I Took My Crotch on Holiday to Asia
By: Robert Turner
Tags: Humor, Travel, Travel Tips, Ásia, Lighterside

I had survived and thrived in Asia for nearly a year, battled the snakes, beaten off the mosquitos, drunk the water and had developed a tan that would have made a Baywatch extra jealous. I stood mighty and I stood proud. Foreigner 1 – Tropics 0. Little did I know.

Lurking in my shorts, yes, my shorts, was a little friend that had moved in, apparently with a long term rental in mind. Take a bow, the humble fungi, invisible to the naked eye but a silent killer. Live with this little microscopic menace for long enough and death by your own hand soon becomes the only logical choice.

We shall refer to my nemeses only in the plural, they never travel alone. The fungi and I first met on a trip to a remote village, situated in deepest, darkest Asia. Very hot and very humid or very wet and very humid. Never cold, always humid. God saves the delights of cold weather for Westerners.

Yes, I probably should have showered more frequently and washed my hands in battery acid before attempting to remove the offending visitors with fingernails and vigorous scratching motions. In my defense, the village wasn’t big on running water and hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Folds in skin, areas that rarely see the light of day.

For those of you that are squeamish, look away now because it’s going to get a little graphic. Sadly, the story demands it. The exact location of the fungi’s home of choice is key to both the story and your future safety. Eyes closed? Okay, here goes, I’ll try and keep it as clean as possible.

Fungi love warm, damp places. Places that tend to stay warm and damp. Folds in the skin, areas that rarely see the light of day. They aren’t particular fussed about a breeze or the fragrance of their environment, as long as it’s damp. I cannot stress this enough. Damp is the fungi’s friend, not yours.

They are insidious, deviously sneaky, and completely invisible to the naked eye. Ninjas of the tropics. Silent and deadly visitors from hell.

I first noticed I had uninvited house guests one morning whilst showering. A slightly red discoloration on the insides of my groin. Nothing a little soap wouldn’t sort out, whatever it was. The poor, ignorant, unsuspecting foreigner lathered up and smiled, singing an offkey Elvis tune.

Wrong or as the locals are fond of saying, Very Wrong.

I suspect these invisible little terrors predate the dinosaurs

Over the course of the next three days I discovered just how wrong. The itching is mild at first, just enough to encourage the growth of our little friends. The action of scratching serves as an aphrodisiac and they proliferate faster than a warren of rabbits on Viagra. By the time you realize your hand or hands are in your shorts for a large portion of the day, the damage is already done.

Although I do not have the scientific evidence to back this claim I suspect these invisible little terrors predate the dinosaurs. I can happily make this claim, having tried and applied pretty much every substance known to man in an effort to kill them.

They are indestructible, possibly even to nuclear radiation. My screams would echo through the jungle in the evening as I applied one concoction after another in an attempt to either burn them to death (chili and vinegar mix) or suffocate them (hot mud and ash mix). Some of these suggestions were offered by the locals. Looking back their motives may not have been entirely forthright as I was by this point more entertaining to watch than the local television station.

What’s that? You’d rather not shake my hand?

The itching eventually becomes unbearable and the only relief is to scratch or rub the affected area against anything convenient (avoid the locals for this purpose) like a large piece of bamboo or convenient tree. You’ve figured out by this stage that finger nails merely exacerbate the problem.

For the first few days, you try and maintain a modicum of dignity. A week down the line and it reaches the point where it becomes ’screw that’. It’s what we do, us foreigners. Didn’t you know? We travel to remote spots in the jungle and then try and fornicate with a conveniently placed piece of bamboo. What’s that? You’d rather not shake my hand? Why?

Oh, the shame of it. You become a social recluse. Who wants a foreigner hanging about with his hands constantly in his shorts? Soon, it becomes apparent that death is the only way out of what has rapidly become a living hell.

You lie awake at night, scratching, of course, imagining the fungi screaming in fear as you walk naked into a raging fire. You can hear them roasting alive, begging you to stop, to save yourself but its too late. You will have your revenge.

Eventually, out of sheer desperation and in fear of my very sanity, I made the arduous journey through the snake-infested, mosquito riddled swamps to the nearest town in search of help.

The local pharmacist saw me coming from across the road. She immediately recognized the symptoms of one afflicted with fungi. Bloodshot sunken eyes from sleep deprivation, enlarged forearms and biceps from excessive scratching and huge weight loss. Who needs to eat when you can use that time to scratch? Then there is the smile, unique to a fungi infected scratcher. Oh, the sheer bliss. I now get dogs one hundred percent. You know the look, when their back paw hits that sweet spot. Heaven.

‘Sir,’ she said, before I could even speak, “you have the Fungi (pronounced locally as Foonji). We can help.”

I was offered a small tube of white cream, which I was assured was a potent anti-fungal and would destroy my house guests in a day or two. I was ecstatic, I wept, hugged her and decided there and then to buy all twelve tubes. I had been doing a lot of scratching.

The lady next to me moved seats.

The bus ride back to the village (I was honestly too tired to face the snakes and mosquitos) took forever. I couldn’t wait to be alone, just me, my fungi and my little tubes of cream. I patted the itchy areas affectionately and smiled. Time to die. The lady next to me moved seats.

The first application of lotion doesn’t, unfortunately, exact an immediate death. The angel in the pharmacy had told me it would take at least 24 to 48 hours to be rid of them. I applied, sat back and waited expectantly.

By the end of the third day, I realized that the angel had in fact been a demon, sent to feed me false lies, hope, and promises. I picked up the last of the little tubes and carefully checked the packaging.

It had expired a year earlier. I may as well have been applying toothpaste (Day 6, doesn’t work). Another blessing of Asia. It is the dumping ground for the West’s expired drugs.

Now, my friends, you understand the logic behind the mass purchase before leaving home. Not only will you have enough on hand to treat your own little friends, but you can also sell the excess to fellow travelers for a hefty profit. Your customers should be easy to spot.

They’re the ones with a hand hidden from view and an expression of absolute rapture on their faces. On your next Asian visit, when you see a foreigner rubbing himself against a lamp pole, take pity. Stop and offer him one of your tubes.