Go Stealthily with a View
Feel that blissful satisfaction of all your weight in your rump, leaned back with the new Maxim magazine (man, that girl is hot!), the sun shining through the window illuminating you, on the pot, taking the perfect morning dump. …mmm… Now take away the book and the toilet and what’s left- a hole in the ground (sometimes porcelain) with two foot pads, a bucket and some sort of water procuring mechanism, usually a faucet. But you definitely still have to go. In this case, urgently, the body demands release. The strident internal clamor, the crushing abdominal pain won’t calm until- with perfect balance, knees bent into a crouch, bum hovering in position just over the hole- the duty is done. A productive session, pleasant, accomplished.
The case against using coloured toilet paper circulated in the ’90s and my family enjoys the white, two-ply, quilted variety. The post-grad youngish 20 year-olds enjoy the cheap kind while sometimes leaving the door open in order to continue an ardent discussion. After the hole, however, no fluffy or scratchy paper products are to be found. Enter in the faucet and bucket (or bucket/cup combination) from stage right… or stage left… And using *only* your left hand, either reach over or under and then fill the mug and splash splash splash. Oh yes, it’s wet down there. And clean. Which is nice because the water could be anywhere as one’s aim is a skill mastered over time and trial. But an effective alternative method of doing it. We all must. Daily feels best. Or more often if your dinner didn’t sit well, or at all, in your stomach.
Western style toilets exist, curiously, they are more often paired with the faucet, which doesn’t really make sense, because the position of the body and the toilet is off and everything just gets wet. Conversely, the hole in the ground with the paper is equally unappealing. Everywhere you go, it’s a surprise combination to be mastered.
Toilet situations can vary from dire to extremely pleasing. When the crazy bus with the broken windows and random iron pole jutting out from the side, (bobbing up and down with every bump threatening to decapitate whomever in its vicinity) pulls over to a random chia stop, one should avoid all giant puddles of “mud.” Hold your breath when you enter the dark chamber with rusty lock and your headlamp, if you remembered to take it out of your bag you left with your exhausted friends, will illuminate the little box in which you do your business. I’d estimate that about 40% of toilet visits are regular bathroom experiences with nice rooms, painted walls, art perhaps, a shower of some sort… But then I’d argue that the most enjoyable of Asian bathroom experiences have an aspect more magical than even the sexiest magazine might ever provide.
Sometimes, while traveling in this part of the world, you look out the window of your commode and see a vast expanse of beautiful nature revealed without any visual interference. No buildings, or power lines, or garbage, just green lush mountains with tiered rice fields, pink and red rhododendron forests tumbling down the vast spaces in front of you. Lots of air. You look out into the abyss and down against the hillside, built up with buildings or farmed, or colourful prayer flags. Or the most clear view of Annapurna at dawn with the cauldron below its peek visible for the very first time. Just amazing views. From the bathroom! The best views are always in the bathroom. If you can keep your balance, aim correctly and manage not to drench yourself with water while cleaning off, that view can be yours to keep as an imprint in your memory while doing your business. Using all variations of facilities, the views are spectacular.
ooo jello
i threw up…
Okay, I’m sorry to whoever had to clean up the mess I made. Please allow me to explain myself.
Everything was going fine until the third day. First two days up, my walk was strong, I was chugging along at a good clip, enjoying the vistas of Himalayan splendor, everything was in its right place. But then, on that awful third day, the mountain gods sent some malicious bacteria to infect my stomach, probably through the vehicle of bad eggs, and my goose was cooked. First the fever hit me, then body ache, then nausea, then diarrhea. By the time i got to the last leg of the walk to gorepani, from where we would summit the next morning, I was working harder to keep my fluids inside me than i was to keep my pack up and my body going. Each stair became a summit of its own, and the diabolical nature of the mountain, constantly insinuating that my walk would be over soon and then revealing a dozen more stories to go, was turning my mind to soup.
But no microbial henchmen of the mountain deities could quash my relentless resolve, my unquenchable drive for personal bad-assness. i WOULD make it up, without question, and that was all there was to it.
I took it one step at a time, just one more step and then rest, and then again, just one more fucking step, and then relief. I paused to lean on a tree every now and again, my body was ready to hurl, my mouth even salivated in vomitory anticipation, but alas nothing came from my empty retching. I kept going until I got to the heart of town, where I asked a kind trekking guide where i could find the nearest bathroom. He paused to think. At this point my body let me know there was no time to think. Just find a place, any place, and let it go. I left the pondering trekking guy standing there, trying my hardest to keep it together. I found an inn that had a bathroom in it for certain, it’s an inn for god’s sake, there has to be a bathroom but to my astonishment, there was a lock on it. I knew that if I tried to move in any direction, i would explode. I asked a kid who was sweeping the floor to bring me the key at once. This was a smart kid, he could read my face, he knew that i was working very hard to keep it together, and he ran and got that key as fast as he could. I fumbled with the lock and and shoved the door open. But once I got in there, nothing could stop the force that was bubbling this entire time. I threw up all over that fucking bathroom. Each retch brought on a ghoulish shriek as my stomach pumped its contents out of me in these awful spurts. I tried my best to clean it up, but it was all over the place. The damage was done. When I got out of the bathroom, the whole room was staring. I just shot out of there like a thief on the run… my bad.
I don’t throw up often, but when i do, I almost always manage to do it somewhere bad. In this case at least i made it to the bathroom. I’ve thrown up in bed, on the couch, in my shower, in museums, at the opera, on the dentist chair, in veterinary clinics, hair salons, internet cafes, in line at starbucks, while sitting at the dinner table, the list goes on. Rarely do the contents of my stomach, when expelled, reach the toilet where they should probably go. But maybe that’s the point of throwing up, letting it all just flood out into a mess wherever, whenever. It’s not supposed to be pretty. Though i do always manage to produce an interesting palette of colors.
-Das
