I told myself there weren’t prehistoric beasts scratching at the trash can’s interior. I hovered over the squat toilet and reminded myself that the only poop to fear was poop itself.

And I went.

I took a seat on the train, a decidedly lighter human being, and watched the countryside rush by until I arrived five hours later in Xi’an in Central China. As I walked the city’s Muslim Quarter, I thought about Chinese medicine, which is based on the notion of harmony and balance. I had been decidedly out of balance in Beijing – and backed up as a result. Perhaps it was jetlag, or the city’s wild pace, or the stress of the reporting duties I had imposed on myself as a writer. Either way, I was intent on regaining my balance and decided to avoid major cities for the next two weeks. I continued south by train, trading the city’s congested alleyways for the wide open spaces of the Yunnan Province.

In China’s Guangxi region, I avoided a bus from Guilin to Yangshuo, opting instead to float down the Li River on a bamboo raft. On the shuttle bus to the river, I was tapped on the shoulder by Jenny, a third-year college student from the Guangdong province. We chatted through slow, choppy English and became fast friends. We shared a bamboo raft and gazed in awe at the breathtaking karst peaks hugging the tranquil Li River.

From the raft, Jenny and I watched fishermen snag fish with cormorants. We took pictures atop the 600-year-old Dragon Bridge. Later, we spent the night strolling through the buzzing streets of Yangshuo. My stomach grumbled as restaurant staff hounded us along walkways, pointing at enticing dishes on laminated menus, which displayed main courses of fish stews brewed in spices and vegetables.

“Maybe we take a table?” Jenny offered.

“Absolutely,” I said.


這是我在中國的第四天,還沒有好好地“嗯嗯”。 四天的早餐、午餐、晚餐,還有小食與飲料,全堵在三十英尺長的腸子裏,讓人不舒服。以前的旅行我也時有便秘,但這次在中國連續96個小時的便秘是很誇張的。














其實,我一直是需要大便的,只是因為恐懼寄生蟲、細菌和迅猛龍而沒有順其自然。我知道我一定不能再便秘下去,而車站就是我的滑鐵盧 。





在中國廣西,我避開了從桂林到陽朔的公共汽車,選擇在漓江乘坐竹筏。在去往漓江的專線大巴上,Jenny 拍了拍我的肩膀,她是一位從廣東來的大三學生。我們憑借著緩慢的、無條理的英語交流很快成為了朋友。我們一起坐竹筏,凝望寧靜的漓江,對高聳入雲的喀斯特地貌驚嘆不已。

在竹筏上,Jenny 和我看到了漁夫用鸕鶿捕魚。我們在有600年歷史的龍橋上拍照。夜晚則是在熙熙攘攘的陽朔街道上散步。我的肚子有些餓,此時正好有餐廳服務生招呼我們入店用餐,並將滿是誘人菜肴的菜單展示給我們看,裏面有放了辣椒和蔬菜的燉菜魚。

“我們也許可以找張桌子坐下來。”Jenny 提議。

Dustin Grinnell is a writer based in Southern California. He enjoys telling true stories with the imaginative flair of fiction. His travel essays have appeared in such publications as Outside Online, The Boston Globe, The Washington Post, The Philadelphia Inquirer, Salon, Travelmag, The Expeditioner, Living Now and Verge Magazine. He is also the author of the sci-fi adventure novels, The Genius Dilemma and Without Limits. You can check out his work at, or follow him on Instagram @dustingrinnell.”

Dustin Grinnell 是一位來自南加利福尼亞州的作家。他很喜歡通過小說講故事,天生想象力豐富。他的旅行文字時常刊登在 Outside Online、《波士頓環球報》、《華盛頓郵報》、The Philadelphia Inquirer、《沙龍》、Travelmag、The Expeditioner、Living Now 和 Verge Magazine。他也是一位科幻冒險小說作家,著有 The Genius DilemmaWithout Limits。可登陸 Dustin Grinnell 的個人網站 或者關註他的 Instagram @dustingrinnell,了解他的更多作品。