I sat upright, zipped open my bag and started across to prod him onto his side when he grunted himself awake, turned onto his stomach and eased into a quiet sleep. Thank goodness, I thought, slipping back inside my warm bag. I began wrestling with an idea forming at the edge of my mind that I needed to visit the toilet. Western toilets amount to porcelain chairs where you take a seat, do your business, then leave. Both are cultural statements.
Toilets reflect each society.
Flashlight in hand, I shuffled my way along the corridor to the rear of the car, balancing myself as the train rocked and swayed. No larger than a shower stall, the solitary toilet booth reeked of my predecessors. I finally spotted the pit, with railway ties flashing beneath it. I prepared for action, impersonating a baseball catcher, except straddling, rather than crouching behind, home plate. The train seemed to pick up speed, swaying around one bend, then another.