A series of ill-fated events (eating the raw vegetables) resulted in the complete shut down of my normal bodily functions over the holidays. While I was sleeping, the war ended. So there’s that to celebrate.
In the tossing around that occupied my leisure during that sweet spot of time that exists nestled tightly between Christmas and New Years, it occurred to me that I was living the experience of the Middle East adventurers who went before me. Just about every self-boasting orientalist memoir includes a long, drawn-out escapade of a time they were laid out in grave illness, usually malaria or something equally exotic. It’s usually in this fever-dream-induced state where they accomplish something great. In the case of Sir Richard Burton, finding Lake Victoria in Africa while being carried on a litter by slaves, and in the case of T.E. Lawrence, dreaming up the concept of the Arab Revolt.
Unfortunately, I was visited by zero-knowledge imparting apparitions over the week, but did make numerous pilgrimages to the nearest porta-potty, which, like most military porta-potties, contains a treasure trove of knowledge scrawled on the walls inside.