Fish, but not THE fish.
[Photo by Nancy Olson]

Journal by Colin McAuliffe

My most disgusting blog ever. (Do not read if you have a sensitive stomach)

China is amazing, over a billion people, thousands of food dishes, cities that stretch as far as the eye can see, and rice patties that do the same. But in this blog I am not extolling upon the virtues of China (and there are so many), rather, in this particular entry I would like to discuss a little known fact about china. Here it is: China has the most disgusting bathrooms in the world. I’m serious. Dis-fargen-gusting. I mean, these are the kinds of places you wouldn’t even imagine existed. These commodes make up a land inhabited mostly by flies and maggots. In fact, judging by the amount of people I’ve seen urinating or defecating on the street, I think that Chinese people don’t use public toilets at all; they just put them there as a very cruel joke to westerners like myself.

Anyway, I avoid the aforementioned lavatories at all costs. Sometimes, going more than twenty-four hours in between clean toilets is a tough business, but luckily, the powers that be blessed me with an iron will and I was doing fine, I repeat, I WAS doing fine. That is, until I got a little loosey-goosey in my gut. So, a few days ago, I was forced to use a public toilet, and it was one of the most disturbing experiences of my life.

OK, this is when it gets really bad, so if you think you’re going to be grossed out, just quit here.

So there we are, at a restaurant off the highway on our way to Kunming, a major city in southern China, and I get the call of nature. Now, this is not one of those calls from a boss or telemarketer where you just look at the caller ID on your cell phone and decide to just let it ring. This, that’s right folks, this is one of those “I’m sorry, I really have to take this one” calls. Well, I picked up the proverbial phone and trudged off behind the restaurant towards what I was told was the bathroom. Ankle deep in mud, in the pouring rain, I trudged toward the shore of a big green pond. Situated upon said shore was a small shack. Knowing the Chinese symbol for men told me that this, unfortunately, was the toilet. I shuddered, I really did. It was dilapidated, almost about to collapse into the lake/pond. So, against my better judgement I entered my little private hell.

When I ducked into the building, I was actually pleasantly surprised; there was no human waste visible to the eye, and no fumes were burning my eyes. “Ok” I said to myself “This is a good sign.” Now, this commode functioned in a very unique and interesting way. I do not actually know if my readers are acquainted with the Asian “squatter” toilet, but let’s just say this is an interesting take on that basic idea. Basically, inside the small square room, at the back, on the lake side, was an eight –inch-wide slot that dropped straight into the pond. Now, I had seen similar toilets before, but the water was always six feet or so down; this water was about nine inches away.

OK, this is REALLY when this story gets graphic, so you can still back out now; however, those that stick around will be rewarded with a hilarious anecdote that won’t be easily forgotten.

So, I took my place over the modified squatter and began to do my business. Everything was going well, that is, until I looked down. I was disgusted. I was shocked. Startled, grossed out, yukked, appalled, revolted, dismayed, think of a bad adjective, and I was it. What I saw will never leave my mind’s eye. What I saw was a horde of catfish eating my poop. Ughhhhh. I finished up and vowed never to eat fish in China, never ever ever.

Ok, hold on to your chairs, this is the funny part.

I got back to the restaurant and announced to the group that I vowed never to eat fish in China. Of course I had to explain my reasons, and I did so in the most genteel manner possible; however, when my explanations were through I noticed that Todd was smirking. “Todd? What’s up?” “Oh nothing, it’s just a funny story” .

So, I asked what we were eating. Since in China, no one speaks English, we are forced to have a guide with us. His name is Ma, and he is a great guy. He orders our food, bargains for souvenirs, whatever we need, he’s there for us.

But I digress, I was getting to the meal, and as you’ve probably guessed by now, Ma told me that this particular restaurant was famous for its fish soup, and that was our main course. People, if you could only have seen the look on my face. I’m sure it was priceless. Everyone had a good laugh and all, and assured themselves that there was no way that they would be catching fish from the poop pond; they must get them somewhere else. I, however, was not reassured. I thanked God that Chinese meals consist of tons of courses and swore to myself I would not be taking part in the main course.

The meal arrived and I think most of the other people were avoiding it as best as they could too, but eventually Nancy and Nick gave in, telling themselves that it would be rude not to eat it. Adam eventually had some too. They all said it was yummy, but I was still not convinced. I had to ask Ma and know the truth. “Ma? What type of fish is this?” “Catfish” was his reply (not good). “And where, may I ask, do they catch these from?” “Oh, you know, from the pond out back.”

Lesson learned, no eating fish in China.

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