While sitting at a rooftop restaurant in Bangkok, sipping our beverages—with no ice, of course—we decided it would be a great idea to take one of the large boat taxis down the Chao Phraya River with the locals.

Because apparently, after carefully avoiding questionable water all week, we felt it was time to get closer to an entire river full of it.

This was not a scenic dinner cruise or one of those polished tourist boats with cocktails and commentary. It was public transportation. Locals used it to get from one part of Bangkok to another, and we thought it would be an authentic, interesting way to experience the city.

And honestly, it probably would have been.

Had we not started looking too closely at the water.

While waiting on the dock, we began noticing a few things.

First, the river looked remarkably similar to chocolate milk.

Not the good kind.

More like chocolate milk that had been left in a hot car for three days.

Second, there were dead fish floating nearby.

Plural.

Third, the smell was absolutely horrific.

In hindsight, this was the universe presenting us with three separate warning signs, and we chose to ignore every single one of them.

As the boat approached the dock, its movement churned up the murky brown water and sent little waves sloshing toward the platform.

Sarah and I immediately noticed this.

We took a few careful steps backward.

Then a few more.

Apparently, the Chao Phraya River took this personally.

A splash of water flew up from the dock and landed directly on our lips.

Both of us froze.

Not our shirts.

Not our shoes.

Our lips.

Keep in mind that we had spent the entire trip behaving like two women in a witness protection program for bottled water.

No tap water.

No ice cubes.

No questionable drinks.

We inspected everything.

We carried bottled water everywhere.

We were doing everything short of interviewing the person who sealed the cap.

And after all that effort, Bangkok simply skipped the middleman and shot river water directly into our mouths.

We looked at each other in absolute horror.

No words were necessary.

Our faces clearly said:

So this is how it ends.

We immediately began wiping our mouths with our hands, sleeves, napkins—anything we could find that had not recently been in contact with the river.

At one point, I think we were both mentally calculating how quickly a person could contract every known gastrointestinal disease.

Naturally, we still got on the boat.

Because apparently our survival instincts had already clocked out for the day.

The ride itself was actually fascinating, but neither of us could fully relax because we had one shared thought running through our heads:

Do not touch your face.

Do not open your mouth.

Do not let the river win again.

We are still not sure whether it was the Chao Phraya water, a rogue ice cube, something we ate, or simply Thailand deciding we had become too comfortable.

But not long afterward, something happened.

I will spare you the details.

Let’s just say our digestive systems staged a coordinated revolt.

There was urgency.

There was panic.

There was regret.

And there was very little time for discussion.

Eventually, Sarah and I gave the condition its own highly scientific medical diagnosis:

The Chao Phraya Shits.

Is it recognized by the medical community?

No.

Did we both know exactly what it meant?

Absolutely.