Squatter's Confessional

Published April, 2006.

Some cultural trade-offs are harder to accept than others. Take squat toilets for instance, which I used to hate with a passion. I loathed them as I do snakes. “How dare you pass yourself off as worthy of my sanctified toosh and it’s business!,” I might have sneered, if I hadn’t been so concerned with steering so far clear of them. Those two white tiles for traction, and that miserable little hole in place of where I expected not only a bowl, but also a comfortable seat and a cover to boot. During one particular trip home to my mother’s town of Sri Lalang, I reacted as any stubborn eight-year-old might: I just refused to use them. Full stop.

Now that only gets you so far. Before long, my parents tired of taking me out on exclusive journeys to the local shopping centre and its modern plumbing facilities. Thus began the famous conflict between Mark’s will and his lower intestine. An epic battle of attrition that lasted well into the fourth day -- most likely pushed over the edge by some sneakily placed tofu during the thirteenth confrontational meal – nature worked its unstoppable force and unsurprisingly my will eventually gave in (as my colon gave out). But not to the squat toilet. Oh no, it would take more than mere excrement to hole me up in such a dungeon, with its foul odour and icky wet concrete.

Now as with any resistance movement that faces uphill odds, I had gone on several scouting missions in the backyard of my grandmother’s house beforehand. My thoughts followed the approximate reasoning: So it has to come out. That variable was as fixed as Newton’s third law. The real question was “Where?” Other components of the issue at hand were the need for disguise, accessibility and speed. I couldn’t just leave my loaves on the front door step like a dog, nor could I drop them off at the base of a tree, which Po-Po would inevitably stumble across during her daily vegetable gardening. Digging a hole and then covering over the matter – camper style – might have been the way, but for the fact that the whole backyard was being cultivated and I would inevitably be destroying something she’d been growing. Even self-righteous guerillas have to think about their grandmothers.

The next option was to dash beyond the confines of the family land altogether and off into the thick jungle with its huge banana foliage and overgrown vine vegetation, perfect cover for all manner of rank deeds. And I probably would have gone with that method of release, but for the fact that I was eight and still genuinely fearful of the local terrain. Malaysia itself was a source of continuous mystery and frustration to me at the time; dropping my daks in the bush and leaving my behind privy to various snakes and leeches was something my creative imagination would not allow. This dilemma over the sanity of my sphincter and the frightful clutches of Mr. Squat had by this point reached truly explosive proportions.

It was around this stage, whilst urinating my way along in the stream that runs through our backyard, that I had my “Eureka” moment. Of course, I’d found much simpler means of relieving my bladder, and this waterhole was but one of a number of locales at which I’d spilled my own golden stream. Casually observing urine disperse into water, I noticed that this particular channel appeared to flow straight out of the house, down towards the deeply sunken, well-shaded river. Connecting the dots, I concluded that if timed correctly, a quick drop of the short pants, 180 degree rotation by the stream’s edge and speedy expunging of the digested remnants of four days worth of rice and Hainan cooking would set the battle straight. My Number Twos would waltz right on down the stream and into the river, probably disintegrating into lovely soil nourishing food for all I cared. The triumphant result: Mark – 1, Squatter – 0. I would walk away the bigger man, and nobody, especially not my parents, would ever know.

Almost immediately, the point of no return arrived, when all a child can do is plead to self: “Hang on a minute, just don’t do it in your pants.” As previously scripted, I carried out Operation Bomb the Stream in the backYard (OBeSitY) in meticulous fashion, seemingly without a snag. I’d even remembered a roll of toilet paper. The trouble came only after I had pulled up my trousers. Letting out a small but satisfied sigh of relief, I came to the nasty realization that there had been a hitch. Alas, the current’s strength would not move my recently deposited brownness downstream. It stayed put, exactly where I had dropped it, and not even several rather panicked pebble throws could cause it to dislodge.

I returned to the house a sad and disillusioned boy. Counting down the minutes before the inevitable discovery, angry finger pointing, and useless but plaintive denial process would begin, I tried to console myself with the refreshing return of lightness to my lower stomach. But oh the humility! I could have died with shame that night. I didn’t, and I return to the same house today, only to find that the squat toilet has been replaced with a lovely plastic seater. I’ve long since overcome my aversion to the former, but shall never forget the bemusement it caused my grandmother, who has passed away since I last visited this house, that sunny afternoon some years ago.