I hung prone in this position for a long moment whilst I recovered from the shock of the situation. I was suspended, almost to the mouth, in a stinking, primitive toilet. Still, the coolness of the water was a pleasant contrast to the heat of the night air. I paused to reflect on this. Something gently nudged me in the cheek. I strained my eyes downwards. A solid. My arms spasmed and I catapulted out the water and back on to the gangplank. I sprinted back over and burst into the light of the bar. To my horror, I was covered from my toes to my neck, in a brown sludge of medium viscosity. The three Khmer men turned towards me and raised a smile. Ra pulled out my chair and said:

“Come on, you sing Michael Jackson now.”

Flabbergasted, and too bewildered to question, I sat down. I stared at him open mouthed and motioned towards my stinking body. He said casually:

“It happen all the time, don’t worry.”

“What happened to the last person?” I replied.

“I stopped using that toilet. I use that one now.” He motioned towards a door at the end of the bar with the sign ‘WC, please flush after use’ on it.

© Ross Hilton