More musings on toilets

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W.C., privy, commode, latrine, throne, dunny, the john, chamber pot, convenience room, the head, can, loo, outhouse... Yep, its toilet time.

My relatively short 'career' as a passport user has given me access to a varied range of cultures, languages, traditions and histories. I've count myself lucky to have been brought up from a young age with stories of adventures in foreign lands mixing fluently with those of Murgatroid and Where The Wild Things Are; instilling an urge to see these fantastic places from day dot. During the 1970's, my father treated himself to a brief holiday of seven years without a re-entry stamp to Australia, a period which saw him gain enough storytelling material to last him the following thirty five-odd years. Seven months of backpacking is long enough to give most people a basic introduction to the gastro-enteric and parasitic dangers that eating and living in less developed country entails. The silly bugger did it for seven years. Those eighty four months left him with a range of fevers, bugs, infections, viruses and general poor health that if combined, would send most of us on an early visit to Saint Peter. For some reason, the graphic accounts of amoebic dysentery, tapeworms and hepatitis seemed to surface most regularly at the dinner table. Slightly shocking to unsuspecting guests, but generally hilarious to my siblings and I.

Since all five members of my immediate family have now tasted the highs and lows of travel in the Third World, the dinner conversations have begun to resemble a bit of a pissing contest about the best and worst - generally the worst - experiences of our trips. Forty hour bus rides with sleeping drivers; traversing epic mud tracks on the roof rack of a jeepney [appropriately see "How not to design a toilet for tropical use; a critique" by yours truly]; giant spiders in the dark; post-midnight introductions to graft in New Dehli; and the perennial favourite - foul toilets and the stomach problems that exacerbated the conditions. Its a common theme among backpackers, and one that will always have conversational legs.

So, come follow me around the S-bend on a tour of a few notable thrones...


Marcus and Anne's Dunny

Marcus was my mother's maternal Uncle. I knew him as a jolly man (think Father Christmas, less beard) with a unique housing arrangement outside of the town of Gembrook, in Melbourne's hinterland. Marcus and Anne were original backpackers, and would have been among the first tribe of young people to attempt the classic London to Melbourne journey by land and sea. I'm not sure of the general dates, but I know that they departed London in the most classic of road-tripping vehicles, a beautiful old Volkswagon Kombi. Join the dots for an unspecified amount of time and then park the now battered van at the top of a sprawling plot of bush outside of Melbourne. My first memories of Marcus and Anne's property were pretty idyllic: bush walks with Marcus (a renowned Geologist); bonfires; barbeques and preserved snakes and other creepy crawlies. The each visit would conclude with a head-to-toe tick and leech inspection; a necessary evil of tramping through pristine rainforest. Their living quarters were pretty slapped together - the original Kombi served as a bedroom, while an attached caravan made up the living room and kitchenette. The toilet was a classic dunny; Redback spiders, draughts of cold air, foul smells and a bucket of lime to help proceedings in the pit. For those who haven't been to Australia, the dunny is our local version of an outhouse. Its a 'deluxe' version of a hole in the ground, situated far enough away from eating and sleeping areas so as to not provide bacterial or olfactory complications for its owners. Renowned for being a prime breeding ground for every sort of venomous spider you wouldn't want to meet on a dark night, the dunny holds a special place in Australian folklore. They're not very common nowadays, although a mate of mine does have a plumbed and concreted version at the back of his garden. Its still cold and wet, but the hygiene standards are decidedly better than Marcus and Anne's (and every other) bush dunny.


The Sumatran Shared Commode

Sumatra comes with a reputation. Big, brash, looooooong bus trips and radical Islam. The Bible (www.lonelyplanet.com/indonesia/sumatra) tells wannabe intrepid travelers: "Don't come looking for a holiday, that’s Bali, or empire builders, that’s Java. Sumatra is an adventure, the kind of demanding ride that requires a dusty knapsack and tough travelling skin." It provided Fam and I with a pretty awesome list of sights and memories, while at the same time testing patience and our ability to withstand, at times, uniquely challenging toilet and sleeping arrangements. One in particular stands out. We has spent a few days lazing around and exploring the stunning Lake Toba, while enjoying the fantastic hospitality of Mr Moon at the Liberta Guesthouse. We were leaving for the smallish town of Bukkitinggi, nestled on the flanks of Mt. Merapi, one of the countless active volcanoes that run through the archipelago. Ahead of us was a 1.5 hour ferry trip, followed by a 17 hour overnight bus marathon. Taken alone or together, neither is particularly challenging. However, when you have recently (while waiting for the ferry) discovered that you have acquired a considerable dose of gut-rot, the prospect of an extended bus trip to the soundtrack of HORRIBLE dangdut and clouds of acrid kretek smoke, becomes as attractive as a politics lesson from Sarah Palin. Dangdut is pretty hard on the ears. Its common throughout Indo, and it seemed that bus drivers used it as a pick-me-up to get them through the long trips. In fact, now that I think of it, there haven't been too many long public bus trips in South East Asia where I have experienced peace and quiet from the P.A. system.

Anyway, it didn't do anything to help soothe Fam's upset stomach. We had our dinner stop at around 11pm at an anonymous road-side diner. These places are built solely with the purpose of feeding and watering long distance travellers as efficiently as possible. Food is rarely cooked to order, instead the ubiquitous Nasi Padang Minang (a self-service system of lukewarm curries with rice, this version being local to the Minagkabau region of Sumatra) reigns supreme. I'm a huge fan of the stuff, which unfortunately leads to a Russian-roulette style of eating; you know that eventually you'll get sick, but the amazing food is worth the few days of illness that will eventually catch up to you. So I, as usual, ate more than my fill, while Fam went off to find the W.C. She emerged a short time later, and promptly informed me that the amenities needed to be seen and used to be believed. I polished off the last of my delicious rendang and ventured forth, quietly excited about what I was to face. I was expecting the worst in terms of hygiene, but what I found was generally quite clean. Privacy, on the other hand, was something that was comparable to that found in ancient Roman baths.

Now, wikipedia (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Human_height) tells us that the average Indonesian male to be approximately 158cm, or 5'2 inches tall. The research methods of this survey may not be the best, nor the most up to date, but rest assured, I am a lot taller than the average Indonesian bloke. The reason I bring this up is to do with this restaurant's attempts at providing privacy for gentlemen who needed make use of the squat pans. They had supplied four pans, side by side, facing a central trough of water that was to be used for flushing, face washing, hand washing and other general ablutions. Your rear faced square into the faces of the guys waiting patiently, and you were separated from your neighbour by a wall that would have measured 40cm high, at a stretch. Fam assured me that the women's quarters were a mirror image, and certainly not the sort of place you would want to be with a crook gut. I wouldn't say I'm prudish, but I was not used to getting down to business at such close quarters to grinning blokes. A small incident of stage fright occurred, and was overcome, and away we went. While it wasn't the nicest experience, it ensured that my last vestiges of toilet privacy hangups that remained after a certain Indian experience (more on that later), were thrown to the wind and banished.


Real Life in Charan Khad

2008 was the final year of my Bachelor of Health Sciences degree. All students were required to complete a work placement, a program designed to give a degree of experience of a working health program in somewhat controlled conditions. I was at a loss as to where and who I should approach with my proposal, so I paid the coordinator of the placement program a visit. I had crossed Shane's path on a number of occasions through my time at university, but hadn't had too much direct dealings with him. He immediately threw caution to the wind and challenged me to do something different...

"How about doing your placement in India?"

Fair enough. Between us (mainly him) we secured a study grant, fudged some of the security-based questions on the university forms and within a few months, I was on my way to the Northern town of McLeod Ganj, via New Delhi. My initial experience on arrival in New Delhi was extremely challenging, and probably needs a few thousand words of its own, so I won't go into it here, suffice to say that it involved late night busses, misguided assistance, slick scams, post 1:30am hotel searches and an overpriced exit of the city. Like I said, it needs its own place. I began my placement a few days later with the wonderful Tong-Len charity, in the neighbouring city of Dharamsala.

Tong-Len provide a wonderful service to the residents of Charan Khad, the largest migrant slum camp in the surround region. They offer free health care for all, education for children, micro-loans for women and a stronger form of advocacy than what the residents can provide for themselves. All four approaches work together to ensure that the basic living conditions are improved, and that the children have an opportunity to rise above the life they were born into. My role was ambiguous, while at the same time, ambitious. I was expected (as the only 'educated' adult in the local organisation) to provide answers to problems, solutions to quandaries and part with a wealth of western knowledge. In reality, I was bobbing around like a cork in the ocean. During one of the fortnightly health clinics offered in the slum, I felt the inescapable urge to visit the throne. I politely explained the situation to one of the local guys and was promptly lead to the gents. We skipped and dodged our way over and around the children's' waste (they had a habit of dropping their strides whenever and wherever the urge took them) and found ourselves at the edge of the camp. I was pointed down a reed-lined path with a reassuring smile from my host, so away I went, and found myself on the banks of the river. A busy bridge spanned the watercourse, over which many of the cities residents were going about their daily business. I looked for the toilet, and to my slight dismay (but not surprise), I realised that I was in fact standing in the middle of the community's toilet. When in Rome, eh? The term dodging landmines has held a very specific meaning for me ever since.

I could talk toilets for forever and a day, but fear that it would probably get partially tedious. And there is a point to all of this. I think. Toilets are a basic reflection of a our living circumstances, right? We know that the proper disposal of human waste is a key in reducing the incidence and prevalence of certain illnesses, and as such, when we can afford to ensure that the waste is disposed of safely and cleanly, we will. When we can afford to ensure that the process is as comfortable as possible we will. Heck, Iron Mike Tyson even splurged on a GOLD toilet. Once the basic necessity of sanitation is achieved, those with cash to splash, will splash that cash. The three examples above all have a legitimate explanation behind their design and existence; Marcus and Anne's property wasn't connected to mains water and the local sewerage system, hence the need for a self-contained and private dunny, removed from their main living quarters. Not ideal, but within the bounds of the situation, absolutely appropriate. The Sumatran bus stop handled high levels of use, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. It was situated (from what I could make out) in the middle of nowhere, and needed to process as many bums as possible, as fast as possible. I mean, who's going to open the sports page and have a read when a)squatting, and b)squatting in front of 5 random blokes, and between 2 others. Common sense I guess. Charan Khad's facilities perhaps spoke most fluently about their life situation; as illegal squatters, the local authorities would not provide them with running water, drinking water, healthcare or education. They needed a method of ensuring that their waste did not foul their living arrangements too much, and the river was the best solution. God help the next community downstream, but that's how the cookie crumbles in that part of the world.

This leads me to the crux of my meanderings; The Dutch. Geographically challenged, the population of approximately 16.5 million Nederlanders are squeezed into an area of 41,525km2, giving them a population density of approximately 400 people/km2. Its tight up here. To put that into perspective for people in Australia; little old Tasmania is about 68,400km2, with a population of roughly 500,000. The overall population density of Australia runs at about 2.6 people/km2. Claustrophobia versus space. In terms of technology, healthcare, education, public transport, drinking water quality, infrastructure and all other indicators of development, they are close to world leaders. The people are generally practical, good humoured and possess a healthy dose of common sense. In short, they seem to have their heads screwed on properly. That is, except for their version of the western toilet. For a nation that produces engineers so skilled that they are able to keep the 60% of the population who live below sea level dry, the design of the local crapper is slightly baffling. From the outside it appears normal - a well plumbed and comfortable throne upon which to solve the problems of the world. Open the lid however, and its a different story. Instead of a carefully placed water reservoir, ready to gulp down whatever it is fed, the Dutch loo presents its user with the dreaded plateau. Otherwise known as 'the inspection shelf'.

The shelf sits approximately 10cm below most dangly bits, and as the name suggests, is a mostly-flat surface devoid of water. I can't for the life of me understand the logical reason for this. It appears to use the same amount of H2O that a standard toilet in Australia does, yet the design encourages the most basic scourge of all toilet users; skidmarks. Without a spray of water directed perpendicularly at the receiving area, more often than not evidence of the job at hand remains. I have learned that there is a veteran's technique that ensures no skidders, but does nothing to reduce the offensive stench that is produced. Apparently the smart approach is to lay a carpet of paper on the plateau, so as to provide your prairie oyster with a swift and friction-free entry to the sewer. All I know is that it still smells nasty, carpet or no carpet.

Toilets, they're serious business.

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