Toilets on wheels

Cassette Porta Potti

When I first got Nadedet, my camper van, Yaakov pointed to a white plastic box and said, "I bought you a toilet." I asked, "you think?" and thought to myself I would manage just fine without having to do number 1, and certainly not number 2, in my precious Nadedet—I would find parking lots with public restrooms, park close to trees and bushes, far from nosy travelers, dig a hole in the ground at night, do what I needed to do, cover it up, and so on and so forth, but I will not take a dump in my own little house on wheels.

Now, on the France-Germany border, I arrive at a parking lot that has no tree, bush, or rock, no public restrooms, and imposing lights illuminating it extremely bright all night long. I realize there’s no choice; it's time to get acquainted with the portable toilet I have stashed somewhere under my bed—how to clean it, how to detach the tank from the seat, and how and where to empty the tank.

Two weeks ago, in Mainz, Germany, as Yaakov pointed to the Porta Potty, a white Mercedes glided up to where we were standing and Yaakov said, "Oh, here’s Rami, my partner. He’s your neighbor."

“Excuse me?” I asked, surveying the man dressed in smart-casual clothes and whom I'd never seen before in my life, as he pulled himself out of the car. “He’s from Kafar Qara,” Yaakov explained. “Oh,” I nodded. Kafar Qara is an Arab town right next to the village I had been living at before I set out on this trip. Rami shook my hand warmly and then realized we were in the middle of reviewing the toilet. “Listen,” he said, “all you need are large, black, heavy duty garbage bags and to learn how to separate the poop from the pee.” I shot a confused glance at Yaakov. He nodded and gestured with his finger, “Listen to him.” Rami explained and I listened.

Well, if you want to keep the toilet clean, first do number 1 in it, while holding off on number 2. Then you clean it with a special detergent and all the liquid stuff goes onto the tank at the bottom. Because we don't want stinky disgusting shit going in the tank, you then cover the toilet basin with a large heavy duty garbage bag into which you do your number 2. You must make sure that not even a drop of number 1 gets into the plastic bag. Immediately after finishing, you tie the garbage bag tightly, exit the van, and throw it in the nearest trash can (which sometimes might be a few kilometers away). “Make sure the bag is black. No one will know what’s in the bag, no one will ask, the toilet will always stay clean, and you don’t have to empty crap in all kinds of public parking lots," Rami summarized, and I was not convinced at all.

But, now, I still have to figure out how to operate the toilet for the very first time. I mean I have to put some kind of liquid detergent into it and then I have to learn how to detach the tank from the bowl and I don't know if I have any detergent, and I don't know where the opening to the detergent/water tank is and how to actually flush the damn thing.

So I decide the best thing to do is to carry Porta Potti in my arms as if it were a month old baby, and walk with it around the large parking lot where dozens of camper vans are parked, all equipped with some form of portable toilets. I put on my nicest smile and hope that someone will come and ask if I need help with the little one. And that’s exactly what happens.

Within minutes, I am surrounded by several knowledgeable folk—seasoned travelers—who explain and demonstrate in a mix of German, French, and English. “This is the flush button, here’s the cap you need to open to pour the disinfectant into. Do you have disinfectant? Because if you don’t, I can give you a quarter of a bottle. The detergent can be mixed with a little water; it still disinfects but lasts longer…” These experienced travelers, like me, are all thrifty. After all, to travel and wander, you need to manage with as few expenses as possible.

A lesson on how to use a Porta Potti (I'm still with the mask because I'm just coming out of my COVID)

The guy with the ponytail brings the disinfectant and asks where I’m from. I hesitate before I say, “From Israel,” but he’s actually excited and tells me he’s met many Israelis on his travels, and that he’s just returned from China—“What? You drove all the way from China to here?” I exclaim, and he says, “Yes, yes. And I even found the love of my life, and we’re about to get married…” I feel a kind of happiness I don’t recognize. I thought I hated human beings and here is someone living from moment to moment who has found what they didn’t even know they were looking for along the way. There is light at the end of the tunnel.

At this moment in time my journey is about controlling my pelvic floor muscles. My heart races, the excitement is high—can I manage to release one sphincter while constricting the other? I rush back to my van, close all curtains and shutters, fill the flushing tank with water and detergent, sit down on the very comfortable seat of my Porta Potty and pee. I succeed! The toilet flushes as explained, the garbage bag opens and spreads over the toilet basin, and everything is executed to perfection. The friend with the long hair found a bride, and I found wonderful relief and freedom - freedom of having to look for hidden spots or using dodgy public facilities. From now on, everything can be done in my Nadedet efficiently while maintaining all hygiene rules. I tie the garbage bag up, exit the van, and throw my bodily waste into the distant trash can.

At night, every few minutes, the electric train on the tracks adjacent to the parking lot, whooshes and rings as it makes its way to its destination. In the van on my bed I lie on my back and sing a capella Simon and Garfunkel's "Bridge Over Troubled Water." A masterpiece. Life is wonderful.