the bathroom trip

It´s 5:40 a.m. and my bladder is screaming. It´s been screaming since 4, but I refused to leave my bug-free cacoon that early. But now I need to get up, because I rather not wear adult diapers in a few years.

As I swing my legs out of my hammock, the mosquito net flutters and breathes. The three palm leaf roofs across the soccer field are still covered in clouds. Moonlight and mist blurs my morning. I am standing in Monet´s Impression.

Amber mud squishes between my toes as I drag my unbuckled sandals to the school building. I can see the pathway, but I turn my headlamp on anyway. I´ve seen tarantulas cross this path, and I rather not step on one.

Two dogs are growling at each other just ahead. The black one grabs the brown one by the neck. I give them some space.

As I reach the school, my arms instinctively hug my hair. I hear the bats bounding their wings, scurrying between the two school buildings. I don´t know if bats are at all interested in attacking my hair, but that´s what several movies have told me. The school principle calls the bats "little vampires." So it seems necessary to shield my head right now, even though in five minutes I will feel like a dork for having done it.

The four school bathrooms are outhouses with an upgrade - ceramic toilet bowls. Before I sit down, I analyze the situation in the wooden hut: Three small fuzzy spiders on the door, a dozen or so mosquitoes, a foot-long rodent above the doorway, an infantry of one-inch fat ants carrying poop pieces from the toilet paper bin, and a swarm of identical one-inch fat ants that can fly.
Campbell and I saw similar-looking ants in the forest. "My friend in Brazil once got bit by one of those.," Campbell said. "The pain was so bad, he lay motionless in his hammock for 24 hours." I avoid both the military and the flying ants, just in case.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh. Finally. Relief.

This toilet is a manual flush. That means I am the water tank. I fill a bucket with water from the large rainwater bin. (Large means human-sized in both height and diameter.) I dump the water in the toilet bowl. It gurgles. Yellow turns clear.

Back at my bug-free cacoon, I hear Julie and Campbell shuffling nylon and cotton. I grab my notepad. I´m awake now, and it´s time to start the day.

Today I will drink less tea at supper, and tomorrow morning my baldder will shut up, I tell myself. But I doubt it. The chamomile tea is tasty and reassuring. And I´m beginning to like my mornings misty, muddy and moonlit.