Where There Is No Toilet

When we arrived in Swaziland, we were given a book titled Where There Is No Doctor.  This practical guide serves as a reference for your basic bush ailments and is best left on the shelf to collect dust because extensive studying of it can lead to unnecessary anxiety and inaccurate self-diagnosis.  In light of recent conversations with my sister who has developed an academic interest in global defecation practices and sanitation, as well as one too many personal emergency bush dumps, I feel that a more useful guide should be developed: Where There Is No Toilet.  Since this has yet to be written, I have decided to take matters into my own hands.  A year ago I would have had more class than to publish the intimate details of poop life in Swaziland on the internet, but when my first task of the day is to haul a bucket of my own urine to dump behind my hut while all the neighborhood school kids observe, there’s not much pride to be maintained.   And let’s face it, poop is hilarious no matter how old you are.  They say you’re not a real Peace Corp Volunteer until you’ve pooped yourself.  On that note, if you ever find yourself in the bush, take into consideration these suggestions from a real PCV:

• BYOTP.  Yes, long gone are the days of BYOB (not that there’s any booze worth bringing in the country – last night I dreamt that I got into a fist fight over the last bottle of Blue Moon…).  Bring your own TP.  TP is a luxury here.  Most Swazis use newspaper clippings as TP.  One morning I found a photo of my fellow PCVs on the newspapers hanging in the latrine.  I promptly removed the clipping and informed my family that it was disrespectful to wipe their butts with photos of my friends. 
• NEVER shine your headlamp down the pit latrine.  Trust me. 
• Don’t be phased when you’re greeted my a child mid-squat next to the road waving, “How are you, Nosipho?”
• I know I’ve said it before, but never trust a fart.  Seriously.
• When it rains, be prepared to use force to fight goats seeking shelter in the latrine. 
• Be wary of picking up pant-less children, 9 times out of 10 it ends poorly and every time you wear that shirt, your host mom will remind you that it is your “poof shirt.”
• Leftover tissue paper from care packages serves as a fine substitute for TP when you run out.  A bit rough on the bum, but it beats newspaper.
• Before closing the door to the latrine, check for snakes and rats.
• In case of emergency mid-run bush poops, it is always preferable to sacrifice your underwear in order to wipe and then abandon them in the bush.  It makes for a much more pleasant commando 5-mile walk back to your hut. 

Overall, it is best to embrace the latrine experience.  I quite enjoy my morning trips to the outhouse and often find myself spending long than necessary in there as I chuckle over the ridiculous newspaper articles hanging inside.  My personal favorite was an interview with a movie star in which she notes, “My faith is very important to me.  Every night I read my Bible.  After that I like to relax by reading Fifty Shades of Grey.”  Come on, girl…

I hope that I haven’t offended any of you and if you ever find yourself where there is no toilet, that you’ll take this advice to heart.  That being said, when you walk down the hall to your porcelain flush toilet, be grateful for the absence of cockroaches, for the softness of the toilet paper and the cute embroidered teddy bears on it, and for the fact that once you flush, you’ll never see that poop again.

The world is your stage and the bush is your toilet