Toilets I Have Known

All my life!

TOILETS I HAVE KNOWN


Yes, an absurd topic for discussion, but as they say; "even the Queen needs one".

Talking of which, I remember the great excitement in 1959 when the Queen Mother visited the Copper Belt in what was then Northern Rhodesia. She was due to see the women's project in which I was involved, teaching women who had come straight 'out of the bush' to live in rows of western houses with their husbands who had started to work as miners. For example, they had to be shown bread and how to use it. As well as flush toilets. We had to prepare for the visit and there was always the possibility that the QM might be called short (there are endless pseudonyms for that bodily function in our society). Our outside hut was scrupulously scrubbed and whitewashed and then a frantic call around amongst the white workers' wives brought forth a wonderful Victorian silver-backed set of hairbrushes! Mission complete! But she never went near it...

Thousands of ordinary people have used the Queen's toilets though. I am referring to those vast 20,000-guest garden parties and the large numbers of visitors to Buckingham Palace during the summer opening. When Buckingham Palace was opened a year sooner than planned after the fire in Windsor Castle in 1992, it was because the Queen had to fund the reconstruction of the damaged parts of Windsor Castle. During the first few years, the portacabin taps and loo handles for these hoards of gawpers were 'gold'. Now they are bog-standard portacabin rented 'chrome'. Even the Queen has to economise.

My earliest memory of independently using a ‘toilet’ was during the war when my father, being a possible German agent, was only allowed to do guarding duties in SA. I was on the verandah and Dad’s metal helmet was lying about. Turned upside down, it was a very convenient receptacle!

I left SA in 1962, when the language of Afrikaans was getting its pride established. Known as Die Wonder van Afrikaans (The Wonder of Afrikaans) there were annual fests to celebrate it and of course, later, the compulsory teaching through that medium which led to the student riots in Soweto and the start of the end of Apartheid. But when I left SA, I still spoke in the accepted vernacular and the language had not become 'smart'. Thus, when I go back there today, 45 years later, I use the word 'kleinhuisie' which means 'small house'. My younger Afrikaans-speaking friends crack up with laughter at such an old-fashioned word! Of course, to them it is 'toilet'. Anyway, what we had was the efficient system of night-soil-by-bucket-removal. In other words, an open wagon with large foul-smelling empty buckets and drawn by oxen, plied the roads of our village. The back flap of this outside building was lifted, the full bucket removed and an empty one inserted. I never found out where the buckets were emptied. The same system has been used for centuries in urban areas and probably still is in parts of the world. Just think of the endless rows upon rows of back-to-back houses in Industrial England with their narrow soil-removal lanes. But it can sometimes go wrong when the bucket is not removed in time... I had hired a car and was driving up the west coast of SA a few years ago before it was accepted that dark-skinned people had equal rights. Many would stand on the outskirts of towns and wait for a vehicle with room to take them further. I used to pick up several of these people, always believing that their gratitude would protect me. To me it was natural to help and obviously not charge money to a fellow human being. My parents and friends were horrified in Apartheid SA. "You could be killed!" was the usual cry. But on this particular occasion I had as usual driven right into the 'banned' area to drop them off and then needed to 'go to the toilet' (we were speaking Afrikaans, so I no doubt said 'kleinhuisie'). With humble apologies because the night-men had not been to this over-crowded slum, I was pointed to a small building where the bucket was definitely overflowing and there was no seat to sit on. Not a happy situation, but when one is desperate, anything can do, as I have learnt throughout my life.

My South African upbringing was long ago enough for me to remember what life was like before the concept and luxury of indoor toilets was an accepted part of architecture and plumbing. Yes, we had running water and a copper burner above the bath in which dried corn cobs were burnt to produce warm water, but otherwise it was a potty under the bed and a walk down the garden to the outside kazie (another of the myriad words for that building) which backed onto a road. Note how I am using many of the euphemisms associated with this subject!

Ashamed to admit it, but I also invented a container for urine when I was a frightened child at school and could not contain myself. I sat in the back of the class. We had wooden school benches with seats which could be lifted for book storage… It saved me from listening to the cries of fellow-students; ‘We know where you’re going!’

Undoubtedly as smelly as the aforementioned kleinhuisies are the garderobes built into the outside walls of medieval castles where the waste products from the gaps in the thick walls dropped straight into the moat below. No wonder they hung all their smart clothes nearby so that the foul uric acid air could kill off any bugs the garments might have picked up. One of the most effective ways of entering a castle or escaping from it, used to be through the use of these non-defensive apertures. The thought alone calls for pinched noses!

When we were studying the history of the City of London, our lecturer used to take great delight in showing us where the first ever public toilets in the time of Queen Matilda in the 12th century, were built. They overhung the river Thames and there was an open row of planks with 80 holes. But sharing a toilet was always part of our history until the 20th century brought in a new prudery. In the Yorkshire Dales the garden of a friend in a remote and isolated cottage sported a stone shed which still had the double-hole seat from its previous use intact. It never occurred to me until recently, but it was either for the joy of sharing company and a chat or, as I realised here in Africa with its pit latrines, to spread the waste more evenly. I prefer the former reason!

In Ghana, when staying in a village, I regularly had to use the communal waste latrines. Normal liquid was flushed down the open sewers from the washrooms which were scrupulously cleaned every day, but the need for defecation was a social occasion. 'Would you like to join me?' my friend would ask. Off we'd go to where a woman would sell you a piece of newspaper. Children went free, but only got a scrap of paper. The latrines were in open reed cubicles and one walked past squatting ladies (strict separation of the sexes was adhered to) until a vacant space was found. A large woven basket in each cubicle received the paper after use.

The use of paper of whatever quality is a sore point: Nowhere in poor or Muslim countries do public places supply any kind of paper. Thus my daily checklist before setting out of my bedroom, is always; ‘Do I have enough toilet paper for the day?’ It is anathema in any case for many of these people who are brought up with strict rules of cleanliness and hygiene. I think there is an element of this in the widespread custom of FGM (female genital mutilation) although I have not read about it. Otherwise, if you are lucky, there is a means of obtaining water for washing, available. This can be from the sophisticated tap-with-nozzle at seat level to the bucket/jug of water inside the space and all examples downwards from there. Of course one is never expected to dispose of used paper in pit-latrines or any kind of non-flushing as well as flushing-but-inefficient/blocked systems.

The latter system of collecting the paper is universal in countries where there is not adequate drainage and the pit below can quickly be filled or the drainage system is not sophisticated enough to cope with anything unnatural. Many a toilet is thus blocked and leads to very uncomfortable usage by others. And one can judge the sophistication or foreign-visitor-user status of a toilet by whether there is a notice for people to please put paper in the basket of plastic bucket provided, or not. And I remember a dear friend from a former Soviet Satellite State who used to visit me in London and would make a point of not flushing her used paper. Old habits die hard. This waste separation was interesting to me when I stayed in the house of a Muslim family in the water restricted town of Marsabit in Kenya. They had built their house themselves and the indoor toilet was strictly liquid only. Outside is a separate pit-toilet for other waste products.

On the rooftop of the Saharan town of Mopti in Mali, there was nothing but a mud surround and the mattress provided for my comfort. In case it ever rained, there was a small hole through the mud surround and my host told me emphatically that I must not go down the rickety ladder at night, but must use the area by the hole for a pee. The next morning there was no trace of liquid as it had all dried up in the heat.

The best toilet of all is of course the countryside. However, in over-populated Africa, every stop in the remotest of places soon becomes a site in which numerous children suddenly appear from ‘nowhere’. But if one can avoid them or make clear one’s intentions, it is such a natural place to be. And although I usually carry paper with me, if I need them, there are often large leaves around, as long as one knows how to identify a nettle. I fondly believe that I am helping to fertilise the land. I have read that, in China, before the people lost their peasant way of living, there were (maybe still are) small structures where they invite you to enter and also thank you for providing them with fertilizer.

During treks in Africa, whenever I have been on camp-sites, the facilities are inevitably dire and one longs for the open countryside! Sadly, too many trekkers mean that facilities have to be provided; and who is there to monitor it? Mind you, at the very well-organised eco-tourism trek I once did in Ethiopia, there was a self-checking scheme so that, if the local person, who cared for the campsite, did not provide buckets of water and loo paper, one could deduct a certain percentage from the camping fee for that site. Immaculate!

My children and I belonged to a wonderful organization called Forest School Camps in which children are allowed to live in remote places without running water or electricity for a few days/weeks. Everything is done under canvas and if you forget your bread or socks outside the tent at night it is inevitably eaten by the sheep or soaking wet. Thus children soon learn to care for their possessions! Of course, there has to be some sort of hygiene facilities and the beloved ‘lat’ is a source of endless stories and celebrated in song. The ‘latrine’ is a hole behind some Hessian walls and paper is cleverly stored under a waterproof cover. You are encouraged to use the trowel with which to cover your contribution and there is a water-bucket system and soap outside. Children learn to value their conveniences at home very quickly! But they also learn to trek in the countryside with a trowel.

The West is obsessed with ‘toilet training’ and the over-use of nappies (diapers). It is a pleasure to see African or Oriental children allowed the freedom to roam without pants in the warmth of their countries. They soon learn where to go and the sphincter muscles come into use just as language skills develop naturally too. Many a Westerner has been psychologically traumatized by the toileting demands placed by anxious parents. I also shudder at the waste and landfill problems produced by disposable nappies… But that is another subject.

Luxury on the other scale can always be guaranteed to come from America. I remember reading in a magazine how Jackie Onassis even has hot water in her toilets! Shock horror! The Americans call a toilet a bathroom though. A few years ago I was staying in a lovely private house in Philadelphia where I had the guest room which was naturally en suite. Imagine my surprise and pleasure to sit down and find that the seat is softly upholstered! One could ride up and down to great delight on its bounciness. Now that is real luxury! However, if you visit Hampton Court Palace, you can see the indoor cabinet used by King William 111 in the early 17th century. The wooden seat with a hole is covered by a round upholstered red velvet cushion. But there is no flushing water! The contents of these Royal deposits would also of course be inspected by the Groom of the Chamber and one sees so well how he was utilized in the play/film about the ‘Madness’ of George 111 (beginning 19th century). The daily contents/contribution had to be inspected and reported upon.

In Addis Ababa, the only working ATM machine is within the Sheraton Hotel. This is one of the best hotels in the world but it overlooks some of the worst of the poor areas of the city (open drains serve them). As a prosperous white-skin, I could easily walk in and use the ATM machine. The great joy on these trips was to go to the Ladies (and I was told the Gents was the same) and indulge in a seat which is intact, toilet paper which is soft, soap, towels, mirrors and other gold fittings. However, the feeling of contentment came from just knowing that the plumbing worked!!!

Similarly, exotic marble and gilt Rest Rooms or Ladies Powder Rooms in Harrods Department Store in London were for years a handy bolt hole, even if one was not buying anything. And then, about 15 years ago, disaster struck! The English use the term 'to spend a penny' and here Harrods was putting a price on it! All of a Pound Sterling! Last I heard it is now 2 Pounds. But, as you depart, you receive a squirt of the perfume being promoted that day.

Similar disaster struck the tourist industry when the once-free Public Conveniences next to Westminster Abbey suddenly began to charge 50 pence each. When your group has reached the stage in the morning when they need to go before the gruelingly informative tour of the Abbey and then the rush to catch the Changing of the Guard, you do not need to be inconvenienced like that. Protests and petitions were the order of the day. I left England before the issue was resolved.

Thinking of the words, why does the English language not have an equivalent version for 'en suite'? Is it part of our notorious prudishness to pretend that the fact that a loo is included cannot be mentioned? Just like the Americans pretend that a bathroom does not mean a toilet facility? Even in the smallest and most modest of hotels in which I have been staying here in Africa, the term en suite is still used. Or, to be fair, the term 'with shower’ is also used and that automatically implies that there is a toilet attached.

The word ‘loo’ comes from the French term Regardez de lieu! In the narrow, crowded streets of Medieval Europe, with no piped water, the overnight chamber pot would be emptied out of the window onto the cobbled street below where the contents would hopefully be flushed down to the river by the rain. But people were warned of the imminent downpour…

In London’s King’s Road, tourists are shown the house in which the 18th century inventor, Thomas Crapper used to live. He was not the first to use water, but he did invent the flushing toilet, hence the not-quite-so-polite term we often use to indicate what we want to do. Water has always been a means of flushing and one can see the remains of sophisticated methods all over the ancient world. The rows of ablution facilities in the Roman remains of the Fort at Housesteads on Hadrian’s Wall, which was built to keep the unruly Caledonians out of England, are well-preserved.

My first visit to India was relatively recent. I arrived late in Mumbai and was willing to take whatever hotel my ‘guide’ offered me. In the light of the next morning I left the confines of the hotel to find myself stepping over many bodies of sleeping homeless people. Expected. But the memory of the stench so often associated after that with India as a whole, and the care with which one had to dodge the human turds, was not so happy.

Sadly, most sophisticated African porcelain toilets are not what they were like when they were initially unpacked. With their chronic inability to maintain anything, the African system is to just allow items to deteriorate. Therefore and inevitably the seats are missing or broken and the cistern has its top damaged or is non-existent. This often means that the innards of the tank are also damaged. Fortunately I understand how a cistern works, and many a times have had to delve into it to pull the necessary catch. Just remember that this is clean tap water in there! In the hot weather, it is also a very good place to keep your tin or bottle of beer cool. If only the profession of plumbing was an honorable one! One could make a fortune!

The Zanzibar Film Festival films were mainly shown in a grand museum known as ‘The House of Wonders’. This very imposing 1883 Sultan’s Ceremonial Palace on the seafront of Stone Town was the first on the island to have electricity, an elevator and piped water. The latter two do not exist any more and I had a lot of exercise climbing to the top floor where the films were shown. The ground floor ablutions, which were elegantly a mixture of squat and sitting facilities, were totally waterless. Fortunately large plastic buckets of water with smaller ones to use as scoops were supplied in the lobby. Generally, throughout the Muslim world where water is always in short supply or has to be bought, there is usually a container and scoop for the necessary purification. Non-Muslim communities are not quite so generous with water.

During the 19th century, the great British Empire, which derived its wealth from exploiting its vast areas of occupation throughout the world (‘the Sun Never Set on the British Empire’, they used to say), meant that people flocked to London. Not dissimilar to the millions who now enter Africa’s large cities where the lure of ‘Roads Paved with Gold’ still holds sway. But only the lure is different. Today it is for televisions and cars… In 1801 London was the first city in the world to have a million inhabitants. But there was no piped water and one can imagine the incredible stench and filth. By the middle of the century the situation was so bad that the Ministry of Sanitation finally had to do something about the spread of disease amongst other things and Joseph Bazalgette was appointed to design an underground sewerage system which involved vast tunnels to remove the waste. At the same time the London Underground train system was being built and the lowest point in London, on the side of the river Thames, was embanked. Thus the river there is a third of its natural width, which has resulted in ferocious currents which move up and down with the tides. All the waste was pumped into elaborate cast-iron pumping stations down river to the east of London where it was treated. A more sophisticated means is used today, but the sewers are still in good use and it is said that the water you drink in London has been though a human body at least seven times.

In Ethiopia especially, the men seemed to have no modesty about turning their backs wherever they were to relieve themselves. Well, it is a cultural thing and one just gets used to it. I seldom saw women squat though. I was told that, in Ethiopia, there is a certain community (no, I will use the non-PC word the modern Anthropologists and NGO workers want to ban: tribe. After all, you belong to a tribe, whether it is German, Japanese or Swiss) tribe in which women are banned and severely punished if they urinate between sun-up and sun-down. Because of the lack of piped water, most budget hotels in Ethiopia still have the delightful custom of supplying brightly coloured plastic chamber pots under each bed.

I was cycling in Fort Portal in Uganda with my Guide when I felt the need to ‘go’. Actually, in Uganda they call it ‘short call’. We were passing a thick banana grove and I suggested to him that I go in there. He was horrified. How could I possibly go into somebody’s property! He was right of course and I just had to twist my legs a bit more. A man would have had to tie a knot in it.

In Nairobi, the current Govt. is very concerned with the city’s image. The public lavatories which the Colonials had built, had been completely vandalized and were now being rehabilitated and are looked after by attendants. In the streets are proud notices stating; “Urinating here is unethical and prohibited”. But how they manage to stay healthy in overcrowded Kibera, the largest slum in Africa and only three kilometers away, is a wonder.

For many years I did Market Research interviewing throughout England. One always approached a run down Council Estate with trepidation. Inevitably, the stairs, even of a modest two-story building, were very smelly to say the least. Michela Wrong, in her book ‘In the Footsteps of Mr. Kurtz’, which is about Mobutu of Zaire, tells how she had to regularly climb the stairs of a 20-story building in Kinshasa. It had had no electricity for a long time. The stairs were used for you know what. Of course, the same very often applies to the ideal conditions provided by elevators.

Lome in Togo will always be associated in my mind with the lovely broad beach across the boulevard from my hotel. Teams of boys played football and wonderfully organized teams of fishermen hauled in their heavy fish-filled nets. The beach dropped suddenly to where the waves crashed against a two-meter dip in the sand. In the late afternoon, many people would be seen going to this drop in the beach and I soon found out why. It is used as a communal public defecation toilet… The smell was strong and this was the reason for the lack of tourists in their luxury Hotels across the road from availing themselves of this superb beach. Similarly, but more distressing for the tourist industry versus the need to continue their age-old customs, is the incredibly clear seawater and white coral sand beaches of Zanzibar which are used as places to dump. But of course, the need is always here and has to be solved. And I do not think that the East African habit of using a plastic bag as a container which is then slung onto a rubbish heap is the answer either.

A brave and dedicated man is Richard Chiswell, who has created a charity called the British Toilet Association (BSA). He has fought relentlessly against the local British Authorities who have neglected or closed most of their public conveniences. One way of trying to stop the inevitable ‘decline’ is to have an annual ‘Loo of the Year Award’. This is held in glittering premises and is attended by the celebrities one usually finds at charity dos. Prizes are awarded for the best, cleanest, most disabled-friendly, best women’s, best men’s, best shop, best Hotel and so on. The elaborate certificates are proudly displayed in the winning premises. Richard and his patient wife inspect hundreds of such places of ease each month and they leave voting forms behind for the public on which to write their verdict about that particular site.

Now I have used another word for it. And that reminds me of the common usage in most homes like loo or bog or toilet. It is only the politically correct or maybe pretentious, who try to use the ‘correct’ (?) word. On occasions I am one of them. I was visiting the new home of a friend of mine and as we were chatting outside, I asked her four-year-old son to please show me the lavatory. He proudly marched me to the back garden and pointed out their apple tree. Alliteration for a boy who had never heard that word.

When I set off on this trip I had recently had a massive bout of Botox injections. No, not to my face where I believe that the lines and bumps tell a story and show that you have lived, but to my bladder. 'What a waste', some people might say! Having had OAB (Over Active Bladder) all my life, the scientific experiment was to find out if those over-active nerves in the bladder lining which tell my brain that it needs to evacuate all the time, can be calmed down. Magic! It worked and I could control the emptying of my bladder. Except that this meant I had no idea when my bladder was full. I was trained to use a self-administered catheter at whenever seemed the appropriate time. The Botox-effect eventually wore out, but I fondly remember, when traveling through the African Sahel in my voluminous Arab robes, that I could move away from the bus passengers at whatever smelly stop they were using and stand quite nonchalantly whilst quickly inserting a catheter and doing the deed as though nothing but a passing camel was of interest.

Throughout the Middle and Far East and in most of Africa, people grow up with squat toilets. They have a great advantage over us Western spoilt sitters. We never exercise our leg muscles in the same way. Now that I have been using squat toilets for months, it is good to know that I can get up without the previous grunting and grabbing at anything that could haul me into an upright position which I used to have to do!

I defy anyone to deny that they have not contemplated or done a widdle or a piddle or a pee in the sea!

Finally, if ever there is a heartfelt plea, it is to men who want to have a slash and do not lift the seat. PLEASE!