RuKsaK

My sphincter pinched and blew a fast trumpet blast of rank liquid into the floor-hole. I scrambled for some paper and found only a hose attached to the wall. I scraped my hand into my jeans and pulled out three one-Riyal notes; fifty pence (I’m happy this never happens in England). I used them and was childishly amused by the Saudi King with my shit smeared across his face.
‘You wouldn’t have this, if you supplied paper in your public bogs, would you?’ I said with teeth gritted.

I allowed myself to consider karmic redemption for a second, then made it pass as it gave me another rectal twinge.

I was sweating salt onto the ceramic under my feet. Worrying another squit would hammer out of me and the paranoia not helping.

I left the cubicle, not comfortable that I’d finished or I was totally clean inside my underwear. If I didn’t get home soon, I’d have a rasping chafe hanging in my pants. I wasn’t going home soon.

I left the sink and the stares at least, once again, conscious that nobody had decided to leave me on the floor with metal-driven hot punctures in my brain. For me, that was little relief, just worry about the next possible appointment with a militant.
------
The entrance to our double walled compound had a metal gate, big enough to melt into several thousand bullets. Outside the gate stood two Humvees with mounted anti-tank guns. Everything above two metres was eagerly hugged by barbed wire. Scattered around were baked, skinny guards with an AK47 each – about a dozen of the tea drinkers (I always hoped no one thought to attack when the kettle was on).

Everyday, we’d leave, enter, re-leave, re-enter all this.
‘Do you ever think what all this is doing?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, we’re adults and our little un’s only two, but what does seeing all this do?’
‘I’m not with you.’
‘Think about it. Everyday I see guns, tanks, all this military shit. I feel alright for the most part, but it has to be going somewhere. It’s choosing a place in our heads and we don’t worry about where.’
‘I don’t think it goes anywhere. We can airbrush it into something. If you want, it can be just a bad night’s sleep.’
‘I know where it’s going.’
‘Go on. Where?’
‘I feel it every time some foreign guy gets shot at the traffic lights, or blown up. It gets bigger.’
‘Spit it out, will you?’
‘That’s it! – there’s some vile beast commanding my arse lately and he’s not happy – he is spitting it out!. I’m under rebellious arse coercion. This is fucking passive ringpiece terrorism.’
‘That’s such nonsense.’
‘No – it’s not! Brains are lazy. They offload all this shit. My brain is saying ‘no’ to all this paranoia and sending half of it to my arse. Seriously! This is lazy brain delegation!’
‘No – that really is nonsense. Change your diet and you’ll be fine.’
------
On finally leaving Saudi Arabia my mind pushed a most welcome, heaving grin onto my face. It was then I knew I’d been right.

Once we’d flown over the range of ground-to-air missile rumours covering every flight leaving Jeddah and Riyadh my brain and arse began emergency renegotiations.
------
Late news:

My wife thinks my writing has too much shit in it. I hope she’s using the right grammar here, and is not being metaphorical. I don’t know – it’s tough for a spouse to tell their relevant other that something is crap. I understand.

Anyway, out of Valentine’s day respect for my wife, I’m not going to write about shit anymore. As she says:
‘Write something more intelligent. Something more philosophical. That’d be better.’
‘Yeah, but I think shit is philosophical. It’s a consistent and prehistory, unwanted human product and nobody ever thinks about it like they should.’
‘Yeah, yeah – just write a story without poo in it, will you?’
‘I’ll try.’

Romance is not dead, as my next post may show.

Monday, February 14, 2005

Delegation