Patagonia, 2018
I’d been in Argentina for ten days, part of a large team shooting a double production of TV commercials for an Alpine brand.
Ten days of casting, wardrobe, and recreating the Swiss Alps in South America — all punctuated by long, often lavish dinners, including some of the best food I’d ever eaten. But now, every bite is plotting against me from the inside out.
We’re picking up the story somewhere outside of Bariloche, and the road unspools like an old film reel, flickering between stretches of cracked concrete and smooth new patches that feel almost out of place in this rugged country.
To the right, snow-capped peaks rise like sleeping giants. To the left, a lake the colour of deep-sea myths, flickering with the light of the sky.
It’s pretty and everything but as I flick through the pictures of the locations we’ve visited, something still doesn’t feel quite right beneath my Imodium armour – my closest ally on the trip.
I once again try to think back to what the source of my problems could have been; the lamb from the parrilla? The giant steak? The bacon from the breakfast buffet? The airport empanada? Had I accidentally drank the tap water?
As the car rounds another bend, the road suddenly drops into a postcard. Hotel Llao Llao sits cradled between the mountains and the lake, as if Patagonia itself decided this was the spot to exhale. But if I exhaled anymore I’d be public enemy number one – or most likely two – with my team.
By the time we arrived at the hotel – a beautiful but eerie European alpine lodge that is either cover for the real Overlook Hotel or a Bond villain base – I was just relieved to be somewhere with reliable plumbing.
I’d had a rough couple of days but things started to improve by the following morning and my gut settled. I hoped I had shrugged off the worst of it.
It was a free day and in a misplaced moment of optimism, I decided to go kayaking with Jimmy (name changed), a shoot colleague. There were scripts to tweak and some social lines to finish off but the promise of some much needed sunshine and fresh air was too much to ignore.
To my surprise, I managed. My bowel remained calm on choppy waters and while my upper body had all the power and definition of a damp tea towel, I somehow didn’t fall apart.
The scenery was ridiculous – in the best way. A painter’s daydream, but real. The sky was a clean, endless blue; the kind that made you wonder what you’d done to deserve it.
The lake stretched out like it had no end, definitely not as still as it looked from the top of the hill, the water’s presence almost intimidating – as if it was thinking deep thoughts. We eventually made it to a lone island, sitting in the middle of the lake.
We dragged the kayaks ashore, and stood there for a second, just listening. Nothing. No people, no noise. Just water, trees, and a silence that makes you grin.
We jumped off rocks and swam to waters deep in our small Andean pocket – the kind of fun that, just for a moment, makes you realise that nothing else really matters.
Pleased with the activity we had chosen, we laughed at just how beautiful the whole place was. Then the atmosphere suddenly changed.
My gut had turned.
The kind of warning you don’t ignore. The kind of warning you act on immediately.
My stomach was doing things that can only be described as biblical. And in the seconds I had to decide between land and water, I chose water.
I muttered something to Jimmy, then without thinking, dove straight into the lake, swimming away as fast as I could.
If that seems like an odd choice, allow me to explain.
Two Days Earlier
We were mid-shoot, scouting locations. A remote field. Beautiful mountains – you know the drill by now. There was a single small house in the distance, more like a cabin or shack than an actual brick and mortar house.
Louise (name changed), my then-creative partner, was assessing a tree. “I think this is a good spot. We’ve got the mountains in the background, this tree looks pretty good. Do you think the branch is strong enough?”
“Yeah, cool,” I said.
It wasn’t cool. I desperately needed a shit.
“Are you okay?” she asked, already knowing the answer.
“I don’t think so.”
There were plenty of places to creep off to, the problem was there was a crew of about 20 people roaming every inch of it looking for the perfect frame.
I had a pack of Kleenex Balsam in my bag and a deep sense of dread.
I don’t mind roughing it when nature calls – anyone who’s been on long hikes or bike rides knows what’s what. But this was different. This was the kind of gut emergency that you needed serious endurance – nay – an iron man endurance for. And most importantly, privacy.
And so, I ran.
Full sprint. A man possessed. My only hope was reaching that house before disaster struck. Somehow, I made it. And somehow, my sheer panic convinced the non-English-speaking owner to let me in.
What followed was unspeakable, and it didn’t seem to end. I even got up to go once, thinking the ordeal was over. Alas, having neatened the tiny bathroom as best I could before leaving, the beast came roaring back.
That Dumb and Dumber scene plus the extras.
Twenty minutes plus injury time later, I emerged – hollow-eyed, dehydrated, a changed man. My host’s eyes were streaming. Mine were too. I muttered a broken sorry before walking back to the van, sitting at the back, and thinking about what I had done, all in the name of bringing a script to life.
I still think about them, that house. How long it took before they decided to just burn the whole thing down.
Back in real time –
And that is why I’m in the middle of an extremely deep Patagonian lake, and why I chose water over land.
I am naked, floating on my back, shorts in one hand, stomach in full revolt while the rest of me tries not to drown.
Sure, it’s probably the most scenic dump of my life, but it’s also the most gruelling.
There’s something about the process, about releasing air (amongst other stuff) and losing control that affects your buoyancy. It felt like I was sinking, so I was doing my best to backstroke away from the, let’s say, evidence, which only made things worse.
I can only imagine what it looked, or sounded like from Jimmy’s vantage point.
Leaving a trail of destruction, I finally finished the deed before making it back to land, breathless and weak. Jimmy stayed silent, refusing to meet my eye. The return kayak to shore was quiet as I paddled like hell hath no fury.
Argentina is a beautiful country. The food, despite everything, was incredible. The landscapes, breath-taking. The work? Got killed.
But that place, deep in the Andes, began what is now a lifelong battle with acute IBS, and for one single, horrifying second, the place I thought I might drown in my own shit.
And that’s all I’ll ever remember it for.