Last poop-related story, I swear

I promised myself that I’d stop writing about poop-related stories, especially considering how it’s just not the most savory of subjects…well… anywhere, but I feel that being this is oftentimes one of the biggest fears of traveling (and certainly, experiences that will be burned into my memories for the rest of my life), these stories justify a paragraph or two.

Today, I’m in the 22nd hour of my 36 hour journey down from Ust-Kamenogorsk to Almaty. I arrived in Ust about 3 weeks ago, and now I’m heading back down again to Almaty for a Volunteer Action Committee meeting During training, I was elected as one of the two representatives for Kaz-17, and the group meets with other representatives and the administration 3 times a year in Almaty.

I find myself wondering at times what I’ve gotten myself into, because for a one-day meeting that will take a few hours on Friday, I have to leave on a TUESDAY night. I could technically get away with leaving on Wednesday, but I was determined to make my stay in almaty a little bit more worthwhile by staying longer. From Ust-Kamenogorsk, the train ride is 36 hours, because the train leaves from the city, heads north into Russia, then loops back down to the west of Ust-Kamenogorsk to head down towards Almaty. Literally, the train stops, Zashita Station in Ust and Almaty-2 Station in Almaty, are the end of the line for the whole eastern rail line.

I have to admit, back in America I had a genuine fear of public toilets – I’m not a germaphobe normally, but the concept of sitting on a seat where a thousand other strangers’ asses have sat before has always been a frightening concept to me. In the states, I avoided public toilets whenever I could, preferring to holding back the floodgates of nature until I was able to get home, or at least, to a friend’s home where I knew there was some degree of privacy and regular cleaning schedule.

Riding on a 36 hour train ride, however, presents some obvious challenges. A person has to eat, I’m sure you understand – literally, I brought about a day’s worth of food to eat on the train ride, since there’s no concept of a dining car here either. You’re on your own in that department. I prefer to keep it rather simple, being still terrified of un-refrigerated food. I brought sausages that are not unlike the beef sticks that you can buy at the liquor store, bread, and some cheese, along with some salad greens and red peppers. Things that are easy enough to eat, just slice and eat together. But I’ve realized people bring veritable feasts on here – the family in the beds next to me, for example, have brought not only cups for tea, but an actual teapot, chicken, prepared salads, roasted eggplant with tomato slices, and on and on.

In addition, at certain stops, you can get off the train to walk around and buy all sorts of food at the train stop. Shashlyk (shishkabobs), salads, manty (dumplings), bellini (sweet cottage cheese stuffed crepes), were available at the last stop, for example.

As I was saying, on a 36 hour train ride, you can’t live like you do in America, where your sweet, private precious porcelin throne is merely a car ride away. You’ve got no choices in the old train, buddy, so you just buck up and face your fears or cry.

Let me describe to you, the experience of going to the restroom here on the train.

I usually spend 30-40 minutes first debating whether I really need to go, or if I can hold out for another 12 hours. After realizing that it’s just not possible anymore, all one can do is take a deep breath, and prepare for the experience. With the industrial sandpaper-like toilet paper in hand, I put on my shoes and become deathly quiet as I attempt to mentally prepare myself – “it’s normal,” I tell myself. “You have no choice.”

Once again, it goes back to the old mantra – if millions of people around the world have been doing this for decades, I can too.

Sufficiently prepared, I stand, and walk down the aisle, steadfast in purpose and spirit.

I finally reach the metal door – on it, engraved the words “Tualet”. The door knob is battered, filled with dents and scratches from years of abuse – one particularly large gash, I imagine, is from a person throwing open the door in defeat, running cowardly from the terrors within and retreating as fast as they came.

I open the door, and immediately, the acrid smell of urine brings tears to my eyes. “Oh god, it’s horrible!” my nose screams. Immediately the breathing duties are switched to the mouth department. The compartment is tiny, perhaps the size of a shower. The floor is strangely wet.

“It’s only water from the sink,” I lie to myself.

One thing you quickly realize about these toilets is that when you’re in a train, any sense of aim or direction you had goes out the window, and no doubt the compartment was victim to countless amounts of people struggling to deal with the swaying and shaking of the train. What this amounts to is a metal toilet with a plastic toilet seat that is just absolutely drenched.

No such thing as toilet seat covers or even toilet paper here, mind you.

I look at my nemesis, wondering what to do. In the meantime, my stomach grumbles and gurgles, even it wondering whether it still wanted to go. “Quiet you,” I mumble, as I roll up the pant legs of my pajama pants for fear of touching anything.

Finally, the only solution becomes clear – I drop my pants, and holding it with one hand, I grasp onto the bar in front of the toilet. Balancing myself, I lower myself over the toilet, close enough to do my business, but not touching it, and I go. The whole time, I clutch onto my pants and the bar for my dear life, as I fight the shakes and rumbles of the train. I am determined that nothing I own, flesh or cloth, touches anything this horrible metal dungeon.

I quickly finish, and hit the little lever on the side of the toilet. The flap opens, and with a roar, everything is flushed away. I peer into the open flap, and I see the rushing of the ground flying by – then I realize the toilet was emptying out directly onto the tracks.

With a shudder, I quickly dress, and wash my hands in the metal sink, and open the door back out to my freedom. I allow my nose to resume it’s normal duties once more, and as I close the door behind me, I throw my hands up into the air, victorious.