Amsterdam Capetown Overland

Before going to bed I had to shit. Sitting at a campsite looking at all the locals looking at us did not exactly encourage a bowel movement. The toilet was a grassy field behind the decayed villa we were camped beside. I was also worried about the potential of blowing my ass off with a turd detonating a land mine but as we sat around the campfire I urgently needed to relieve myself. Throwing caution to the wind for an instant I felt that the threat of landmines was less that that of shitting my pants.

I tiptoed along the path leading through the field and when far enough away from the fire I walked lightly through the knee-high grass. Clutching my cheeks I imagined each step as starting the detonation process of an anti-personnel mine. One hundred metres into the field I felt far enough from the path, dropped my drawers and squatted down to ease myself. Oh, the joys of shitting in a grassy field in Angola! Every once in a while I look around and say to myself, "This is nature! Who needs a Western toilet with its seat, toilet paper and comfort?"

While crouching down I heard a rustled in the grass beside my right foot. This literally scared the shit out of me and so I finished up extremely quickly. What was it? I had no idea but was not sitting around to find out. It was two steps back to the path. How come the road back is always shorter than the outward journey? I had not realised but in my land mine fear I ended up almost defecating on the path. Oh well, at least I still had an ass. The locals would simply assume that the sloppy mess had been left by a sick cow or a dying horse.

My sleep was fitful. At an extremely early hour I woke and realised that I needed the toilet. "Not again?!" I thought to myself, "I just went!" The idea of getting dressed (my new technique of saving washing included removing my underwear at night while sleeping), putting on my boots, grabbing my torch, exiting the tent, opening the Land Rover to get toilet paper and then hiking back into the minefield was just too much.

Instead I rolled over and hoped it would go away. Five minutes. Ten minutes. Some time later my bowels woke me and forcefully exclaimed their desire for immediate attention. Whether I liked it or not I was getting up.

Underwear, trousers, shirt, boots (with no socks), torch and then trekking to the Landy. Door opened, toilet paper scramble and rushing to the field with cheeks clenched. Mine-dodging, trousers down, squatting and relief! How my intestines ached, to the very core they boiled and screamed their displeasure at the bacteria I had fed them. Was it Rob's fire-cooked chicken? The dirty dish towel? Bad water? I will never know but at that instant my goal was to empty myself.

Squatting in a field with grass tickling my most private parts was not a very enjoyable experience. Each prickle and stroke of a blade of grass was a horrible insect or malaria-carrying mosquito wanting to invade and penetrate. Unfortunately my bowels wanted a bit of revenge so I was forced to squat for an eternity while the boiling and churning turned itself into discharge.

Finished? Nope, another rush to come. Done now? No, still more. Finally I was done. Creeping back to the path I tried not to glance at the mess of faeces and toilet paper I had left behind. Hopefully the locals never used that field and would never find my trophy. At that instant I was concerned only with getting back to my bed.

The soap and water were in the Land Rover so I once again opened the back door, trying not to wake up Patrick and Rob sleeping on the roof. A few dabs of soap and a splash of water, the toilet paper back in its holder and I was done.

Thirty seconds later I was zipped into my tent, naked and encased in my sleeping bag. The night had become a bit damp and chilly but my expedition-approved sleeping bag was warm and inviting. I was soon asleep.

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap. Tap. Tip. Anyone who has slept in a tent knows the sound of rain. Usually I find the sound quite comforting, a relaxing cacophony of drips surrounding me while I remain dry inside. Unfortunately, I had left my protective rain sheet, the fly, off for ventilation and the few drops of rain were pouring in the top air vent. Damn! The fly was in the Land Rover; maybe it would go away.

Tip. Tap. Tap. Tap. It became apparent that if I waited much longer it would be an extremely wet and uncomfortable night. The process began again. Underwear, trousers, shirt? I ran to the Landy for the fly, quickly threw it on, clipped it down to the tent and then staked it to the ground. As my mom has always said, "If you are going to do a job, do it right." A half-assed job of securing the tent would have resulted in me having to get up once more. Back in bed, naked again in my sleeping bag, I was grateful that everything was dry and warm.

"Wake up!!" my bowels screamed as a child yearning for attention, "We need to be emptied." Again the process of the underwear, trousers? I hobbled back to the field but at that time it was starting to get light and the cocks were crowing. Instead of defecating in a field I chose a more secluded spot beside another derelict colonial building. Squatting in the rain, pants around my ankles, I looked around and thought, "What I would give for a nice Western toilet and the morning paper?"

I heard voices in the distance and the typical African sounds of the morning sweeping. In Africa people would normally not blink twice at a man squatting in the bushes but a pale, tired, grumpy white man grunting in a field would draw some unwanted attention. Luckily my bowels were almost devoid of ammunition and so the movement was limited to a short spell of expulsion. After once again cleaning my hands at the Land Rover I was packed back into my sleeping bag and quickly drifted off to sleep.

One hour later when Patrick got up I felt as if I had slept about two hours. I was tired, weak, dehydrated and my stomach still felt as if it was about to boil over. "Have a good sleep?" said Patrick with the cheery voice of someone who had slept nine hours.

I wanted to spare Patrick the gruesome details of my tormented night. "Yes, fine," I mumbled.