On Thursday afternoon, after a somewhat stilted, but mildly productive day of researching website designs for WPIO, I decided to walk home the long way. It was a relatively rewarding trip. I got some good exercise, but managed to kick up beaucoup-mud on my legs because it had poured earlier in the day--the dirt roads were now mud roads.
I was excited to go home to wash my legs and have a good, satisfying pee (we all know what I'm talking about. Stop cringing ;) ). I arrived at my flat, , opened the door and was immediately greeted by a wall of stink. "What the hell," I muttered to myself?! "I know I flushed the toilet this morning." (Though, to be totally candid, I had, um, clogged it up a bit.)
I unlocked the door to my bedroom and howled, "Oh my god!!" The wall of stink was now the great wall of stink. I stepped over to the open door of my lavatory and was greeted with, really, one of the most disgusting sights I have ever been privileged to behold. The hole in my floor, which serves as both my commode as well as my shower drain, was full-up with unbelievable heaps of sloppy, wet, brown matter. When stared at long enough (it was like a car accident--somehow, I could not peel my eyes away from it), the icky crap actually looked like a very overcooked beef stew.
Needless to say, I was breathing, exclusively, through my mouth.
After a good long, mouth-agape stare, I rediscovered my senses, leapt out of the bathroom doorway and slammed the door shut (well, shoved and wrestled with the mat under the door, and got the heaby jeabies and finally pushed the door shut). I grabbed my phone, slammed out a message to Freddy that basically said, "There is an enormous pile of human excrement in my bathroom. HELP!"
I plopped myself down on the couch and just stared. What the hell was I supposed to do? I wanted to leave, I wanted someone to take care of me, I wanted just to not have all of my and my neighbors' poo in my bathroom.
I calmed down after about 5 minutes. I still had no reply from Freddy. I then went into independent, problem-solver mode. I decided that if I could just find the proper receptacle (ziploc bags!) and the proper mover (a kitchen spatula that would never, ever again be used for it's original intention) and some good, solid footware (my hiking boots), I could defeat the poo on my own.
I gathered up the necessary tools, donned my uber-boots, and started lightly humming to myself, "I'm going on Expedition Poo. La dee da. Time for Expedition Poo." Armed with two Ziploc bags and a spatula, I tugged the door open and held my breath. Somehow, it was easier to remove the goop than I had imagined. But, it just kept coming. I'd slop some into the bag, and more would seem to bubble up from the drain.
Finally, I had removed most of the disgustingness, and was ready to seal the Ziploc bag (I really don't think I'll ever eat beef stew again). Rather unfortunately, but not really unexpectedly, I got a little wetness on my right hand. That was okay. I jumped up and turned on the faucet. A tiny trickle of pathetic, rusty water came out followed by lots of air. "You've got to be kidding me!" Very serendipitously, I had boiled water the night before and left the half-full tea kettle right by the bathroom door for tooth brushing purposes. I slathered my hands in some soap and the little, teeny dribble of water that had emerged from the faucet. After a thorough scrub, I poured the water out of the kettle over my hands.
Back to the Expedition. I grabbed a clean, as-yet-untouched Ziploc bag and used it as a glove to pick up the infected bag. I gingerly carried the bag outside to the trash (I know, that is so disgusting and probably unethical, but there you have it). When I returned to my flat, I felt satisfied. Even when Freddy returned home, I didn't even let him into my still sloppy bathroom--I had it under control. As soon as the water came back on, I'd run it with soap and all would be well.
The next day, while eating lunch with Jennie*, I mentioned my little adventure to her. "WHAT!? I would have run out of there instantly!!" I laughed and told her that it was just one of those things I had to do. She looked at my four-heads and said, "What about typhoid and cholera?!"
Snap. Why hadn't I thought of that? Moron. Very fortunately, I am immunized against both diseases, and I had thoroughly washed up, but now the prospect of going home was rather icky. I did not want to be in that odd, clouded, possibly sickening air. Jennie always seems to come to my rescue on these fronts: "Why not stay at Backpacker's for the weekend?" Good call, Jennie. Backpackers is a chill hostel in Mengo, a rather bucolic district on the other side of Kampala city center. I immediately phoned them, made a reservation for four nights and prepped to go home, pack and take a taxi to Backpackers.
When Freddy finally took my keys and inspected the bathroom after I had left, he was horrified. "You are strong! I would have run away from that!" Strong, stupid--it's a fine line ;) He has since had people come in to de-louse the joint, so to speak, with strong chemicals to kill germs and any potential critters that would be attracted to the sty that is my bathroom. The landlord is fully apprised of the situation, and, it turns out, that the water in the compound is running fine. I simply got the lucky blockage. They shall be assessing the damage this weekend and removing the mysterious block.
My fingers are crossed that I can return to Kyebando by Tuesday, but my new home in Mengo is lovely--and poo free.
*I have been spelling Jennie's name incorrectly. It is not Jenny.
No comments:
Post a Comment