Damascus, Dana, and Diarrhea

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  Damascus, Syria
Monday, September 11, 2006

In Damascus, I stayed at Dana's apartment, a friend of Melody's, who is a friend of Meredith, and I consider all three friends now (if there is a problem with that, let me know ladies.)

Dana very graciously allowed me to crash in her place, and for that, I thank her. Having what felt like a home after travelling for almost a month or more, felt very nice. My first morning, I had Quaker Instant Oatmeal with nachos and salsa for breakfast. Very nice.

A Diarrhea Dissertation (More sensitive readers may wish to skip this part)

More often than not, when one travels (especially in more developing countries), it is normally not a question of if you have diarrhea, but how bad it is that day. Take the most cultured group of travelers you can find; people who can talk about current events, philosophy, cultural customs, and economic policies of mega corporation in developing nations. Now, put them around a table at a little restaurant on the Mekong in northern Laos, or a cafe in Dahab, Egypt and within 15 minutes they will be talking about shit. Frequency, consistency, embarrassing moments, and more. Therefore, in that vein, I give a little salute to my first trip bowel problems.

"I've been sick the past few days. I guess I can't complain; I got all the way through Turkey and halfway through Syria before the explosive diarrhea hit. Dana (whose home I'm staying in Damascus) is a wonderful person by the way - it's not just everyone who opens their door to a stranger who comes in and says "Hi, can I use your bathroom for the next three days?

I know I'm a bad sick person, but still, it's a terrible thing to be sick in a foreign country where you don't speak the language and are all alone. And squat toilets when you have diarrhea are no fun at all. Your thighs tremble from fatigue from the effort of keeping yourself in the proper position. There is zero containment to direct the substance spraying from you (yes spraying - a sad, but truthful word). Add to this the effort to keep your pants held in the right position to prevent a horrible accident, such as losing your keys, wallet, or sunglasses into the abyss. Or, God forbid, horror of horrors, your pants slipping from your grip to form a perfect little receptacle to catch the effluent streaming from your body. As you begin to weaken, and moan, you have nothing to rest your head on, and suddenly, blindly, in a sheer panic, you are throwing out your arm, scrambling for purchase on the filthy wall to prevent yourself from falling over, losing your balance, and going to a place of such humiliation that one might never recover from it.

Call it what you will - diarrhea, Runny Bum, Montezuma's Revenge, Delhi Belly, the Squirts, the Shits, the Trots, I salute you and your ability to humble even the haughtiest traveller.

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