RuKsaK

At a tea plantation in the mountains I needed a piss. Thank sweet Allah it was only a piss.

I found a windowless, concrete prefab Inside was a saronged, bowed old guy in a white vest. He grinned extensively and proudly directed me to the last of urinals clagged to the wall by their own warped urino-stalactites. The view from the opening in the wall was marvellous; mountains, palms, stepping tea fields. The waft of the tea plantation, elsewhere so strong, fell dead at the holes-for-windows around the building – the sweaty urine lasering the entry of all possible scents. It fucking, fucking stank.

After pissing, with a blue head akin to Roy’s, through breath-holding, I went to wash my hands. The sink was a dangling corroded excuse for plumbing,

The old guy gesticulated with bowled hands, venerating towards the crusty tap. I let the cold water drool over my fingers. He looked on, satisfied that cleansing had taken place. I looked around for a towel, but couldn’t see one. The old guy’s beaming face told me ‘no towel’ after my eyes had already done so.

He then used the only truly international hand gesture; rubbing his thumb over his fingertips to ask for money. I gave him some rupees for his ability to stand and expose his teeth to that stench all day. Not for his cleaning skills.

He probably makes about $10 a day. Stuck in the mountains of Sri Lanka, guardian of his stench-pit, he is probably the highest-earning grime-encrusted shithouse director in the world. Good luck to him on making it an Indian subcontinent franchise. Smelly bastard.

I had a cup of tea after that. I hate tea.

Tomorrow; Back home – England.

Wednesday, November 24, 2004

International Toilet Week; Part three - Sri Lanka.