Balance is key when confronted with a squat toilet. For the westerner, it is useful to have a handle for stability, but, more importantly, to have strong leg muscles. I am no stranger to squat toilets. My first encounter was, surprisingly, in a small town in France. There have been times when I would have welcomed the squat. For example, on the train to Mexico City when I discovered the reason the seats were unsittable as the door flew open on a bend in the rails and I saw the woman standing on the toilet. Better a hole in the floor.

But the biggest challenge came at the bus station in Kaili. My guide had gone to buy the tickets and I was left to fend for myself with bags. I manage to travel with a relatively light load, keeping my backpack to 12 kilos with camera gear in a front pack so walking and climbing stairs do not hamper me. A squat toilet presents a different problem that may not be apparent until too late. There I was, pants around my knees using the walls for a little support, when it came time to get up. My leg muscles failed me. I could not raise myself to a standing position and I didn’t know how to yell, “Help, I’m stuck in this position, get me out of here” in Chinese. Nor would my pride have allowed me to do that even if I had known the words. This was a small space with not enough room to propel myself forward and get up camel style. This required a straight up motion. Several false starts and I was officially concerned that there was no way up that didn’t entail sitting on the toilet floor, or worse, and removing the backpack. The solution presented itself when I looked up and saw that I could reach the top of the door. Pull myself up. By this time, the leg muscles were jelly and useless. Arm muscles, my weakest, were required. Panting and panicked, I struggled, legs quivering and tears in my eyes, gaining upward movement an inch at a time. With one final end-of-strength pull, I was upright; shaking and heart pounding, but upright. With a nonchalance I didn’t feel, I opened the door and stepped out into the crowded room. My backpack was never out of sight, but the next time it will be on the floor.

The sky was dark when we started for the bus stop. I had asked Kyra what time the bus came but her answer was vague. Seven o’clock, maybe, or eight or nine, if it comes. This is the small village of Zhaoxing in Guizhou Province, China and there is much that is vague. We stopped for a quick bowl of noodles for breakfast then walked to the center of town where, we supposed, the bus would stop, if it came. At seven, no bus. Kyra left several times to recheck the schedule. Always the same, maybe now, maybe later, maybe maybe. Her aunt sat with us for awhile, sharing juicy oranges and nuts. She spoke no English and my Chinese is limited to the most basic of pleasantries but she wanted to share in the waiting. Five past eight, we heard the clatter of a struggling bus coming up the main street, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. Kyra stepped out to wave the driver down, otherwise he would have kept up his momentum and driven straight through. She spoke briefly with the driver, handed him a slip of paper and waved me onto the bus. I had the note with directions in Chinese she had given me the night before but I was happy to have someone sharing the knowledge who spoke the language.

It was a small bus and almost full but I found an empty seat where I was able to sit the necessary sideways. It’s a rare Chinese bus that allows me to sit any other way. I require either two seats or an aisle. I settled in for the 9 hour bus ride and waved goodby to Kyra and her tiny home town. I was on my own for the next four days with only a vague idea of where I was going and no idea where I would be sleeping. As the bus made its way along the rutted road, it stopped occasionally to pick up passengers until there was standing room only and my legs were swung out into the aisle. Two hours into the trip, the bus stopped.

There was a noisy discussion that seemed to indicate that this was unusual. Most of the passengers left the bus and headed toward another bus stopped just ahead. No one had said anything about a transfer point and we were a long way from anything resembling a town. A twinge of apprehension prickled my neck as I contemplated my next move. To stay or not to stay. The young couple who spoke just a little English started to leave just as the bus driver returned to the bus with note in hand and started pointing at me. The couple and the remaining people on the bus now came to my aid and started gesturing toward the exit. I got the message. Get off the bus. The first step was into a mud hole. Clearly the bus exchange was a result of the recent rains that left a portion of the road impassable forcing us to slip and slide our way through the muck separating the two buses. The good news was a bus upgrade to a newer, larger bus with seats for everyone.

Next stop, Kaili, where I did expect a transfer and was armed with my second note in Chinese and the correct pronunciation of Guiyang, my destination for the night. A semblance of a line was forming in front of a lone window and I dutifully joined it. Ticket buyers kept coming in from all angles to get to the window. Each, it seemed, had a special situation until I realized that they all wanted to buy tickets just as I did. With that realization, the bony elbows leapt from my side and became knives cutting through the crowd as I allowed no others to push past me until I reached the window, shouted my request and thumped my money on the counter. Success. I had the ticket and the body was intact. I boarded my third bus of the day and positioned myself nicely in the front seat with plenty of leg room only to discover that we had assigned seats and mine was in the back of the bus amongst the vendors and their overflowing bundles taking up the aisles. Knees pressed against the seat, onward, bus!