With only fond memories of the red plastic basin-turned-toilet-seat

 

Dave and I opened our eyes the next morning and looked around our little room, aided by a few glints of sunlight creeping in through rustic wooden shutters covering a tiny window opening (no glass). Our room was small—I mean, dinky. Miniature. (Later that day we measured our bedroom: seven feet square.)

 

But my first order of business was to hurry to the choo and empty my bladder.

 

The Mwakodis had no running water or toilet, only a pit latrine in a stick-and-mud enclosure some distance from their house. So, after slipping on a T-shirt, skirt, socks, and boots, I grabbed my roll of toilet paper and headed out across a clearing on the forested mountainside.

 

You might recall that I was not a big fan of pit latrines. (Click on I could envision how men could aim for that hole in the ground, but what about women?)

 

Stepping inside the Mwakodi’s pit latrine, I was overcome with fond, fond memories of . . . not past pit latrines, but of the red plastic basin-turned-toilet-seat that our friend Joy had made back in Maasai-land. Why hadn’t I thought to make one of my own for this phase of our orientation??

 

Even better would’ve been those outhouses with black toilet seats back at Naivasha. I should have appreciated them much more back then. Compared to pit latrines, they were things of beauty.

 

Our bed, three feet wide and five feet, seven inches long, had both a headboard and footboard. My husband, Dave, stands over six feet tall so that bed posed a problem, but he did what our orientation director, Brian, taught us—he developed a coping mechanism. He put a suitcase along his side of the bed and put one foot on it, and he spread-eagled the other foot across to the other corner of the bed.

 

That left me one corner in which to curl up.

 

That miniature room also housed two large storage barrels, a suitcase that belonged to Bwana and Mama Mwakodi, a chair with another of their suitcases, and our belongings—suitcases, backpacks, and canteens.

 

Bwana could speak Swahili and a little English, but Mama didn’t know English and didn’t speak Swahili much either. Apparently, she and Bwana talked to each other in the Taita language.

 

They served us a piece of bread and cups of tea for breakfast, always smiling, acting genuinely honored to have us in their home. What gracious folks they were!

 

And then Bwana said, “We will leave soon for church.”

 

And thus began the first day of our three-week stay with Bwana and Mama Mwakodi, three weeks packed with altogether new experiences, a number of challenges, and a chance to hang out with two of the nicest folks God ever created.

Our bedroom at the Mwakodis' home: 

What was that crazy American woman doing?

I’ve already admitted my angst over living for three months without a proper toilet.

Instead, my only choice was a pit latrine. Well, maybe not my only option—I could have squatted down behind bushes, but with wild animals and snakes and biting insects also hiding in those bushes, that option would have been worse than a pit latrine. And besides, at least our latrine had a yellow plastic tarp around it for privacy.

My friend Joy outside our pit latrine

Have you ever noticed how comforting it is to know you’re not alone in your suffering? With that, today I’ll share a story from missionary B. Arnold about . . . well, you know. . . .

B. admits to life-long anxieties about restrooms and says that when she arrived in Burkina Faso, West Africa, she was introduced to “the thrills and chills” of “multi-bathroom experiences” and concluded she needed to make some changes.

In this excerpt from her article, Bathrooms of the World, she recounts her first trip to a village for an open-air evangelism campaign:

“We were greeted and then led into a very nice courtyard where we were fed supper by the host family. After supper I used the facilities in their yard which consisted of a three-sided mud brick building with no roof and a hole in the center of the cement floor.

“The hole in the center of the floor meant that this outhouse [unlike some others] was a multi-purpose unit and could be used for all ‘needs.’ For a bush village these were very deluxe accommodations. The ‘outhouse’ provided for some semblance of privacy and luxury as well.

“Once the veil of darkness fell upon the village we began our open air evangelism campaign but part way through the service I had to once again use the ‘facilities.’ It was then that I realized that I had forgotten my flashlight. I asked one of the pastors if I could borrow his and he gladly loaned it to me for my little private moment. . . .

“I entered into the deluxe accommodations

and then discovered my dilemma:

what to do with the flashlight

while making use of the hole?

If I placed the flashlight on the wall

I could not see to find the hole

and if I held the flashlight

I could not manage my dress while busy.

What to do? What to do?

“… My only choice would be

to place the flashlight in my mouth

(yes I know that it was dirty!)

and then be as quick as possible before I gagged. . . .

“I looked down to find the hole and when I did, the flashlight shone down into the dark abyss. Soon I was ‘busy’ and at almost the same time thousands of giant cockroaches began pouring out of the hole having been disturbed by the light.

“I could not scream as the borrowed flashlight would fall into the hole—I could not stop—and I could not stand still. Soon I was dancing back and forth, stomping and tromping and shaking off the critters as they tried to crawl up my legs! . . .

“Finally I was able to leave the ‘deluxe’ facilities and leaned against the wall trying to compose myself. I began to shake at the thought of it all and then just as suddenly, I began to laugh. . . . I must have been a site [sic] to behold.

“I’m sure that the people who were watching the beam of light dancing around and around in the dark [from inside that roofless outhouse] must have wondered what in the world that crazy American woman was doing. . . .” (B. Arnold, ©Women of the Harvest Magazine, Sept/Oct, 2001. www.womenoftheharvest.com. Now part of Thrive Ministry and The Thrive Ministry Magazine. Excerpts used by permission.)

Originally published July 22, 2010

African adventure: using a choo

I moseyed over to check out the choo (rhymes with go) closest to our tent. It consisted of nothing more than a yellow tarp around a hole in the ground.

A yellow tarp around a hole in the ground!

Our choo (pit latrine)

Dave and I had just arrived in Eleng’ata Enterit for phase two of Kenya Safari, our orientation to living and working in Africa. On that first afternoon, under massive fig trees alongside a stream in a desert, we had scurried to clear a space and set up our tent.

While we did that, Brian, our orientation director, assigned several men to dig holes to serve as two outhouses—but no, they would not turn out to be outhouses. They were those dreaded pit latrines.

So far on Kenya Safari, I had found ways to avoid using pit latrines, but now—now I was doomed. That choo was my only option.

How could I ever use such a toilet? At my age! Day by day I grew closer to—er . . . day by day my husband grew closer to carrying an AARP card in his wallet.

Someone my age

should not have to squat over a pit latrine—a choo—

and fumble with a bulky skirt and a roll of toilet tissue

(and sometimes a torch—a flashlight—

which would prove to be prone to falling into that pit),

all while watching for scorpions!

And I would have to use that choo for six weeks!

Six weeks!

I hurried back to our tent and rifled through my backpack to find my one little chocolate bar. This situation required a chocolate fix!

Dear Joy outside the choo

Jesus said that even before we ask, God knows our need (Matthew 6:8). In this case, He answered on the spot through one of our fellow campers, Joy.

She cut a circle out of the bottom of a red plastic basin and turned it upside down over the hole. It was only about six inches high, but it helped! Oh, yes, it helped! God bless her!

That’s Joy in the picture, standing outside the choo. All these years later, I’m still so thankful for the little red plastic potty seat Joy crafted.

Praise for Grandma’s Letters from Africa from President/CEO of Wycliffe USA, Bob Creson: “Grandma’s Letters from Africa is an engaging, memorable account of Linda’s years in Africa. It was a privilege for me to read over the shoulders of her granddaughters as Linda tells her story through a series of letters. Through both laughter and tears, she learns to balance her roles as missionary, wife, mother, and grandmother. In the process, Linda falls in love with Africa, its people, and her work. Readers will be moved by this compelling story that reveals God’s heart and extraordinary grace.”

You can buy Grandma’s Letters from Africa from your local independent bookseller or online at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and other online distributors.