1991-1992 Rothberg Yearbook

Da/ta£ ian £>iarrkeay ”
Andrea, in her usual, “Well, if no one’s going to eat it” way, had finished everyone’s banana and grease
pancakes 3 mornings in a row. I had eaten a greenish and slightly evil looking felafel near the Eilat bus
station. We are both known to have iron stomachs; our bottles of Immodium stand still in their
wrappers in the dorm. “I never get sick,” we chorused as the bus pulled away from a rest stop in the
Negev...
Twenty minutes later, I’m convulsed and shaky; it seems my stomach wants to look out the window.
I bite my lip in half and ask for
help. Felicia helpfully chimes
in, “There’s nothing you can
do. Nothing! The bus w on’t
stop.” Excellent. The couple
pawing each other in the aisle
stare suspiciously at me as I
push my way to my savior, the
nahag. I beg him for mercy, I
confess my sins, he grants me
a pardon. Another twenty
bumpy and pain-threshold
strengthening minutes later, we
stop. I bolt to the bathroom
and my bowels bless and
praise the porcelain god.
Andrea’s stomach begins to
sing these same melodies as
soon as the bus pulls away. She rises in her seat and begins to perform a ritual dance for the sacred
Lomotil. She davens and writhes, and it still does not appear. Our “friends” continually assure us that
nothing can be done; the bus will definitely not stop now.
After a few minutes of anguished pleas to the slightly amused nahag, followed by threats to show the
entire bus population exactly how badly she has to go, the scared nahag drops Andrea off in the
shadows of Masada to leave her sacrifices in the heart of the Judean. Even in her hour of need, she
showsd her concern for her still shil-shooled friend. From my damp and much-clawed seat in the back
of the bus, I hear her plea — “Laura, will you come off the bus with me?” “Ange — I’m okay. REALLY.”
“C’mon, Laura — I need you.” The bus sighs; isn’t this romantic? I ignore my friends’ hysterics and
jump off. Hand in hand, Andrea and I race to a choice spot, toilet paper whipping in the wind.
Together we bless the desert rocks and make them our own. Shara always says that the ocean is the
earth’s toilet; we have now proven her wrong.
Ten pounds lighter, we re-board the bus, fend off the autograph hunters in the first row, kick the
annoying couple out of my seat, and sit down. “Are you guys okay?” our health-sensitive friends ask.
“Could we get you anything... like a greasy pork chop sandwich served on a dirty ASHTRAY?!!” Ha. Ha.
After two hours of discussion on topics like “You Guys Don’t Know How We Feel”, “You Think You
Feel Worse Than Me But You Really Don’t”, and “Why Don’t We Just Stay In A Hotel Somewhere Near
The Dead Sea”, we arrive in Jerusalem. Leaving our still laughing friends in a cloud of Egged dust,
Andrea and I once again visit our porcelain chums, conveniently located in the Tachanat basement.
Andrea’s condition improves; she comes out and asks me if I’m ready to go. My clean and spacious
surroundings are too much for me to give up; I elect to remain here for another forty-five minutes.
When I finally stagger into Kiryat Yovel, I am drained, empty, and emotionless. My long-lost friend, the
precious liquid Immodium stares knowingly at me from my desk. “See what you get for leaving me out
of your vacation plans?” it says. Yes, I see. And so did our entire bus, as well as some soon-to-be
surprised Judean Desert hikers. Long live Dahab!
Laura Bramson
15