The Most Disgusting Bathroom in the Whole Entire World

If there is one thing I have learned about myself as I have traveled the world over, it is that my need to use the restroom is directly proportional to the cleanliness of the facilities. For example, if the nearest bathroom is a shining example of modern technology in which the porcelain is practically gleaming,  I don't even have a thought to go. Yet, if the facility is oozing with filth and feces, it's a dire emergency. Even worse, if the toilet in question is of the famed "long-drop" "pit" or "squattie" variety (prevalent in many Asian and African countries) you can be sure that my cup runneth over. Even the name of the toilet grosses me out.

When I first encountered this toilet at an airport in Japan, I was unprepared to say the least. Where do I put my feet? What do I do with my pants? Which way do I face? I'M SUPPOSED TO SQUAT?? But I am a LADY!!  Horrors.  Using the bathroom suddenly became a daily epic event.  Unladylike and even slightly humiliating.   On my most recent trip to Tanzania, during a stop on a long bus ride, I entered the bathroom and quickly realized what I was up against. My heart began pounding and I became an instant  jumble of nerves. The stench was overwhelming, the floor slippery with dirt and water and what I can only assume to be waste.  Of course, the urge to go was overwhelming. Why God, WHY?  But that bathroom belonged to Martha Stewart compared to the following disaster.

No, THAT famous cesspool (it doesn't deserve to be called a bathroom) belongs to a ferry boat traveling between Bangladesh and India. The year was 2005. I was visiting a good friend in Bangladesh and we decide to spend Christmas in India. We are on a budget so we go as the locals go-rickshaw, ferry, bus. It was the eternal ride. At one point, we must cross a filthy river on an even filthier ferry. This ain't no pleasure,blue seas, fruity beverage ferry I'm talking about. This boat has clearly been in use since the days of Moses and possibly used to be another color. It is the middle of the night and I have been sleeping and wake up on the bus, which is now on the ferry, with an insistent message from my bladder.  Given my  current surroundings, I could not even begin to imagine what I would find to use as a bathroom. Resigned to my fate, I set out to find what I was sure was going to be my demise-Death by Asphyxiation. My friend  was ahead me with the same idea,  and I meet her at the bathroom. She steps out and....smirks. She SMIRKS at me!! She too knows that the  little Cubbyhole of Filth will be my downfall.

I take a deep breath and step inside a tiny cubicle. It is dimly lit, but not dim enough that I can't see what appears to be a mixture of slime and feces dripping from the walls and coating the floor.  I gasp. Which of course instantly brings the overwhelming stench straight to my delicate nostrils. My brain is instantly awake-must take care of business and get out.  I lean over to roll up my pants legs-something I should have done prior to entering. Did I mention that I was wearing flip-flops? Major no-no when using these types of toilets. It doesn't matter how clean it may be, do you really want your bare feet to be spattered by poop?
I didn't think so. I lean over to roll them up, and as I do, my orna  (the scarf part of my outfit that I wear to be modest in a Muslim country) falls to the ground.

So part of the orna  is now on the floor and my panic level is now at +100. I gasp for the second time in 60 seconds and yank it viciously up off the floor. A little too viciously, because it snaps back and lands on my face. MY FACE!!!!  It was just laying on a floor covered in God knows what,  and the contents of that are now on my face. And I am still getting an insistent message from the aforementioned bladder. On top of that,  I am also in an uber- heightened state of anxiety, the kind that should  require therapy and meds to recover. I yank down my pants and attempt to handle my business. It is at this point that my foot, clad in a flip-flop,  loses its bearing amongst all the slime and slips dangerously close to the actual inside of the toilet.

Remember, I am squatting. One wrong move and I will be IN the toilet.

I gasp, for the third time 90 seconds and am positive that I have already contracted a fatal disease. It is at this point in the story that the horror of the experience has been mercifully blotted out by whatever psychologists refer to as repressed memory syndrome, (or something like that).  You know, when memories are so bad, they just cease to exist in your immediate frame of mind? I may or may not have reached out and grabbed the wall to steady myself.  If I did, I don't remember, and that is a blessing.  Finally,  to make matters infuriatingly worse, do you know what came out ? A dribble. That's right. A tiny stream of nothing. Convinced that this is God's cruel joke of the day, I finish and fling open the door, gasping and practically weeping with relief. I hightail it back to the bus and proceed to wallow in  hand sanitizer.

This is the memory that has scarred me to this day and is the first thought in mind  when it becomes necessary to use this type of toilet, clean or not. On the return trip, I held my urge to go for 6 hours until I could arrive at a more civilized bathroom. That's right, I wasn't going down that road again. Bring on the bladder infection, but at least it won't have been contracted from a hole straight from Hades.

Ferry boat by daylight

For those of you that may not have ever seen this kind of toilet, I have included a photo of said contraption below. However, it is NOT the one in my story-just a visual for you readers. The clean version is presented here. The dirty version is forever in my memory. 

Mostly clean squat pot

SEGA School for Girls

Courtyard and classrooms

While in Tanzania, we had the opportunity to step off the beaten tourist path and make our way to Morogoro, a bustling, mid-size city with the beautiful Uluguru Mountains posing as a backdrop. Our mission was tri-fold: celebrate Thanksgiving, hike into the mountains to see Mustafa the strawberry farmer, and the main event: visit the Secondary Education for Girls’ Advancement (SEGA) school for girls.  The school was founded last year by American Polly Dolan and in conjunction with financial and technical backing from Nurturing Minds in Africa.  It was Polly herself who greeted us upon our arrival. Following her introduction was a hearty welcome by the girls who were prepared with a lively song and dance for us. Since it was the Muslim holiday of Eid, classes were canceled in favor of a morning spent working in the garden.

A FEW DETAILS SEGA has been in operation just one year and has been quite successful. So much so,  that when the new January 2010 term begins, the roster will nearly double. Thirty new girls will have the privilege of attending SEGA and the original girls will begin boarding full-time. Currently, 28 students between the ages of 14-17 are in attendance. The application process is fairly rigorous. Each girl must receive a passing score on the Standard 7’s, (standardized test in Tanzania) complete an interview, and participate in a home visit. Polly wants to ensure that each girl, as well as her family, is committed to her education. Parents are required to pay a small monthly portion of the tuition, and the remainder is made up by various sponsors that Polly, Nurturing Minds, and various other contacts have recruited. Tuition is approximately $700 per year.  This is a pittance compared to most private schools in the States, but an impossible, even impractical, dream for most Tanzanian parents.

WHY GIRLS? Girls are the ones that usually end up dropping out of school first in order to bear some sort of responsibility. That could be to maintain life at home, to care for siblings or ailing parents, to work, or to take care of their own children. Rape and sexual abuse is not uncommon. To compound the dire situation, marriage beginning at 12 years old is allowed by law. If they are not being exploited in this manner, it is quite possible that that will be sent to another country to become a domestic worker.  A Tanzanian girl who has finished her education is not common; yet, through the work of SEGA and other similar schools, this can and will change.

MORE THAN READING AND 'RITHMETIC Let’s get back to the garden. The garden in its current form is the product of the enthusiasm and extensive knowledge of Lindsey, an American volunteering at the school for about six months.  This project fills a few important needs. First and most obviously, the girls are growing food for themselves as well as their families. Each student gets their own row to plant and harvest. The girls will even be able to sell their food back to the school, thereby earning a little money. The payoff of this project is not just a full stomach or a few shillings, although both of those are vital and necessary. The real reward comes in the sense of pride and ownership that each girl can develop. Beans might be growing in the SEGA garden- but empowerment is growing in the souls of its students.

The morning we visited was blazing hot; not atypical for Tanzanians, but life-draining for us pansied Americans. The heat did not deter any of the girls from efficiently wielding shovels or hoes. Most of them even managed to look pretty happy about it. I marveled at the contrast between what I was watching, and what I was envisioning back home. I know plenty of American high school girls who would probably rather cut off their hair than work for even five minutes in a garden, especially one in sweltering heat. Then again, most American high school girls know when  they are going to eat next.

We wrapped up the visit with a simple and delicious meal of rice, beans and mchicha, a  green vegetable they are growing in their garden. The students get a hot meal every school day, cooked by a local woman. The community is involved in the education of these girls; from the cook, to the newly hired bus driver, to the security guard turned gardener who is also taking pride in some new lessons. Previously, he was only tasked with the job of ensuring nothing happened to the sparkling new facilities. Now, with a little training, he is teaching the girls how to best cultivate their rows of vegetables. His pride is tangible. The community impact has been immediate, but more importantly, sustainable. Not only are young minds being educated, but local resources are being utilized. The real fun began after lunch with a round of picture-taking. The ladies love that camera!

CONSIDER THIS.... The school is such a beautiful demonstration of a vision come to life. The best part? The obvious pride the girls took in welcoming us to their world. Each student seems so happy to be at SEGA, to be learning, interacting, growing,  and working towards something. Great women and leaders are in the imminent future for the communities of Tanzania because of schools like this one. I am privileged to have visited and to have met Polly, the volunteers, and the girls. Amanda, Suby, and I decided to pool our resources and sponsor a girl for the upcoming school term. We have been there and we can appreciate the work that is being done. Most importantly, we know exactly where our money is going. If you have any interest in contributing to this worthy cause, please let me know. There are more girls still waiting for this amazing opportunity. Interviews and home visits are being completed now for immediate admission to SEGA. If you want to check it out for yourself, please visit the Nurturing Minds website. Even better, head over to YouTube to watch a brief and poignant documentary produced by Katy Karnell,  our friend and contact in Tanzania, (whose home we stayed in) highlighting some of the girls' personal stories.  You will notice that the video was made prior to the total completion of the school, but the clarity of the mission is easily and quickly understood.      

A little lapse with my luggage.....

I went on an excursion with Adam just this past weekend to the moutains of West Virginia. Yes, I live in a mountainous area of West Virginia, but these were the real mountains. As in, I had no cell service the entire time. It was wonderful, beautiful, relaxing, awesome. All of the appropriate adjectives apply. In fact, it was so relaxing that when I left, I did so without taking any of my luggage. That's right-I just walked out of the cabin and into the car and left it there. Not a care in the world had I, not a single one. So the question remains: How is it possible that I can travel the world over-through cities, villages, deserts, savannas, and mountains, on planes, trains, buses, boats, rickshaws, and never lose or forget a single item of my belongings? Yet, I go two hours from home, still in my own state,  and leave all of my clothes. Unbelievable!  Bright spot in this cloud: At least I got a few good pictures.