Oregon Trail Life

My best memories of elementary school come from playing Oregon Trail. I was drawn in by the game’s immersion, nascent and pixelated as it was. I became a pioneer willing to cast my lot and head westward. I chose my profession, starting date, and supplies. My choices would fade to a side-view of a pixelated covered wagon trundling along while polygon forts and mountains floated across the background.

Oregon Trail was a game of choices. The choices you made often slanted the outcomes towards life or death. Dysentery most likely happened because you made bad choices, like foraging for food and water. Yet you might make all the right choices and still die of dysentery. True to life, death in-game could be arbitrary and sudden.

Foraging

We had freshly moved into our new place after living with an expat friend for 2 months. These were our first steps towards independent living in a new land. We bought what we needed and went out to settle on our own plot of land. We ran out of food three days later. I thus locked the door behind me to forage in my neighborhood.

I found Pak R, the local warung (places to buy small items) owner across from my apartment. I asked him where to go in semi-broken Bahasa Indonesia.

Me: “Ah, Pak R! I’m looking for restaurants. Do you have any recommendations?”

Pak R: “What kind of food do you want? Korean? Chinese? Japanese?….”

Me: “[Suku**] food! Are there [suku] restaurants near here?”

Pak R: “Not many, but some. There is a good one down at the terminal.”

Me: “The terminal? Which way?”

Pak R: “[indecipherable] head straight, [indecipherable] on the left, [indecipherable].”

Me (pointing down my street): “…… continue straight, it will be on the left”

Pak R (amused): “Ya, but [indeciperable]”.

Me: “Thank you!”

I walked at a brisk pace towards the terminus of my street. Laundries, warungs, and PKLs (food carts) drifted across the background as I searched for the promised place from which to eat tasty, local food. I found my place just before the terminus.

The space was empty, the lighting minimal. Food sat on trays in a display cabinet. In front of the cabinet sat two tables with some cheap plastic stools. In the back was a water dispenser, with a second, smaller one sitting on the tables in front. Everything looked good and clean (as clean as it gets when sitting outside). I took some water, sat, and ate. I concluded that Pak R likes mediocre food… or I ate at the wrong place.

“Josh Has Dysentery”

“Just to let you know, I’ve never used this oven before so I’m not sure these are baked all the way through!” my friend warned. I put a freshly baked chocolate mochi donut into my mouth. I joked, “Well, if I get diarrhea, I’ll know where it comes from!” The donut was delicious and baked all the way through. Lo, diarrhea came not 20 minutes after. I drank some water to replace what I’d lost and went about my business.

Cataclysm erupted at midnight as I lay down to sleep. I ran to the toilet and promptly vomited. This was followed by an urgent, liquid evacuation of my bowels. I drank more water. I vomited again, then evacuated again. Over the course of 4 hours, I sat in front of the toilet stuck in a repeating cycle of drinking water and then losing it from both ends of my body. I had never lost so much fluid in such a short amount of time. I was almost convinced I should go to the hospital.

Everyone occasionally gets an earworm as they sit in the silence. Mine was colored by misery and sounded like, “You have died of dysentery.” Others get Baby Shark. Baby Shark was busy mulching my innards. “You have died of dysentery.” I thought of London’s 1854 Broad Street cholera epidemic that led to the development of epidemiology. “You have died of dysentery.” I pictured my pixelated covered wagon leaning to the ground with my oxen kneeling on the floor (or dying on its knees). “You have died of dysentery!”

At 4am, I decided that if I were to die from dysentery, it should at least be in bed. I decided to stop drinking water since I could not hold any. Everything in my gut had been vomited, dry heaved, and evacuated some while ago. I got into bed, prayed that I would live to see the morning, and shut my eyes.

“You Have Made It To Oregon!”

I awoke at 7am severely weakened but alive. My organs had stopped their bickering. Two spoonfuls of coconut flesh was all I could hold down comfortably. I spent that entire day in recovery drinking nothing but coconut water and reflecting on my life choices.

Insight struck as I ruminated on all the things eaten. Food is typically half cooked, stored at ambient temperature, then cooked the rest of the way upon ordering. This will normally kill any pathogens. The food was less the problem than the water. I had assumed that the presence of a water dispenser guaranteed safety…. but the water had tasted dirty. I had swallowed my mouthful to avoid rudely spitting it out into the street. While I was not 100% certain, it seemed a strong possibility that my half-glass of dirty water initiated the gastrointestinal apocalypse.

My Indonesian friends gave me some fast facts:

• Of the many brands of dispenser water, only 2 were safe.
• Some food vendors boil rainwater collected in buckets and serve it.
• Some food vendors serve non-potable tap water, or at least make ice from it.
• Indonesian children often have stomach issues, but they later adapt. The adults who told me this patted their stomachs proudly because surviving a childhood of food poisoning is a rite of passage.
• If you don’t see Indonesians eating there, leave it alone! They won’t ever tell you why, but you can be sure they know something.

The general rule of thumb is to bring my own water or pay extra for bottled water. One of my closer Indonesian friends decided I should walk the road of total prevention: “You can eat salad or oatmilk from now on. You don’t have to eat unhealthy food with me and the others anymore :( “ I smiled briefly at the thought of a life free of judgment from friends who believe healthy food is misery and pain. The sentiment is sweet but silly. One cannot live on the Oregon Trail and not eat the bears and buffalo.

To me, the Oregon Trail was a beloved exercise in masochism with lifelong repercussions. “You have died of dysentery” meant nothing but the end of one journey and the beginning of another. Momentary grief was replaced by renewed hope as we sought to reach the promised land. As in game, so in life! Dysentery will not deter me (until it does). I just have to make sure the locals are eating there.

Coda: Pak R’s Restaurant

Two days later, I walked up my street, turned right onto the large cross street, and walked about 500m. I found the restaurant Pak R told me about, right where his directions would have taken me had I walked in the opposite direction. Looking back, I’m pretty sure he told me, “Ya, but you need to turn around,” after I’d recited his instructions while pointing in the wrong direction. It is no wonder he looked so amused!