EXTRACT FROM MY BOOK "MY ROAD TO BARCELONA" On Sunday morning, Jim Oakley and I set off from the hotel to go and preach at Ruben’s church on the outskirts of the town. It was incredibly hot, so we both took plenty of liquid on board before leaving. We dare not accept a drink of Columbian water. We both downed a pint glass of orange juice and set off for our preaching venue. By the time we arrived we were both quite desperate for a toilet. We had consumed too much liquid. The church was one of the one-storey houses in a kind of council estate, with neighbours very close on both sides. The internal walls of the house had been removed to produce one room to seat about thirty people. “Ruben,” I asked in my best Spanish, “where is the toilet?” He pointed to the rear of the property and said, “Out there.” Jim and I quickly headed out of the rear door. We found ourselves in the back yard of the house, uncultivated, with dry, hard pressed, stony soil. A few young people were standing in a group talking while they waited for church to start. A woman was hanging washing on the line next door, just a few strides away. We searched for the toilet, but failed to find it. We returned inside. “Ruben, where is the toilet? We can’t find it!” With a gesture which betrayed a modicum of impatience, he bade us follow him. Out into the back yard we went. He pointed to a strange looking contraption and declared, “There it is!” It consisted of four wooden poles about four feet high, which had been hammered into the ground to form a square of about four feet. Around the four poles was a crudely-hung piece of curtain material. The end of the material could be unhooked from the post to form a doorway. The idea was to enter through this opening and then replace the curtain. Inside the makeshift ‘room’ was nothing, only the not-so-dry, polluted dirt floor. I could now see the tell-tale stream which had formed a furrow in the ground. It was stained with human excrement. Jim and I simultaneously turned away with disgust. There was no way, not in a thousand years that we were going to suffer the indignity of entering such a ‘public’ toilet. We returned to the church and sat down. I was beyond uncomfortable. I knew it was impossible to fight nature for another ten minutes, let alone until I returned to the hotel. I looked at Jim. He was slightly red in the face. “Jim, I’ll have to go!” “Me too, he spluttered!” We were both like greyhounds out of a trap. We raced for the backyard. The young people were still standing a few yards from the ‘toilet’. The woman next door was just carrying another basket of washing to her clothes line. Jim went first. He glanced in all directions as though he was embarking on a secret mission and tentatively approached the curtained enclosure. He unhooked the curtain door and with a sweep of his arm opened it. As silent as a striking cobra, a woman, who was crouching, head beneath the top level of the material walls, leaped to her feet and sprang towards him. He fell back with horror. She disappeared into the house (I don’t know whether she stayed for the service) and Jim entered the ablution area. He looked completely ridiculous. We both stood 6’2” tall, which meant that our upper bodies stood considerably proud of the top of the curtain. The young women in the yard had a look of embarrassed amusement on their faces. I attempted a confident, nonchalant look, even bidding the woman next door a polite “Buenos Dias” as I attempted to pretend that I was not doing what I was doing. She smiled as she replied, “Buenos Dias, senor.” The stream grew into a river as two preachers sacrificed their dignity on the altar of relief.
Posted on: Mon, 10 Jun 2013 15:40:34 +0000
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