Inside a Portaloo

A Story by Cal Whimsey

A short story from an expat's life in a foreign linguistic landscape with a peculiar plot twist and the author's thoughts about it.

Leaves had already changed colour to all hues on the yellow, orange and red part of the spectrum and the breeze was getting less agreeable and more intense with each passing day.

Days were shortening and nights lengthening and all the obvious geophysical phenomena which come at the same time every year but still catch us off-guard. Shorter days and longer nights equals less daylight, less enthusiasm and an increased desire to sleep. Yet, all this in a good way, you know, the autumnal kind of way. Sometimes the inevitable carries traces of the enjoyable when you take a good look at it.

And there I was in the midst of all this autumnality. There I was in a new town, in a new country, in a new and utterly foreign linguistic landscape, in a new entourage of friends and enemies --the latter much scarcer than the former, thank goodness. The autumnality, oddly familiar, was perhaps the only feature that reminded of home, without really looking to be reminded.

I was walking with a clear objective in mind, not just mindlessly strolling, yet taking time to mindlessly stroll while pursuing a clear objective of my mindless strolling. A reasonably balanced approach, I dare say. Suddenly, though, I was interrupted from my daydreams by a foreign element entering in the comfortable bubble of my personal space and of my own thoughts.

The foreign element, for the sake of precision: two units thereof, wearing denim jackets as though a uniform, uniting their difference in a faint impression of uniformity. Their faces full of hope gleaming with an unasked question imminently about to be asked and addressed to me. And so it was.

They asked: “?”

That was all I understood for the question was asked in a language I did not understand. I couldn’t but stand and frown, albeit inadvertently, but that is what I do when I listen to a foreign language only superficially known to me. I look for cues, words I’ve heard, words that could lead me to the meaning. The meaning veiled in mystery and remaining so unless sounds and gestures are employed. Hence my frowning. Bad habit which I do my best to shake off.

So I frowned for a moment presumably shorter in the eyes of others than my own. Then, with surrender, I started talking in the lingua franca of the world in its current state, also known as English --but also privately known to me as the safety net and the last resort of my hesitant conversation attempts in the foreign language I don’t speak.

To hardly any surprise from either side, they responded in a rather poised and comfortable variety of my linguistic safety net and asked me my age. A question one might take for an insult had the scenario not taken place in that particular place and social constellation. No, I did not get offended by their query in the least. Instead, I responded truthfully and to the best of my knowledge.

Their reaction to me telling my age was most peculiar. They cheered. They seemed overjoyed. They gave each other a significantly high five, then a ten in a disturbingly frolicsome manner. I just stood there. Took a preventive step backward and politely smiled, but with a raised eyebrow --so as to let it be known that I have a question to be answered. A question of a highly personal nature since the information that stirred all this joy and amusement was my age, the telling of which had not incited as much amusement for a long time.

They obliged and proceeded to explain their most peculiar request to me. I was politely but beseechingly asked to follow them and to fit into a portaloo with as many people as I possibly could. All people over 24 count for more points. Yes, apparently it’s a competition. Young people walk all around the town and ask unsuspecting passers-by to fit into portable toilets with many many others.

Many many others… Do you have a faintest idea how many people fit into a portaloo?

Many many others. Many including you. Many and you on top. Many and you under some of them squatting, crouching, making sure you’re not stepped on and injured, contused and mangled. Many is a vague number, but clearly denoting the human capacity to accomplish anything one puts her or his mind to.

There were 17 of us. We won.

In case you’re not mortified upon reading the number -- that’s a lot. By any stretch of imagination, that’s just shy of impossible. That’s crowds. That’s multitudes. Do you recall a time when you entered a portaloo and closed the door? You turned around and thought: Now this is a tiny space. Good to be here by myself.

In any case, my participation made people happy. After all, it wasn’t that bad an experience, actually. I just used an instance of dramatic hyperbole because I couldn’t resist. No one was mangled. No contusions. I wasn’t hurt or humiliated any more than the 16 others. The reason I decided to participate is that I was tempted by the idea of doing something you might never get the chance to do ever again. Something most people never get asked at all. And yes, something most never even conceive of as long as they live. That’s why. For the sake of doing something bizarre.

Moments like these, they make you think of the shortness of life. Opportunities come and you either grasp them or, idling about, let them get away. Maybe it’s the ‘why not?’ moment. I don’t know. I’d like to think it was premeditated and spontaneous simultaneously.

Now I can proudly claim I once was inside a portaloo with sixteen other people. All of them strangers. I was the seventeenth person to fit in. True story. I might even include it in my CV.

The funny thing is: they won a cake.

Which naturally leads to a question. Who eats a cake after having crammed into a portaloo with 16 other people? But that’s a story for another time and another situation.