Toilets, Toilets Everywhere But Not a Seat to Sit

Using a toilet, I thought, was a very simple matter. However, as I travel through Madagascar, I have found out that all toilets are not created equal. I have vague memories of learning this lesson in my past – a hole in the floor of a boat in Istanbul sticks out in my mind. However, I have blocked out almost all of the details of any non-Western bathroom experiences. Outhouses and porta-potties are the closest thing I have really encountered in terms of dealing with bathroom related trauma.

Madagascar has been a virtual shmorgas board of toilet experiences. And as my travel adventures progress in this country so do my bathroom adventures. I started my travels in the capitol of Antananarivo where I found the Western porcelain toilet in my hotel room. Although amazingly the city rarely smells of urine, it is quite common to see men stop anywhere on the sidewalk, angle their back to the street, and nonchalantly mark that area. As I moved to Ranamofana National Forest for my first month of shooting, I took this free-wheeling approach to urination. The American research station I was staying at had amazing private bathrooms with even hot showers, however at night we lived in tents across the street and up a hill. I was often too lazy to trek back across the street for my ritual evening pee and the “bathroom” by the tents looked exactly like the one found in the movie “Slumdog Millionaire.”

But it wasn’t until one of researchers asked me to join her on a nine day trek into a remote part of Madagascar when I realized how difficult toilet matters can be. It took four days to drive only 120 km. The degradation of the road to the village of Ivato was paralleled by the progressively worse toilet situation. On our second night of travels, we stayed at a hotel rarely frequented by foreigners - very simple place where one was lucky to not find bed bugs. There was a bucket shower and a communal toilet to boggle the mind.

I am now convinced that all toilets should come with instructions – pictoral instructions similar to the emergency pamphlets found in planes. In this hotel’s bathroom, I recognized the porcelain type material found in the small room. I even understood the properties behind the whole in the floor. But for the life of me, I could not convince my bowels to work out the process I know they needed to do. After standing upright and hanging out for twenty minutes wondering what the hell I was doing wrong, divine intervention occurred and for some reason or other I used my hands to balance on the walls and I squatted down. Ah, success! It was only then that I remembered the term “squat toilet.” And squat you must do. However, even in yoga class, I am not very good at balancing and it became a real challenge to hold my nose in this bathroom while not falling in. But this “toilet,” I was soon to find out was just warm-up for the real show. This toilet was Shangri La compared to the one in Ivato.

I am a fan of going to the bathroom outdoors. There is a certain freedom to it while camping. I think the villagers of Ivato use this born-free method. However, as important guests of the village, we were provided an honorary location of camping out in one of the rooms of the village’s schoolhouse. With only good intentions, I am sure they were proud to provide us with such comfortable accommodations and the formal bathroom that accompanied this important building.

The bathroom was a small concrete walled shack with a drophole dug out of the soil packed floor. An ingenious addition to the drophole where two raised bricks that, like a professional diver, you stepped onto in order to help your body position itself for expulsion. The stench was overwhelming but the raised brick situation leave your hands accessable for nose-holding. Enormous spiders lived along the walls and I have scientifically concluded that spiders have no sense of smell. Despite the dread that accompanied each visit to this abode, there was a certain sense of fun and pride I have never found on a Western toilet. Aiming and making the hole was an exciting part of the day…never mind the two new species of nocturnal lemurs I might have filmed. I was thrilled to become a master of the squat toilet. Perhaps peeing on my feet from time to time, but I accomplished a level of efficiency that never required the little broom found in the room in case you missed. A five year old’s sense of potty trained joy flooded me with each visit. Of course, remembering toilet paper each visit created its own adventure that I do not need to elaborate upon. And perhaps this blog post was really more information than people wanted to know. However, these small differences in life and lifestyle are really what add up to make a culture its very own. These are the details of my travels and adventure that for some reason stick out. And I am now, ever more grateful for the culture of the American toilet…never again will I even complain about a roadside public bathroom.

If you have time, look up a YouTube video posted of a cat repeatedly flushing his owner’s toilet and delightfully watching the water swirl down the bowl. It must have been such a luxury compared to stepping into his previously used litter box. When I am back in the States, I plan to find this cat and maybe make the sequel movie to this ode to the toilet. At the very least, we might collaborate on some directional pamphlets designed for any level of language barrier.