The chink in our armor

Yesterday three of my friends were sent on a dismounted patrol in a nearby village. That basically means they had to stroll around on foot, completely exposed, in a hostile area. Tonight they are all bed ridden, trying desperately to recuperate from wounds associated with that mission. They weren’t casualties of enemy bullets or shrapnel. No, what they suffer from is far more dangerous, far more unavoidable; a local entrée known as falafel. While on patrol they stopped at a local lunch stand, lured by the siren’s song of a tasty lentil and garbanzo bean based meal. Fast forward twenty-four hours and you’ll find each of the three vomiting; arms wrapped around the base of a toilet. Not much fun at all. In the beginning, when we were told not to eat the local cuisine we thought it more of a guideline than a strict rule. Apparently some of us took this advice more lightly than others. I’ve braved the occasional Iraqi produce (grapes, watermelon, tomato, cantaloupe, etc.), and an elaborate rice dish, without consequence. But apparently it’s the meat products and fried foods that will getcha. I’m sure my friends will be able to walk upright in a day or two, but believe me when I say they have suffered. I’d like to tell you that their misfortune has taught me something; that I’ve learned a lesson. But damnit if I don’t love falafel too. Even knowing the pain I would experience, I don’t think I could resist those sumptuous meatball-like morsels. And that’s what makes this place so terrible; it takes what you love most and turns it against you.