An Ohioan Beach and an African Toilet

My childhood summers were frequented by day trips in the backseat of an old maroon Honda accord. There I sat, always behind the driver’s side, as my mother would lug her children back and forth across town. My cousin was often my backseat traveling companion, with my brother occupying the passenger’s seat in the front of our small car. While the destinations of most of these trips did little to impress themselves in my memory, there was always one exception.

Set back off of the road in the small town of Beach City, Baylor Beach was an oasis of recreation to three young boys in grade school. A trip to Baylor meant a day free from chores and the freedom to swim at will. The “beach” as it was called was actually a manmade lake. The water was dark and coffee colored, and the sand a course and gritty confection such as was scattered in sandboxes throughout Ohio. In the middle of the lake sat a large dock affixed with several diving boards of varying heights and one long metal slide that as a child seemed to extend well beyond the clouds. A vertical ladder ascended to the top of the slide and its steps were perilously wet and slippery each time we made our quivering climb.

Elsewhere a giant metal cylinder rose from the water and sat spinning in the slow ripples that crossed the surface of the pond. Groups of 4 or 5 would climb atop the tube and spin it faster and faster in an attempt to throw others from their perch. My father was the unofficial king of the sport and even now I can’t recall a time when he was thrown during battle. I do however vividly remember my brother flailing downwardly one day and scraping the front of his leg on the tube as he descended. When he reappeared above the surface of the lake and removed his leg from its murky depths blood poured down from the gash.

Baylor Beach also had an attached miniature golf course, a campground, and paddle boats that could be rented in a neighboring pond. Thusly, the compound was a dream to the young boys and girls that flocked to its shores in the sometimes blistering heat of a Northeaster summer. Apart from the occasions my grandmother would join us and I’d be forced to sunscreen her back, I can recall very few negative experiences while lakeside.

Often we would stay in the water for hours at a time, only retreating to the shores at mandatory break times when the lifeguards signaled our compulsory exits. This held true even in times of waning bladder control, when it was far easier to simply relive oneself into the brownish water of the hand dug lake than it was to climb the short hill to the bathroom. Today I shudder at the thought of how much of that lake’s composition was comprised of water versus urine. If others handled business in the same ways my brother, my cousin, and I handled ours, it must be close to half and half.

Thusly it only became necessary to depart the water and venture off to the restroom in times of great lower intestinal distress. In those instances the short walk across the sand and up a small embankment left you standing in front of a tiny concrete brick structure. Outside you were greeted by the great head of a lion that sat affixed to the garbage can, it’s mouth splayed open for you to slide trash into. I often yearly forget my parents’ birthdays, but the image of that lion peering into my soul as I entered the restroom remains branded into my mind.

Upon final entry into the facilities you could be assured that your journey away from the waterfront would be a short one, as the smells emanating from that building would collapse the strongest of men within minutes. You had no choice but to take one final deep gasp of air on the outside before ducking inside and praying everything you needed to accomplish could be finished before you were forced to exhale. The toilets were pits and their contents could be seen venturing dangerously close to their lids, threating to spill over and flood the bathroom with the contents of a thousand nightmares. Despite my best efforts I’d always be forced to take at least one breath while inside this temple of doom and would always deeply regret it, as the smell of death would instantly cling to the inside of my nostrils. Days later I’d still be trying to remove the stench from my hair.

Years after I graduated high school and moved away for college, the smell finally faded and I gradually forgot about the smells that resided in those walls. In moments when Baylor Beach would return to my memory it would always be highlighted by moments of great joy and recollections of incredible summer days spent with my family. The bathroom, so I thought, was forgotten.

Unfortunately, one hot afternoon day in the middle of East Africa, like a ghost from my past, it returned.

We had been living in the main house on our Babati compound for almost 6 months. Since that time we had been having frequent problems with the toilet in the main bathroom. While occasionally it emitted an offensive odor, its real problem was a lack of flush-ability. While most Tanzanian toilets are Chinese style hole-in-the floor apparatuses, this particular throne was an American style upright porcelain lavatory. Years before it had been shipped over from the states as the house was being built. Thusly, finding a replacement was almost impossible. While it was possible to get a similar looking model, almost all of the upright American style toilets available now in Tanzania have pipes that extend out of the back of the latrine as opposed to ours, which emptied downward through a hole in the bottom. So, we fettered on with this as our primary commode.

One afternoon as I passed the closed door that led into this bathroom, I was caught off guard by the hint of an odor seeping out from the small crack at the bottom of the entrance. I opened the door and Baylor Beach came flooding back. In a moment I was transported back to the thin strip of grass leading to that childhood outhouse. I looked through the bathroom window in Tanzania to be sure a lion wasn’t peering at me as it had when I was a child. The smell was overwhelming.

That scent hastened my search for a new toilet and coupled with the insufficient water flow and the haunting knowledge of the 1000 bare backsides that had occupied that old throne before I did, I was on a mission. Several weeks later I found myself in the aisles of the largest home store in Arusha. I nervously walked through the toilet aisle and jabbing pains shot through my heart as I passed each incompatible latrine. Finally, as I reached the last commode and had all but given up hope, I glanced at the porcelain and noticed that there didn’t appear to be a pipe leading out its rear. I knelt on the floor and lifted the base several inches off of the ground, just far enough for me to see the familiar American style pipe sticking out from below. Much like the joy I had felt in meeting my wife for the first time some 10 years earlier, I rejoiced at finding a compatible mate. I paid over $300 dollars for a toilet that day. I don’t know what they are priced in America at the moment, but the number was astronomical in Tanzania. I would have gladly paid $1,000.

After strapping the toilet in the back of the Land Cruiser I made the three-hour drive back to Babati and rejoiced with Deanna as we set it down in the driveway and envisioned its shiny sparkling future. The next day I set about installation. I wore long rubber dish gloves and a painter’s mask as I entered the war zone. I removed the screws that affixed the ancient toilet to the floor and cut away at the silicon that was sealing its base. After removing the water from the tank and the bowl I lifted it off its foundation. The demon smell returned through the now exposed pipe at the bottom of the floor and seeped through my mask. I carried the old toilet outside. Later the kids and I would take turns smashing it to bits with hammers in what can only be described as twisted celebration of its demise.

I hauled the new fixture inside and set it down beside the vacant hole. As I surveyed the task at hand I was struck by a single missing component. The toilet had not come with a new wax ring, the tiny circle of wax that connected and sealed the toilet to its underground pipe. I asked around, but there was no way to get one in Babati. Left with little choice I returned to the old toilet now sitting in the driveway and flipped it over. I slowly peeled away the centuries old wax ring from its base. I found a knife and began carving away at the filth that had accumulated on its sides over the years, arching my head away from the black and brown slivers that I was cutting away and allowing to drop on the ground in front of me. I threw up in my mouth a little. Several months later I’d be cleaning out one of the containers on the property and stumble across 10 new wax rings all wrapped in glistening plastic.

I returned inside and finished mounting the toilet. By the time I had screwed in the base and sealed the bottom of the commode the smell had begun to fade. When I finished filling up the tank and tested its first flush, the smell was gone. Life was good. Momentarily.

The smell returned the next day. Like a wrongfully evicted tenant he stormed forth in angry retribution. The scent was unbearable, but at least the toilet flushed appropriately. Even that would be short lived.
Later that afternoon I was called to the bathroom by the shrill shrieks and screams of my wife. I found a pool of water on the floor upon my arrival. I checked the fittings of the toilet but couldn’t find the problem. We went outside.

Extended along the north side of our home is a small patio lined with large homemade stepping-stones. Embedded into these stones are three large metal lids, each covering a chamber of our septic system. We peeled back the metal plates and looked inside in horror. As the light began to seep into the holes innumerable cockroaches scattered along the inside of the holding tanks. Each 10 foot deep chamber was full. The outlet pipe leading from the house to the holding tanks was submerged in the mass of primordial waste.

I made several calls before finding out that the village had just purchased its first ever septic truck and I called immediately. I agreed to pay several thousand shillings over the normal price under the acceptance that they would come posthaste. Three hours later they pulled into the compound. The shiny truck backed its way towards the pits, its gleaming outside the polar opposite of what I imagined the inside of their tank to look like. Men with bare hands climbed down and began extending the hoses towards each brimming tank.

After an hour the job was done. Several times we had to stop and add water to the tanks as years of ancient layers at the bottom had turned into solid impassable waste. An old rake was lowered into the hole each time and used to mix the material into a soupy consistency before it could be pumped away. When they were finished, I paid the men and masterfully avoided the handshake that they extended in my direction. The world was at peace once more, although again, momentarily.

The next day Deanna’s screams brought me to the bathroom once more. The water on the floor had returned. At this point, only one problem could remain. The septic system was fine; the toilet was fine; there had to be an issue with the large pipe that ran between the two. It should be noted that while living in America prior to our arrival in Africa, I had undertaken exactly zero plumbing jobs. My experience was that I had no experience. But a problem doesn’t go away simply because you don’t have the experience to deal with it, and action was necessary.

I went outside and asked the current day guards to assist me in locating our pipe. One of these men has been around when the house had been renovated several years prior and paced off the area under which the pipe resided. We peeled back paving stones that ran along its length and he guessed that the long blue tube sat some 4 feet below. Before digging we ran lengths of hose down prebuilt valves on the surface, each time retrieving them after only a few feet as sections of the pipe below became impassable. We began digging. By the end of the day we had uncovered the entire length of pipe. It stretched from the area just outside the main bathroom, skimming alongside the house before connecting to the bathroom at the rear of the home, and extending another 10 feet in length before turning sharply and dumping into the septic tank. All together the visible area of our tube stretched nearly 20 feet. The light was fading as we removed the last bit of dirt from the light blue tube. We covered the area with a tarp and determined to continue the next day. Everyone would have to use a bathroom in one of the guest huts until we could make further progress.

The next morning I awoke with mild excitement. It was as if we were embarking on a small-scale treasure hunt, with the only exception being our treasure was frightening and horrific. As I threw on my clothes I listened as the sound of rain began beating heavily on our tin roof. I grabbed my boots as I passed by the bathroom and stepped outside into the downpour. Walking along the edge of the house I was significantly drenched by the time I reached the edge of the tarp, only 10 feet from the door. The day guards had returned and were waiting under the overhang of a container. We made eye contact as I lifted the edge of the tarp and peered in at the knee high water that now filled our trench.

I retreated to their overhang to discuss our options. While I was in favor of waiting out the rain and the eventual draining of our pit they wished to start immediately. They were getting paid overtime to help me and wanted to finish before lunch. Before I could stop them they enacted their wishes and leapt down into the rain. They removed the tarp and were down in the water before I could say a word.

Within a half an hour we had removed the sections of pipe that led away from both bathrooms. The rain let up and we climbed out of the hole to survey the situation. In the sections that ran downward from each bathroom and connected to the main pipe below we found our problem. In each case, the tubes were completely sealed off by small vines that had woven their way through the joints in the pipe and expanded over the years. Holding the now loose sections of pipe in the air it was impossible to see through to the other side. The 6-inch diameter pipe was completely filled with a dense green plant. For months water had only been dripping through to the other side. I threw the pipe down in the grass where it would lay for another 3 days before someone had the courage to pick it up and throw it away.

After another hour we had replaced all of the missing sections of pipe with new tubing and left the hole uncovered overnight as the joints sealed and we tested the system over the next several days. Eventually we refilled the hole and prayed the memories and smells of those moments lay buried forever.

My kids will not have a Baylor Beach memory. Perhaps someday I’ll be able to take them there, but after 10 years I assume the bathrooms will have been replaced. They won’t experience the smells that accompanied a day at the lake. But, that doesn’t mean the same smells won’t have been permanently indented on their own brains. For them, those scents emanated from a room just beside where they slept.

In this gross smelling memory game who really wins?

The answer is no one.