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Of waste...
Nov. 13th, 2006 09:39 pmOne of the topics most often commented upon by the seasoned traveller, especially the female, is the toilet accommodations.
I am no stranger to outhouses, having grown up with them at summer camp. One learned never to carry one's toothbrush in the back pocket of one's jeans - said object would, invariably end up down the hole. It was a comical sight noting the light coming through the bottom slats and wondering who had knocked their flashlight over while hiking up their trousers.
It is fun to imagine what historians would conclude when excavating such a camp given the current fierce debate over the significance of the latrine at Qumran.
I had a friend who put an outhouse in his garden. His garden was very large, and he didn't like having to shuck his shoes and pants when muddy just to use the toilet. It composted fairly well due to its good upkeep and low use.
The State of Oregon has swapped many of its park toilets, especially in remote areas, for solar composting toilets. These are fairly nice, save that they often attract insects and, gulp, arachnids.
I encountered my first squatter in the Moscow train station at the tender age of 17. It was basically a sewer grate with two platforms for feet and rushing water beneath. I had been warned that I would need my own tissue, and that there would be squatters. But the overall effect was intriguing. That was the only squatter I saw in the (then) USSR.
I hadn't thought about that experience until a few years ago when I went to Thailand. Their squatters were different. Porcelain, and you used a pot of water to flush them. We didn't find out until later that you were supposed to use the water to wash yourself. Our Thai hostess was too embarrassed to instruct us about the intimacies of using the toilets.
My visit to Australia introduced me to half-flushers. Great concept, but only about half of them worked the way they were supposed to. The half flush often didn't. By my second trip to Thailand, I was an old hand at squatters. There is a silent toilet revolution occurring there, however, as more and more facilities are built with sitters. I have to say that my Thai friend's house sported some of the quietest, most efficient sitters I had experienced.
One of the more unusual conventional sitters I have used was in Burnaby, BC. It was a composting toilet, but there was no sign of the composting unit save the little note above the commode that diagrammed the journey one's excrement took when leaving the house. All done so that the B&B would not exceed the code and have enough toilets to satisfy guests.
All this leads to yet another article on toilet preferences. I realized as I read it that I could almost have written it myself!
So, one day, I would like a nice composting commode like in Burnaby. And an outhouse in the garden. No squatters, please.
I am no stranger to outhouses, having grown up with them at summer camp. One learned never to carry one's toothbrush in the back pocket of one's jeans - said object would, invariably end up down the hole. It was a comical sight noting the light coming through the bottom slats and wondering who had knocked their flashlight over while hiking up their trousers.
It is fun to imagine what historians would conclude when excavating such a camp given the current fierce debate over the significance of the latrine at Qumran.
I had a friend who put an outhouse in his garden. His garden was very large, and he didn't like having to shuck his shoes and pants when muddy just to use the toilet. It composted fairly well due to its good upkeep and low use.
The State of Oregon has swapped many of its park toilets, especially in remote areas, for solar composting toilets. These are fairly nice, save that they often attract insects and, gulp, arachnids.
I encountered my first squatter in the Moscow train station at the tender age of 17. It was basically a sewer grate with two platforms for feet and rushing water beneath. I had been warned that I would need my own tissue, and that there would be squatters. But the overall effect was intriguing. That was the only squatter I saw in the (then) USSR.
I hadn't thought about that experience until a few years ago when I went to Thailand. Their squatters were different. Porcelain, and you used a pot of water to flush them. We didn't find out until later that you were supposed to use the water to wash yourself. Our Thai hostess was too embarrassed to instruct us about the intimacies of using the toilets.
My visit to Australia introduced me to half-flushers. Great concept, but only about half of them worked the way they were supposed to. The half flush often didn't. By my second trip to Thailand, I was an old hand at squatters. There is a silent toilet revolution occurring there, however, as more and more facilities are built with sitters. I have to say that my Thai friend's house sported some of the quietest, most efficient sitters I had experienced.
One of the more unusual conventional sitters I have used was in Burnaby, BC. It was a composting toilet, but there was no sign of the composting unit save the little note above the commode that diagrammed the journey one's excrement took when leaving the house. All done so that the B&B would not exceed the code and have enough toilets to satisfy guests.
All this leads to yet another article on toilet preferences. I realized as I read it that I could almost have written it myself!
So, one day, I would like a nice composting commode like in Burnaby. And an outhouse in the garden. No squatters, please.
