Latrines, Johns, Lavatories, Loos, WCs, Crappers, Porcelain Thrones. All of these are the same place. And besides the obvious, we all hope to get a little something else out of our time there. A little solace. A little “me time”. A little peace and quiet. A little escape to process and think. And in a way, it’s all of these aspects that I’m focusing on.

When I lived in Africa and Asia, latrines, were the norm. Sometimes it was literally just a hole in the ground, an unstable floor of wooden planks, or shoddy concrete, disjointly surrounded by various wooden boards roughly nailed together with a thatch roof. A couple times, I even had to dig my own hole in the middle of the Ivorian forest, then cover it up with dirt, much like my dog used to instinctually do with her nose regardless if she was actually pushing real dirt around. But the latrine in my tiny African village was a thick concrete slab with a hole in the very middle impressed by a blue plastic bucket that you could pop in there like a cork. The latrine was only half of an outdoor construction designated just for me. Oddly enough, marking the first time I’d ever have my own private bathroom.

It had four high walls with a wall down the middle, splitting a large rectangle space into two distinct areas. One side was the latrine with the hole in the middle of the floor and the other room was for my bucket baths. Which I actually enjoyed and learned I could bathe from half a bucket of water every few days and feel the cleanest I’d ever felt in my life. Each of these rooms had its own makeshift door made of a wooden rectangle frame with a middle horizontal support beam covered by one or two long pieces of wavy metal shingles we might see more commonly on roofs rather than as substitute doors. I had no roof on either room. They asked and I declined. A roof meant shade from the African sun and elements like rain but it also meant inviting hundreds of roaches to take up residence in the latrine hole and the 6-foot cavern underneath would supply the buffet. I’d rather get a tan or rained on while squatting than have to dance around the hole in a vain effort to scare away giant flying cockroaches. And they were never scared. Never.

In Asia, a latrine could easily be within the local bar or restaurant. It would be just big enough for one person, most likely no paper, so you better have your own, and more than likely had a full days worth of customers bowel movement reviews piled in there, waiting for some poor kid to come by and flush it all down with a couple full buckets of water. Their sophistication was indicated by the pre-molded square plastic coverings around the latrine hole with prominent foot tread markings to guide your squat but not really your aim. And if you were lucky they bucket flushed theirs often enough to keep the place smelling well, less shitty. Otherwise, you eventually got used to the initial gag and eyes burning from the thick aroma of trapped sulfur and ammonia. I’m sure we’ve all encountered this American cousin at some point or another during many a road trip. I could go into detail about the large public latrines with 3 foot high tiled dividing walls between each latrine hole with no doors so that locals can squat right across from you, stare and observe your squatting skills along with your foreign naughty bits all the while making full eye contact. I could. But I digress.

Whether we’re at work, at home, at school, the gym, a concert, an African forest, or Beijing dive bar, it’s the universal goto sanctuary. The place where we wish to elope with our own thoughts or divorce from the thoughts of others. The place where we plan what to do next. Sometimes we come up with brilliant ideas and sometimes we come up with shit. But we always come up with something and hope for the best. And that’s what this is. My literary latrine to squat and hope for the best.