I knew one thing when I signed up for the Race. I knew that people who go on the Race come home with a lot of interesting stories to tell. And I knew that an alarming proportion of those stories happened to be poop stories.
Nobody wants a poop story. But I think deep down everyone kind of wants a poop story. It’s almost like a right-of-passage as a Racer. We were all warned of the very real reality of bowel mishaps on the Race. We’ve all heard the stories of someone having explosive diarrhea in their pants at the most inconvenient time. And somehow nobody ever seems to be prepared when it happens to them. Or at least I wasn’t.
Here is my poop story.
It was a calm Saturday morning here in Kassanda, Uganda. The cool breeze was blowing, the birds were chirping, and my belly was glad. The rest of the team had left to do house visits in nearby villages, and I stayed home to write a sermon for the next morning. As I sat in my bed typing away all of a sudden I had a feeling. I’m sure you all know the feeling. I knew had to go.
So I casually walked over to my squatty potty (basically a glorified hole in the ground), squatted down, and did my thing. No big deal.
Well, actually… Yes, big deal. I looked down and there was a LOT of poop. Like, a concerning amount of poop. A mountain of poop. And it was sitting right over the hole, not moving one bit.
So I did what any squatty pro would and grabbed a little water to rinse it down. But I guess a little water wasn’t enough water because it just pooled around the base of the mountain. So I got more water. Didn’t budge. And then even more water. My pool quickly turned into a lake.
Plan A was not working. I needed a plan B. So I poked my head outside my room into the yard hoping to find a long stick to prod my poop with in hopes of encouraging it to go down the hole. And of course with my luck there wasn’t even a twig in sight. Seriously, what yard doesn’t have sticks in it?
Plan B is out the window. Plan C is in. At this point I was reduced to prayer and a hope that gravity would do its job. I returned to my sermon, occasionally peeking over to the squatty from behind my computer screen to see how things were progressing. Apparently gravity took the day off or something because the pile was just as perky as ever.
The day was heating up and my room was really starting to smell bad now. I needed to do something soon. Quickly looking around my room for supplies, I found just one Ziploc bag and a small black grocery bag. I knew exactly what I needed to do. I braced myself with the Ziploc over one hand and the grocery bag in the other. I stood over the squatty mentally prepared to start scooping.
I knelt down—my Ziploc-ed hand mere centimeters from the mound. And then the distinct jingle of keys rang in my ear, stopping me in my tracks. Oh crap! Someone was at my door. In one swift motion I threw down the bags and opened my bedroom door to see one of the ladies who works at the guesthouse standing there. She insisted that she come in to clean up my room. I insisted that my room was just fine. She had no idea the mess I was sparing her from.
Eventually she left, and I sat on my bed deciding whether or not to continue with my previous plan. And then it hit me. I had to poop again! (I’m still kind of confused as to how my body could have possibly had anything left in it after the first dropping. The body is an amazing thing isn’t it?) I told myself that I would hold it. I refused to further clog my squatty. It was not allowed! But things just started moving without my permission. I had to think fast.
I took the Ziploc, opened it up wide—all the while using every ounce of concentration and might to keep from exploding—and then placed it on top of the immovable mountain. I did my thing, closed the Ziploc, placed it in the grocery bag and tied a secure knot in the top.
So there I was in my room, all alone, with a clogged toilet and a bag of poop hanging on the wall. I no longer had supplies to scoop up the mess, and the smell wasn’t getting any better. All I could do was lay on my bed in my hopeless state and wait for my team to return in a few hours from ministry.
Finally they arrived and I immediately went to my teammate and explained to her the situation. After both of us had a long hard laugh at the predicament I had gotten myself into, she came up with a plan. When it was time, she ran into my room, snatched up the grocery bag and stealthily hid the evidence in a nearby garbage pile. She returned with a toilet brush in-hand and worked her magic. Within a few minutes the squatty was unclogged and the mountain was no more. The job was quick and easy, but the smell was so vile that my poor teammate started getting light-headed and overheating, forcing her to rush outside for fresh air afterwards. Man, what a trooper!
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is my World Race poop story.
