Chapter 6 – Toilet Tales

Not to be outdone by Michael’s tales of bathroom disasters, I have decided to give a little insight into the situation here in Ukraine. First lesson is BYOTP, bring your own toilet paper. Never count on it being provided for you. Therefore I have gotten into the habit, since I lived in St. Petersburg, of nicking as many napkins, Kleenex, etc. from every place I can. Go to McDonald’s, get a cheeseburger and about twenty napkins. Rock on! (Not that I frequent McDonald’s here anyway, unless it is to use a fairly clean toilet and to grab the napkins and run.) However, when you do meet with the luxury of Ukrainian TP it is unlike any sort that you’ve seen before. Basically their version is very tightly rolled (leaving no hole in the middle from which to hang it on anything), light brown/tan (like the color of recycled paper), very thin and coarse. My theory is that these rolls are the crepe paper rejects, the pretty dyes and crinkliness not taking effect, they shipped them out to all the country as toilet paper.

Next lesson which was a bit more shocking was the prevalence of the good old Turkish toilet – a.k.a. hole-in-the-ground. Ukrainians are big fans of tea. Sometimes I drink about 20 cups a day while at the office. All well and good until the tea insists on leaving my body again. The office bathroom is not terrible, though it is a bit disconcerting since the seat is not quite attached and shifts around under your bum. Not a big deal, I can deal with that at least. One day however, after my twentieth or so cup of tea, I was at the school (different location than the office) and I needed to run in between my classes to the toilet. After discerning which strange symbol meant “Women” I walked in to not just a Turkish toilet room but a Turkish prison itself! In contrast to the rest of the school the walls of this room were dark grey forbidding stone work. Old, decrepit and not very friendly. Ok, no problem… I just need to be here for a few minutes. Then I walk into the room with the ‘stalls’. Turkish style toilets? I thought I left those in Japan and never had to squat again… oh no… not so. Ok, again no worries, I learned how to squat for just long enough in Japan, I can handle this. WHAT?!!?!? No doors on the stalls? What are they trying to do to me here? That’s right folks, dark grey cement bricks forming a depressing square, with three half-assed (pun intended) partitions. Inside the pseudo-cubicles a hole in the ground flanked on each side by a bit of tracks to place your feet so you won’t slip and fall on your quite exposed posterior.

After swallowing my fear, disgust and surprise and my bladder reminds me how badly I need to relieve it, I assume the position. Which stall in all my genius-ness do I decide to use? The one closest to the door of course. What happens while I’m trying to hang in mid-air, aim and balance myself so as not to touch anything in this tetanus infested room? The accountant of my school comes in to relieve herself and of course has to pass my naked levitating bum to get to the next open stall. Conversation in any language much less in Russian was beyond impossible at this point. “Oh hi, Inna Nikolaevna, how’s it going?” I don’t think so!! Finish faster, wipe your ass with Ronald McDonald’s face and get the hell out! Don’t forget to wash your hands… sure, using water from the grimy river piped through pipes older than the Civil War with no soap to relieve the stench or experience. Run Forest Run! And thus I had to return to my class thoroughly disturbed and feeling gross. Needless to say I took an extra long shower the next day! Beat that, Super Bladder Man!