We dropped our stuff off at the hotel (where a complimentary screening of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (partly filmed at Petra) or Lawrence of Arabia was given each night) and made our way to Petra. It was not cheap to get in -- 22 Jordanian Dinars, which is about 35 dollars. Still, the place rocks my nads. Go see it. Steal money from Momma's purse. Sell the good silverware from Grandma's sideboard. Get there at any cost.
After a few hours of scampering around rocks and unsuccessfully haggling the prices of souvenirs hawked by polyglot Bedouin, I was hungry. Damn, I was hungry. The ticket for Petra was for two days, so we decided to come back and finish the place the next day.
At the hotel, they had this crazy all-you-can-eat buffet. Cheap eats? Oh baby, sign me up! Rice, pasta, veggies, hummous, tabbouleh, fuul, falafel, french fries, and all sorts of other shit, including traditional round pita bread. One plate would have been plenty, but I had three plates full of this marvelous stuff.
We watched Indiana Jones, because they alternate the movies each night. I had already seen it, but it was a fun movie, so I could wait for Lawrence of Arabia.
I was really fucking full. The kind of full that keeps you shifting your seat around, almost feeling nauseous... wishing you could belch and release that pressure valve, maybe let out a good fart or float a log downstream (if you ever hear me say I have to "go and play lumberjack", that's what I mean). No, it was all just sitting in me, like a ton of bricks.
I had forgotten, in my haste, just how much these starchy foods swell up in one's belly. I avoided walking near sharp objects. All night I was rolling around, not able to get comfortable. Couldn't sleep for shit, and when I did manage to doze off, it was all uncomfortable and nightmarish. Ugh. No Pepto would have helped, because I knew I didn't have room to swallow one last thing. I was certain I would explode if I had even a "wafer-thin mint."
The next morning came, and fucked if I didn't still feel like I had eaten a five-pound bag of sand. I couldn't eat breakfast. Still too full. Not a lick of difference from how I felt the night previous. My companions, Tamar and Jeremy, ate breakfast while I sipped very slowly from a glass of water. We then hopped on the shuttle-bus waiting to take us back down to Petra.
(A quick aside to explain things in the Arab world: they don't have toilets very often -- usually it's a hole in the floor. If it's a real toilet, there's a little hose attached to the wall next to it which you can use to wash off your undercarriage. If not that, then there might be a little bidet spray-head built into the toilet bowl itself. You will rarely find any toilet paper unless you bring it yourself.)
Sitting on the bus, it became clear to me, thankfully, finally, that this mass of various foodstuffs was to make a prompt exit. I predicted a southerly exodus (I was worried about a northerly one -- I hate throwing up).
The bus was idling, waiting for other passangers, so I had time. I grabbed my bag, which contained granola bars, sunblock, a banana or two, some water, my wallet and a big roll of toilet paper. I ran back into the hotel and found my way to the upstairs bathroom, where my intestines twisted and performed such incredible feats of acrobatics that Mummenschanz would have been proud.
Have you ever been surfing, and caught a wave that was just too damn big for your abilities? Knowing that if you fucked up just a little, you could actually die? That feeling, that sort of resignation about life and death, which forces you to just hold on and hope for the best? That's how I felt.
It was violent. It started coming out in a torrent, a stream of excreta the likes of which I had never known. I was sure I was dilated at least one inch. This was just liquid coming out. The spray and the accompanying bubbles proved to me that truly nature, not man, was in control.
I was powerless. Normally I might squeeze a little, but this was as if some pneumatic syphon had just taken over, pumping the life right out of me. I did the usual with the toilet paper, washed my hands and face, and came back downstairs, knowing that life had returned to normal. I sat back down, ready to relay my story of gastric distress, when I felt the push again.
I leapt up, leaving my backpack on the seat as I bolted back upstairs into the bathroom. It was happening all over again -- for the details, just reread the above paragraph.
Round Two lasted a few minutes longer than Round One. I had, amidst all the chaos and, uh, noise, settled into that close-to-death peacefulness... the clarity of mind that comes only when something shocks you to your core. Sadly, the greatest revelation I could conjure was the origins of my malady: the Tabbouleh from Aqaba. The Bad Tabbouleh. It had sowed the seeds of discord for my evening meal.
The one physical comfort I had was the loss of the aching fullness I felt just 15 minutes before. I was now completely on the opposite side of the spectrum -- absolutely empty, like I hadn't eaten for days. Collecting my thoughts, I decided the time was right for me to gracefully finish my duties, and clean up.
Hmm. Where did I put my backpack?
Oh, fuck... it's on the bus. Toilet paper is in the bag. Damn. I hate the hose... Damn... there is no hose. Okay... where's the bidet sprayer thingy... Mother pus-bucket! DAMN! No bidet sprayer thingy! Okay... don't panic... hand towels... damndamndamndamndamn! No hand towels! Maybe there's a napkin in my pocket or a section of the shower curtain I could tear off... AGH! It's plastic! Dear God... let there be a Kleenex or some newspaper in the trash bin...
There was neither of those.
There was in the trash bin, however, a day-old, stale, half-eaten piece of pita bread. With the grace of God, and my right hand, I brought to that lowly pita a miserable yet ever-so-honorable chore... a task it accomplished with great success.
I haven't eaten tabbouleh or pita since.
-- Fiber Phil