Now I know that I have endured pain and hardship before on my record breaking activities, but never anything quite so intense.
I panicked, thinking at any moment one would burst and I’d end up in hospital, spewing blood from inside the device. I yelled at the driver to stop. He didn’t. I moaned, using a word I know in the local language for blood. My body lunged forward as the brakes took hold. I heaved forward, out the door and – with no regard for anything – pulled down my pants on the road. I had to squat as ladies do because my urine doesn’t leave the device in a single stream. The puddle began running down the tarmac as Muslim women with covered faces rode by on their scooters, as vehicles whizzed through the busy intersection nearby, and as police went about their duties.
I didn’t care. If a policeman had stopped me, I’d have continued to wee, no matter if that meant he’d go home with smelly shoes. I was in too much pain. Immediately I had washed my pelvis with a bottle of water and tissue, I felt the flesh. The pea-sized bubbles had deflated. Oh my gosh, was that frightening.
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