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Today started out like any other day. I reviewed for an upcoming test with my junior class, I did some lesson planning interlaced with periodic newsfeed refreshes. I ate a great big lunch of pad krapow muu (spicy basil pork) atop a mountain of rice, dripping with the delicious yellow goodness of some poor chick who never had the chance to live. I came back to school, drank a cup of tea, and then it came time for my compulsory post-luncheon trip to the ladies’ room.
And that’s when my normal, like-any-other-day day turned. I did what I had to do (I’ll spare you the details), and then when I went to exit the facility to make my way to my lovely little M4 class for a lesson on asking for and giving directions, the door wouldn’t open. Of course, my first instinct was to assume I was being an idiot. I tried the door again… it didn’t open. I pulled harder– still wouldn’t budge. I even turned the knob to the left instead of the right (had I forgotten how to open a door?), but still to no avail. I looked up and down the door at the metal stall locks running horizontally on the bottom and vertically up at the top corner, but sure enough I had not used those, thinking the simple mortice lock on the door knob (yes, I did look up the name of that for the purpose of this story) would do the trick… which evidently it had as there was no opening this door. It seemed that when the button on the knob was released, the metal piece had still remained nestled in its nook on the wall opposite, leaving me helplessly stuck in the washroom with class starting in T minus…
…Nevermind. I heard the bell ring signaling the start of the next class. I’ve had the experience in Thailand of being unable to leave the bathroom, but this is usually the result of something I’ve eaten… never because I physically could not open the door. It was about this time that I realized that I would be making no graceful exit, so I started making noise. First, a few knocks hoping that some passerby would hear them and acknowledge that it was odd for the knocks to be coming from inside the bathroom, but it wasn’t long before I had both fists pounding relentlessly on the door, calling desperately for help in between fits of laughter.
Finally I heard an angelic little voice from the opposite side of my barricade… “Teachaa? Teachaa are you okay?” I told whoever it was (still unsure… it seems that they very politely decided not to remind me of my inglorious damsel in distress moment) to go fetch another teacher, and a few minutes later Kru Nok, Kru Fon, and Kru Ekawee had arrived. They tried the key a few times, gave the door a few good shakes, and when Ekawee was convinced that there was no opening this lock, he went Liam Neeson on its a$$ and pounded it in, ripping the metal lock right off the door and a big splinter of wood with it. I was free.
Buuuuuuuut then I had to explain to my students why I was late to class. Of course it had to be a foreigner, it had to be me who went and got herself locked in the bathroom. Of course it would have to be one of us clueless, incompetent little farang bumbling around here who had to be rescued from the toilet by her Thai colleagues. Of course.
P.S. After writing this I had to add a “toilet” tag to this blog. I didn’t expect to need one of those, but it turns out that my experiences here incite many-a toilet story.
I said that I’d take a break from contemplative posts. Well, true to my word, I think that this is about as far from contemplation as you can get… and I do mean that in the physical sense.
Warning: not for the faint of heart, or stomach. If you just ate, do not read this blog. If you are easily nauseated, don’t read this blog. If you wish to have another pleasant thought for the rest of the day, do not read this blog. Honestly people, what little dignity I have left is about to go down the shitter.
This is a little ditty about something we call the “squatter toilet.”
In Thai public restrooms, you’ve got about a 50/50 shot of landing a seater or a squatter. What is a squatter, you ask? Basically, it is a porcelain hole in the ground upon which you stand and literally squat while you take care of business. Luxury travel is a different story. If you can afford nice hotels, nice restaurants… if you stick to places that keep it clean, comfortable, and Western, you might be able to manage a couple weeks’ stay in Thailand with few to no encounters with squatters. But, if you are a budget traveler- forget it. Embrace it (figuratively of course)! Because squatter toilets are here to stay.
During my first week in Thailand, I managed to avoid squatters the entire time. It wasn’t purposeful avoidance, but I moved from one niceish, three-star hotel in Bangkok to some even nicer digs in Pattaya when my orientation group was evacuated from the city to escape the flood waters. I never happened upon one. It wasn’t until my second night in Suphanburi that my luck turned around. Cafe Art, a favorite Suphan hotspot, offered a pleasant lead-in to the world of squatters. Surrounded by soothing grey-blue walls, a pebble-covered floor, soft-lighting and the tintinntabulating sound of the faucet trickling into the toilet-side water bucket… the experience felt akin to relieving myself in a Zen garden.
[That water-bucket is not merely meant for ambiance, however. Oh, no. It serves the dual purpose in all Thai bathrooms of a sort of manual-flush. Once you’ve finished making your deposit, you have to scoop a bucket-full of water (or two, or three, or four… depending on said “deposit”) and dump it into the hole to incite the disappearing act.]
A few days after this first “go” a discussion ensued among my friends (only natural in such a mix of squatter novices and pros) that made me realize I had been doing it wrong all along! First line about to be crossed: I am a hoverer. Even with seater toilets. If it is a public restroom- be it Thailand or in the States- I refuse to sit unless in dire circumstances, like stomach cramps. I assumed that they were called “squatters” simply because of how much lower you had to go to hover. Blew my mind to learn that I had to stand on the thing. It also turns out that you’re supposed to face the wall. Now, this may seem obvious to any men out there– you guys are used to facing the wall. But for us women, this is new and uncharted territory. Never in my life had I gone to the toilet while facing the wall, and I never dreamed that I would. Just goes to show you the kinds of great new experiences traveling can create. Mind. Blown. Again.
Since these first few couple of weeks, I’d mostly gotten used to the “squatter” thing, though a trip to the hospital back in November did throw me for a loop. My teacher buds Kaitlin and Megan and I took a field trip to the Suphanburi Hospital together– a necessary step in obtaining our work permits. The hospital waiting room was crawling with people, and while we waited for our turns to complete our chest X-rays and urine samples (you know, to check us for meth and syphilis), we were instructed to administer our own blood pressure tests and check our own weights. When it came time for the urine sample, we were given plastic cups and pointed toward the bathroom. And what did we find? You guessed it– stalls of squatter toilets. The hospital bathroom was filthy. And it was quite a strange experience to pee in a cup over a squatter toilet and then walk back town the hall, holding my own cup, to deliver it to the nurse in reception. I’m just glad I didn’t trip.
In our hospital robes, posing in front of the flood-prevention sandbags
I must say, though, unsanitary though it may seem, the squatter toilet in the hospital makes a lot of sense. My shoes touched the same surface that some other presumably sick person’s shoes touched before me, but that was the worst of it. From the perspective of a “hoverer,” that isn’t so bad.
So, yes. For better or for worse, this is the squatter toilet. If only I could end this story right here. But, alas, I haven’t entirely mortified myself yet. The story goes on, and if you decide not to be my friend anymore after reading, I will understand.
The lack of toilet paper is yet another point about Thai bathrooms that takes some getting used to. Then, there is the issue that so many travelers face in whatever country they may be visiting, due to changes in diet and the water. The issue that I speak of, of course, is diarrhea. There- I said it. Crossed the second line. And I’m about to put about a mile more between this line and me. In my defense, this is one of the inevitabilities of foreign travel. A friend of mine here recently had to poop in the crystal clear waters of the Phi-Phi islands (ironic, no?) during a snorkeling venture, surrounded by a boat-load of friends. I know nothing can make this okay, but I am just trying to give you an honest recounting! Like I said before, it isn’t all baby tigers and fish heads. Things can get pretty shitty, too.
Imagine, if you dare, that you ask permission of a friendly Thai islander and restaurant owner to use the bathroom, and that you grab yourself a tissue before you head in. Imagine, now, that you use the squatter, and toss said tissue away, and begin to exit the bathroom only to be suddenly overcome with a feeling that you know will later require Imodium. So, you climb back on the squatter. Aim is of the utmost importance in this situation, but also rather difficult due to the height in squat-position. And time, it turns out, is of the essence. So, you miss. But there is no tissue, and you can’t very well leave the poor unsuspecting Thai folk to take care of the situation. You have very few options.
I had to scoop. And then toss. Scoop, and toss, and scoop, and toss, and then dilute what remained by throwing the water from the flush-bucket all over the floor. I am sorry! I know you didn’t really want to know this, but I kind of think that some stories, embarrassing and disgusting though they may be, just shouldn’t be kept to yourself. Or should they? Either way, you can’t say that I didn’t warn you. Oh, the joys of travel! I practically bathed in Purell for the full next week.
Chronicles of a Travel-Bug 