A Bosphorus Birthday

It's official, I will be spending some time in Istanbul, Turkey next month. Just got the ticket this past weekend. I am headed there for a long weekend, the kind you usually spend cleaning your closets and staying up late and generally lazing around. Not this time. Nope, I shall head to Turkey to make use of my long weekend. The crazier part about this is that I am doing this.....31 days prior to my wedding. My fiance isn't going with me. This could possibly qualify as insane, or at least prove detrimental to my relationship and/or any hope of a smooth wedding day.

What accounts for this madness you ask? Well, my childhood friend who posesses rather extravagant tastes, has decided that in order to lessen any potential angst associated with turning the big 3-0, he must spend his birthday in Europe. With 10 of his closest friends. Hence, I have christened this mini-vacation "Birthday on the Bosphorus." I really just like saying the word "Bosphorus"-I wasn't even completely sure what or where it was until prior to getting involved in this trip. So, for those of you who may also be Bosphorus ignorant, it is a strait, the world's narrowest used for international navigation and it forms part of the boundary between Europe and Asia. Since we will be in Istanbul, I plan on seeing plenty of the Bosphorus, possibly wading in it (can you even do that?) and pictures will abound in future posts. Bosphorus Bosphorus Bosphorus.

Now, let's get back to the fiance and the smooth wedding day. Truthfully, he is not wild about the idea of me traipsing off once again, so close to our wedding. I mean, really-there aren't too many guys out there who are urging their women to head off to foreign lands a month before they are to marry them, especially if the guy himself isn't even going.  But neither is he making it difficult for me either. After three years together, he knows what makes me happy and he knows that aside from him, travel is darn near at the top of the list. I also attempted to justify it by suggesting that I buy our wedding rings over there because they will be cheaper and the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul has far more of a selection than say, every kiss begins with Kay (jewelers).  However, I don't think he was entirely convinced by this angle of my argument. I just can't imagine why he didn't leap for joy at my thriftiness.
In short, I have a good man. He is not able to come with us, but that doesn't make him any less supportive of me going. A keeper, yes oh yes he is. With a honeymoon coming up, two trips for him simply just is not feasible. Darn that real job! Living the life of a substitute teacher these last six years has ensured that I just don't fully get "asking for time off." What is the meaning of all that nonsense?! If I don't want to work, I don't! If I want to go somewhere on a weekday, or for a month, I do! I will say that I am a little glum that he won't be coming with us. But if he came on this trip, he can't go on our honeymoon. And what's a honeymoon without a husband?

Ok, so maybe my wedding rings mission isn't entirely legitimate. However, if I am going to be a real Social Studies teacher (and I am going to be certified, as of next month....FINALLY!), I have to know about as much of our wonderful world as possible right? I feel the best way to become acquainted with the world is to visit its far-flung reaches, its well-known icons, its quirky islands, and its magnificent cities. The list goes on. It's my job to make the world come alive for my students, one country at a time. And by my last count, I have about 165 to conquer before I become the best Social Studies teacher EVER.  There-now if that doesn't justify the whole shabang, then I don't know what will.  We'll call it....lesson planning .

You Want Tampons?

Feminine hygiene!! Yes, the subject of any thought-provoking and inspirational post. Sorry folks, this was just too comical to pass up.

There we were on Zanzibar, lolling through each day at our own pace, enjoying life on the island. It was a  major effort just to get there, and we had no plans to do anything until the moment we had to leave. Then comes along a little "friend." You women know about this. You males do too, although you can never REALLY know until and unless you find yourself unprepared for this friend, whilst on an exotic island off the coast of southeastern Africa.  Amanda comes to both of us and asks if we have any of the necessary products. We both had a smattering of things, but not enough to suffice. This was going to require some proactive seeking. However, we were seemingly in the middle of nowhere, we hadn't seen but two other tourists since our arrival, there was no electricity, and why should we assume that the relief of a shiny blue "Tampax" package would be in the imminent future?  Fatma told us that Mombasa, the village store, (also a city in Kenya) was about a twenty-minute walk from our bungalow. However, Fatma had clearly been misguided on previous directions; our confidence in her was slightly shaken. Without a single alternative though, Amanda and I set out late one sultry afternoon, hoping to find "the goods." After the requisite twenty minutes, we got off the beach and walked into the village, hoping to see Mombasa in all of its glory, waiting to sell us some feminine products. Alas, 'twas not to be. There was nothing except a dusty road, some squawking chickens, and a woman fanning herself in the shade of her house. Not a hopeful sight.

We called out to her, shouting the name "Mombasa." Apparently we thought that would cause her to get right up and give us turn-by-turn directions. Confusion spreads across her face and we quickly realized our efforts here were going to prove futile.  As we were about to leave, she calls out something in Swahili and a guy comes out of her house, also looking similarly confused. She rattles off to him and he warily approaches us. We repeat the name "Mombasa" over and over again, pointing the direction we think it is, and he seems to get that the crazy white people need to go to the store. He turns on his heel and we start to follow him, assuming that he is going to take us to the corner and wave in the general direction, at which time we will merrily continue our pursuit of products. However, he appears to take his duty quite seriously, and next thing I know, we are back out on the beach, headed towards what we hope is Mombasa.....along with him and all of his friends.

We quickly realize that we and the Village People would be making this journey together, and that they are quite content to serve as our escort in the dangerous mission of acquiring feminine products. They are pleased as punch to be strolling along with us, and as for us, well, we are just plain amused at this point. Who knew this would turn into yet another event? Our attempts at conversation soon fell weakly by the wayside-their English was limited and our Swahili non-existent. No matter though, the boys were quite content to lead the way in silence. After an additional twenty minute walk, I began to fear that we were actually walking to Mombasa, Kenya, and not the  store. Perhaps we had not made our destination clear enough amidst all the pointing and squawking and posse-gathering. What could we do though? Nothing. Alas, a few minutes later, we wend our way through some fishing boats, up off the beach, through the "backyards" of some houses and lo and behold-Mombasa!!! The Promised Land. Or so we hoped.

Stepping inside was like stepping back in time to ye olde general store, African style. That place had everything. It was dim and dingy, sweltering and stuffy. There is only one little aisle by the counter in which to stand and peruse. You could also stand on the street and poke your head in the window. Then you must just call out your order to the shopkeeper while all the other customers around you wait your turn. Right then was a good time to ponder what "tampon" is in Swahili.  Never really thought that would be on the  "need-to-know" list for life.  Resigning ourselves to craning our necks across the counter, we intently search for our prize. Spying a shiny package we excitedly wait our turn. Except that some unfortunate kid has been sent with a list, probably by his mother, to Mombasa to do what seems like the grocery shopping for an entire month. So we wait, and wait, and wait. Our posse waits too. So now everyone-the boys, us, and the small crowd we have attracted- is standing around, waiting for us to purchase tampons.

Finally, the shopkeeper turns his attention to us and we point to what we think is our catch. Unfortunately, it is condoms.  "You want tampons? I don't have" says our man. We are crestfallen, but not for long. Instead, he hands us none other than a package of Always! Granted, it's not at all what Amanda would have chosen had she actually had a choice. But desperate times call for desperate measures. Yes please! We threw in some cookies and enough ice-cold bottles of Fanta to thank our posse and started the return trip. Handing the drinks to our new friends, slow smiles crossed their faces and they pranced off, probably to  aid some other hapless mzungu in their quest for necessities.

Bemused, we marveled that we had yet again found ourselves at the center of yet another event.  I am quite accustomed to purchasing my feminine products in the anonymity of Wal-Mart. I also know right where to find them when I need them and have never needed to enlist the help of nearly an entire village. But you know? It's all part of the adventure, and more importantly, the fun. I can honestly say I have never found myself in this comedic position, with a village of Zanzibarians scoping out every move. It's the stuff of legend.........and blog posts of course.

Anybody have any similar quasi-embarrassing experiences?? Perhaps not with tampons, but you get the idea. Share away if you do.

Sea-fari

 (i am STILL not going finish this saga. I try to keep these short to keep the attention of readers, but this one really got away from me and i had to divide it again. so part 4 will wrap it up. I PROMISE!)

After our dramatic arrival,  which caused no shortage of mayhem in our otherwise idyllic surroundings, it was time to get down to the business of relaxing on an exotic island.  First order of business: find out if the beaches are as beautiful as everyone says they are. Since we arrived in the dark and with other more pressing issues at hand, a cursory glance was all we could muster. 'Twas quite lovely to dine oceanside that first night though, listening to the roar and crash of the surf, feeling the island breeze gently knead our stress levels down to a wee bit of nothing.

One sweaty night of restless dozing later, the first morning on the beach dawned pleasant and bright. Grabbing a book and my camera, I headed out to inspect our surroundings, the Indian Ocean was beckoning. Aaahhh, here I come! And........there I go. The intensity of the African sun spares nothing and nobody-the water felt like it came from my grandmother's teakettle. Frolicking in the waves was not going to be on my list of things to do that day. Ok, well I CAN'T leave an exotic island without a tan! Mental note: must go back home in December and make everyone insanely jealous of my bronze hue. Settling in a chair with my book and a several palmfuls of SPF 15, (yes, that's right, SPF 15.. in AFRICA. way to go Claire), I feel as I am ready to live the island dream. And......ten minutes later, my fiery skin is begging for relief. With a grumpy sigh, I resign myself to the shade. No water fun, no golden sun. Let the reading commence.

Immersing myself in my book, I don't notice when the ocean disappears in front of me. I look up and ummm....wow that is some tide. The tide has receded to the line of the horizon and there are people walking and fishing in the shallows. Never in my life have I seen anything like it. Apparently, on the eastern side of the Zanzibar island, the pull of the tide is so strong that it utterly transforms the beach from one hour of the day to the next. What is left when it recedes is a miry clay that I can only describe as wet cement and gross. So gross, that it was of course,  time to start walking through it to get out to the shallows.    All the locals     appeared to be headed that way, why not us? Donning some less-than-flattering water shoes, we set out on our sea-fari. I wanted to take my camera on this little "walk," but the chances of me losing my balance, getting stuck in some sort of nastiness, or getting devoured by a man-eating coral reef, were pretty huge. I mean, sometimes I can't walk from my car to the front door without some small disaster occurring. If I lost my camera in the Indian Ocean, I would lose all of my pictures.  Then you would  be reading some hateful rants instead of humorous updates. Therefore, I elected to leave the camera behind and made sure to catalog everything in my brain.

Let me tell you, that little sea adventure was one of the coolest parts of the trip. Top 3.  With the help of a local kid who appointed himself our personal tour guide of the Indian Ocean (why are we always attracting would-be guides? Do we just always look lost?) we were able to navigate through the muck and out to the shallows, teeming with sealife.   I picked up several beautiful starfish, poked at a frightful looking sea snake, shrieked at a sea slug, saw countless brightly-colored fish previously viewed only at the aquarium,  and avoided the minefield of spiky sea urchins that littered the sandbar. Zanzibarians take full advantage of the hours that the tide is out and fish to their hearts content. I watched a woman calmly spear an octopus as if she was poking at spaghetti. Let me tell you I've never seen THAT before. This little expedition was so fascinating, that Amanda and I went out again the next day by ourselves. Thanks to our "guide" the previous day, we knew where to look for stuff. I even managed to do a little less shrieking.

part 2.

Leaving several would-be husbands behind, we set out to get to the eastern side of the island where we planned to do nothing but bask in the glorious blue of the Indian ocean under the Zanzibarian sun. First though, we had to actually get there. We had a vague set of directions from the owner of  Upepo's, the beachside bungalow in Bwejuu where we had reserved three nights. We knew we had to take a dalla-dalla, a ubiquitous form of public transport 'round those parts, and that the trip should take about an hour, but that was nearly the extent of our knowledge. Around 4 PM, we ventured towards the  market area where all the dalla-dallas converged in a teeming jumble of horns, livestock and shouting-enough to frighten any mzungu into taking a taxi.  We were determined though,  to have our dalla-dalla experience,  and we figured it would be simple to find one marked "Bwejuu." Indeed, this ended up being the simplest task of the journey. The village name was not plainly marked,  but we did manage to find some  overly helpful gentleman who directed us to the correct vehicle. Now, you will remember from my previous post that the ride turned out to be a veritable deathtrap in and of itself. What I did not mention was that unbeknownst to us, we had been set squarely in the sights of a street "entrepreneur."

The gentleman in question, upon determining our destination, hopped in beside me on the bench seat and made himself comfortable for the duration of the ride, keeping up a steady stream of chatter. Despite his claim to speak English, I understood only snippets of  his gibberish.  To compound matters, his monotone mumble and the din of street noise made me feel like I was watching TV in a noisy room with the volume on mute.  As the ride went on, I became increasingly perplexed. Why was he so intent on conversing? Where was he going? WHAT ON EARTH WAS HE ACTUALLY SAYING?(you can see my confusion above).  I finally just tuned out. Rude? Maybe, but I didn't know what else to do, and I had other things on my mind by then. You see, we had been on the dalla-dalla for well over an hour by that point and it did not appear as if we were any closer to any picturesque beaches. Even more worrisome, it was nearly dark, infringing upon one of my cardinal rules of international backpacking: Always get to the next destination BEFORE dark! Things just get a little spookier, a little more suspect and potentially more dangerous after the light of day has vanished, particularly if you are not even sure where it is that you are headed, which we clearly were not. We did not have a phone number or a street address, and we were now the last people on the transport. What we did have was an impatient driver, a persistent mumbler (heretofore called "Mumbles"), a map, and an email printout bearing the dubious directive "Find the white flag after Evergreen and proceed down the sand path." Whaaaaaat?

Our driver stops at a deserted intersection, and his buddy comes to the back to try to figure out what to do with us. According to our map,we knew we were not even in the correct village yet. Theoretically, it was the next village on the highway, but our driver wanted to let us out right there. Um. NO. We are not getting out a deserted intersection in the dark.  Period! That is when he decided that we would have to pay him more money to take us to Bwejuu. Since we had already paid thrice what the locals did and we weren't even there yet, we emphatically declared that he would not be getting more cash from us. I will admit, I got a tiny bit sassy with him.   Upon realization that we and our luggage would not be departing anytime soon, he begrudgingly threw the truck in gear and rattled on down the road. Then we saw it--a sign for Bwejuu!! Praise be to the heavens.  Something was off though, we were in the actual Bwejuu village, but seemingly far from any beach paradise.   To further complicate matters,  nobody had ever even heard of the place we were staying! It was at that point that I began envisioning us being dropped in the village and beseeching some kind Zanzibarian to let us crash on their floor until morning. Mumbles proved slightly helpful here as he valiantly attempted to understand what we were saying and relay it to the driver, albeit resulting in complete bafflement for all involved parties. To add to this hot mess, we passed by two guys standing on a corner eating something out of a bowl. One of them, upon seeing us hunkered down in the dalla-dalla, shrieked excitedly, threw the  bowl to his friend and hopped in the back of the truck with us and barraged us with questions...in English! Hooray for English at this point in the journey. We told him where we were going and praise be to the heavens once more--he informed us that he worked there, spouting the name of the owner and his work schedule.  Sweet relief.

A few bumpy turns later, we found ourselves deposited at the gates of Upepo Beach Bungalows, our home for the next three days. Saying our goodbyes rather hastily, we heaved ourselves out of the back, grabbed our luggage and trooped through the front gate-flanked by Mumbles and the guy with the bowl.  Of course.  I figured at this point that this episode was not going to end easily, but without a clear sign of what their intent was, we acted as if they were invisible. We found  Fatma, the Swahili-speaking Canadian owner, and practically wept at her feet, so happy were we to have arrived in one piece. She showed us to our room and then inquired about our entourage. We truthfully replied that we did not know what they wanted. As it turned out, big shocker here, they wanted money for the "extra" ride, and Mumbles declared himself our tour guide from Stonetown and that he needed payment for his services. ?????!!!! Oh, and the other guy? Fatma had never seen him in her life, negating his claim that he worked for her.  He wanted money as well, although I am not sure for what. What followed was a barrage of heated Swahili, with us watching the exchange like it was a game of ping-pong. Fatma repeated to us in English  their demand and reasoning for more money. It appeared we were beaten, since they had followed us to the very door of our bungalow. At this point, she tells us to go inside, lock the door, and not to open it for any reason. Now, we are not only annoyed, but a tiny bit scared as well. Fatma went off to get her husband, leaving the two swindlers at our front door, repeatedly knocking and requesting that we pay them.  Finally, Shareef, Fatma's husband raps at our door with a command to open up. "Do you know these guys?" he demands? No! And with that, Shareef singlehandedly ended the entire debaucle with a verbal assault and what I can only assume were threats on their lives. The rumble of the truck disappeared and we considered their fate-Mumbles had come all the way from Stonetown on the last dalla-dalla of the day, hoping to make a few bucks. There were no more tranports for the night. He would be stuck. I assume the other guy went back to his dinner, and the driver was only three times richer off of us, rather than six. We could finally eat, sleep, rest, and breathe in peace. I sprang for the shower....only to realize there was no electricity. It wasn't just "out" either, there just wasn't any to be had! Clearly, with scorching temperatures by day, and sweltering ones by night, we would not be resting peacefully. But at least we were without an entourage, and we were where we were supposed to be! (Part 3 will wrap this saga up soon).

A Sea Safari, Two Marriage Proposals, Feminine Hygiene, and a Scam. Part 1.

Ahhh yes, the fundamentals  of any great trip.  Mishap, annoyance, unusual events, and most important of all, the comedic element. Our little sidetrip to Zanzibar, an island off the eastern coast of Africa,  was no exception. It was a blast, I assure you, but not because of any serene beach relaxation or happenin' parties, or any of the usual exotic island accoutrements.

We arrived easily enough-hopping on a ferry in Dar es Salaam. A quick two hour ride over the sapphiric Indian Ocean, wind whipping our hair, sun beating upon our backs. Stonetown, the historic center of the capital Zanzibar City,  is the main point of entry for any traveler to the island. Arrival  can be  chaotic, as you must go through customs once more, ramshackle though it may be. This is where they want to know if you have your yellow fever vaccine, and if you haven't, no worries, just make up the only appropriate answer (YES) as I did. Walk out of the gate and you will be greeted by a mob of taxi drivers and guides, each vying valiantly for you attention and your shillings. We were fortunate enough to miss this scene in its full glory on our arrival, but we fought our way through it when we departed.

When you finally get past this and move out onto to the streets of Stonetown, the smells, sights and bustle of ancient cultures, and modern-day living  confront you immediately.  The honk of taxis  conincide with the view of markets selling spices of long ago, when Zanzibar was an epicenter of trading-slave and spice to be precise. This is the part where I am slightly ashamed to say that my vision of the island, specifically of Stonetown, was proven drastically wrong. You see, I had recently been to Old San Juan in Puerto Rico and it is also a historic center, part of a beautiful island and highly regarded by travel books and travelers alike. It is easy to navigate, prettily situated, and.....clean. Somehow, I had gotten it into my head that Stonetown would be just like this. In fact, I could not have been more more mistaken. The historic center is hot, dusty, a labryinth of alleys and ancient souks, and really not that clean. A little reminder of where I was in the world was immediately required.

Once settling in at our hostel and venturing out, Stonetown proved to be an intricate and delightful maze of shops, alleys, hidden corners, and dusty narrow side streets. It is the fusion of several cultures, from Arab to Persian to Portuguese, all  presented in one colorful postcard. The swish of  burquas as women strode through the alleys on some important errand, the call of a shopkeeper to come in, because "looking is free'," the impromptu futbol celebration by a newly victorious team, and an intense game of street marbles by some local kids-all of these scenes lulled me into contentment.   Life is relaxed here, slow down.

It was here in the streets of Stonetown that I had two  requests for marriage. We met Hamad and Ally, two mischevious, slightly older but young-at-heart guys, while we were people-watching and waiting for Suby to finish with the internet. We asked them for directions, and proceeded to strike up an easy conversation. Their  eyes fairly twinkled as we talked, and  I think if I lived there, we would be friends. Hamad however, had other plans if I lived there.  I suppose I passed some sort of test, because in the middle of our discussion, he announces to Ally, "You can have this one" and then they both laughed uproariously. What? Excuse me? I can be had for...what? Well, Ally needs a wife.  THAT was the best proposal they could come up with? Geeez, I at least like to be wooed a little.  Fortunately for me, I am already spoken for, and I (not very) regretfully  informed them that I would not be able to oblige. They amusedly accepted my refusal and we moved on to other important subjects, such as how to navigate the confusing streets.    Running into both of them later in the day, we snapped pictures with them and felt as if we had made friends....platonic friends that is.   The second offer came when strolling through an alley lined with shops.  I was shopped out at that point, but the young guy tending it was persistent, urging me to come in and look.   I think he was mostly bored, and was looking to add some excitement to his day. The questions were fired off rapidly-Where was I from? What was I doing today? Did I like Zanzibar? And my personal favorite...How did I like the men of Zanzibar?  The Zanzibarian men were just fine, but I have a man waiting for me at home. I told him so,  as I would not want to be accused of starting an international romance.   Looking somewhat crestfallen, he responded with  "Oh, you have your choice then"  Well.. yes, I hadn't ever really referred to my fiance as my "choice," but I suppose that is exactly what he is! He evidently got over his disappointment rather speedily, because I left his shop bearing messages of availability  for any  friends at home who have not yet made their choice.  So, anyone? Got two nice guys from a pretty cool island, with lots of shopping and beautiful beaches, just waiting to be chosen!     Stay tuned....

             

Blasted snow

I have been slacking this week, but two new posts are in the works. And apparently, we are to get the white stuff of epic proportions this weekend so I suppose I shall have plenty of time to churn them out.  I will believe the epic part when I am actually trudging through it to unbury my car. The rumor mill has produced some particularly wild ones in the last 24 hours, as in 30-45 inches of snow. Psshawww.

Now that I have gone and  tempted the snow gods with my ridicule and scorn........

More later-if not in the form of an amusing anecdote, then  it will probably be an SOS from underneath mountains of snow.

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