Longhouse Latrine and Dogs in the Nighttime: Mengkak Longhouse, Batang Ai, Sarawak, Borneo
Welcome to the latest segment in my little series on Loos of the World. I do believe it is, in fact, my Number 2.
A particularly memorable holiday experience involved visiting the Iban people in Sarawak, Borneo, and staying overnight in a longhouse. I do have further information to impart regarding this visit, which I very much enjoyed (including another What I Wore on My Holidays entry), but for now, I shall focus on the lavatorial aspects of my trip.
The toilet
situation was revealed early on. You can see it in the photograph. Three doors
leading to three separate facilities. No wash basins were included. Now, the
thing is, I am a bit prim and not much versed in the art of squatting when
toileting. I was therefore thoroughly discombobulated when I entered the first
cubicle to find a squatter loo (well, what did I expect, really? Honestly, I’m
rolling my eyes at myself as I type this). First time I’d ever used one (out of
necessity, obvs). I found the experience somewhat vexing and difficult (had to
remove all clothing from my lower regions; no idea how to do it otherwise). Anxiety
crept in as I wondered what would happen if I needed a Number 2. I thought I
might have a nervous breakdown (I did say I was prim, didn’t I?). Thankfully,
the local chief’s wife, who spoke no English but clearly thought ‘We’ve got a
right one here’, based purely on my demeanour, smilingly directed me towards
the middle cubicle the next time I needed to go. May the Gods be praised! It
was a sit-down, Western-style loo! The flushing mechanism was a saucepan-in-a-bucket
arrangement, the corners were bedecked with cobwebs, but I didn’t care. I never
knew a seat and a pan could engender such bliss. It’s the little things…
This was not
the end of the story. Oh no; it got much more dramatic. That night, I slept in
the ruai (the communal walkway outside the residents’ living and sleeping
spaces). Beneath a mosquito net, I lay awake listening to the incongruous
sounds of a European-style chiming clock (I swear it went off every fifteen
minutes), my tour guide snoring under his net further down the ruai (it sounded
like the zip of a tent being drawn up and down at regular intervals), and
numerous chickens outside (I could have swung for the cock, I can tell you). Thoroughly
conscious at 3am, I decided I simply had to go to the loo. I popped on my newly
acquired head torch (most stylish) and unlatched the door so that I could
walk across the veranda to the loo block/hut. Of course, I had forgotten that
all the resident dogs were outside, fraternising with the chickens. They must have
assumed I was an intruder. Cue loud and threatening barking. I ran to the
(Western-style) cubicle, slammed the door, and sat there in the darkness (apart
from my head torch). So, thought I, this is it; I’m going to come out of here
and get savaged to death by guard dogs. I never thought it would end this way. How
ignominious; literally dying for the loo. Being British, there was a little
part of me that also worried about waking everyone else up. Should I stay in
here all night, I wondered. I like to think I then pulled myself together
(but really, I was a bit scared of what might have made the cobwebs in the stall).
I made a run for it. There was more barking, but I survived. The dogs didn’t get
me. I felt very brave. But I didn’t venture out again. In (almost) every sense,
I bottled it.
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