My first car accident occurred in 1976. A young teacher, I was driving home from Hampton High School in Western Australia in our first car, a Fiat 850 sports car, which we had bought just before we married in January 1973. When we exchanged our nuptials, Steve was 21 and had just completed his engineering degree at the University of Western Australia WA. I was still six months short of 20 and was two years into my Arts degree.

The Fiat was our pride and joy, and in keeping with the fashion, we had the white duco repainted bright yellow. We felt very sophisticated; very cool when we drove our little sports car to Denmark on the south coast of WA for our honeymoon. We also felt very adventurous in February 1974 when we packed all our clothes into it and drove across the Nullarbor to Sydney where Steve took up a scholarship to complete a one-year master’s program at the University of NSW.  

For West Australians, the trip across the Nullarbor to the Eastern States was legendary. I recall as a small child, ‘slide’ evenings in which friends far wealthier than us proudly showed images of them standing in the red dust on the side of the highway next to their Holden, with tarpaulin covered luggage sitting on the roof, and the vehicle covered in a thick layer of the gritty red stuff.  ‘This is us having a morning cuppa somewhere between Balladonia and Caiguna. The pot holes were amazing’.

Originally ‘built’ in 1941, the Eyre Highway was the only road connection between Western Australia and the Eastern States. A deeply rutted gravel and red sand track, it was only sealed in sections during the 1960s and 70s. When we made the journey in 1974, about 200 kms were still unsealed.  

The Fiat was the quintessential city car: tiny, close to the ground and definitely not designed to float over the deep corrugations. On the contrary, a long-standing joke between Steve and me is that I enjoyed the vibrations. Fortunately, our adventure was just about incident free. The exception occurred at a camp site in Eucla where we were assailed by the thundering sound and vibrations of two or three motor bikes that circled our two-person tent a few times as we lay in it. Probably just a lark intended to frighten us a bit, which it certainly did, but we survived without any material damage.

On that day home from Hampton High School in 1976, I was turning right onto a busy road and failed to give way to a car that was driving towards me. Neither the other driver nor I was injured, but his car was damaged, and ours was a write-off. That was the end of our beautiful little car, which we replaced with a Hillman – one of the more modern minx models, probably from the early 1960s, which we gave to my young brother some months later when we departed for a year of backpacking overseas.

I was very embarrassed by this accident, because I do not consider myself a reckless driver.  I was once stopped by a policeman who pointed out that I was driving too slowly.  Judgement or inattention has probably been my problem, and so I have responded to this by giving myself plenty of time to enter traffic.

It would be fair to say that I am a three-state offender. In 1984, our Mazda traveller van – a nine-seater – was sideswiped by another car as I attempted to veer from the right to the left lane on a busy roundabout in Hobart. The driver of the other car was an off-duty policeman, and while neither of us was injured, both our cars were very slightly damaged.  Apart from the opprobrium with which he took the opportunity to let me know that I was in the wrong, I also endured the embarrassment of Steve’s colleague Burt witnessing the accident from his desk in the Department of Transport office which overlooked the roundabout.   For many years later, we all laughed at the fact that it was impossible to get away with doing something wrong in Hobart. However, before I had had a chance to ring Steve – these were pre-mobile phone days – I contemplated the wisdom of having not shared with the policeman the fact that the occasion was accompanied by two possible mitigating factors. The first was that having only recently weaned our third child, this was the first day of my first period in five years. The second was that I was – quite uncharacteristically – listening to ABC FM classic and immensely enjoying Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.  Not ever since this experience have I listened to music on the radio while driving; I am too fearful that doing so will be an unsafe distraction.

Fast forward to Wollongong in 1996. I attempted to turn right out of a busy T junction and failed to see a car approaching from the right.  Hers, a brand new mid-blue sedan, the make of which I cannot remember was slightly damaged. Mine, a black Citroen Xantia, and perhaps a couple of years old was, perhaps appropriately, was so damaged that it was un driveable. Having exchanged contact details, I sat on the curb to wait for the tow truck to take my car to the panel beaters.

This was an extremely busy time of my life, in which managing three kids and a business had me driving long distances every week, and probably far too often trying to avoid running late. The accident earned me the final three of my twelve demerit points, and thus resulted in me making a trip to court and losing my licence for three months.

I don’t remember my defence, but I clearly remember the magistrate’s swift and merciless dismissal of it, when he said that any defence would be worthless if I killed myself or others on the road.  While I couldn’t argue with his rebuke, I later wondered whether his impatience was a result of the fact that his son was the sole survivor of a recent head-on collision that had killed his mates, and all the occupants of the other car. The accident occurred late at night on a quiet, narrow road. The vehicle in which the magistrate’s son was a passenger was travelling at high speed:  apparently the young guys were engaging in a bit of a youthful, but reckless lark.

Fortunately, apart from my guilt and my wounded pride about yet another failure of judgement, my accident was injury free.  But, the incident will always have a special place in my memory.  As I sat on the curb with my head in my hands and feeling like an idiot, I suddenly heard my eldest daughter calling me. Dressed in over-the-knees, blue, red and white pleated check uniform, black leather shoes and white socks and an untidy mess of gorgeous honey blonde hair, Dom swooped down and threw her arms around me. ‘Yes, I’m ok’, I said, as I sank into her comforting embrace. Seventeen and in year 11, Dom was among a group of kids being given a lift by another mum on their way back to school after an excursion to the conservatorium when she noticed me and my mangled car.

As a teenager Dom was romantically optimistic, feisty and probably even a bit reckless at times.  But, this was the first of two occasions on which she gave me a taste of the compassion and selflessness that I have loved about her ever since: the second was a year later just a few days before her HSC, when she drove me to hospital in the middle of the night. Apparently, on average, we can anticipate having 3-4 accidents in a lifetime of driving. That is according to an American calculation and I don’t imagine that the figure will be much different in Australia. So, lets hope that I stay at this point on the bell curve for the rest of my life. 

June 2019

A few days ago, a lumpy letter arrived in the mail. I say lumpy because I could feel something soft bulging inside the envelope, and not unusually the message on the front of the envelope let me know that there was a special gift inside for me. This was a promotional letter from a charity encouraging me to become a donor, the socks apparently intended as an inducement. I wonder how the charity’s marketing staff decided that this would work with me. Perhaps they thought that I would consider the gesture a kind one that makes me feel like reciprocating the kindness by making a one-off donation or even better becoming a regular donor.

Alternatively, a less sympathetic view is that the gift is designed to induce a sense of guilt and obligation in me: an ‘oh bugger, I suppose I had better donate’ feeling. 

Or does the marketing team think that a vague combination of these anticipated emotional responses will lead me to hesitate before I discard the accompanying letter and instead read it and perhaps then decide to become a donor?

But none of these scenarios was the case. Instead, I thought, oh, please not again, why is yet another charity wasting money by sending me stuff that I don’t need and don’t want? Furthermore, what do I do with it? Forewarned with the knowledge that the envelope contained an object that I don’t want, I was tempted to just throw it unopened straight into the rubbish bin. However, I am reluctant to do that because the envelope and letter should be thrown in the recycling bin and the plastic window of the envelope and the gift, complete with the plastic bag in which it was packed, need to go into the general waste. Aside from the nuisance of having to complete this tedious sorting and disposal process, which in turn forces me to see and handle the gift, I feel guilty and exasperated at wasting the socks and adding to land waste. So, the best I could do was to discard the envelope, its plastic window and the letter appropriately, and drop the socks into a charity bin at our local shopping centre. Ok, done!

No, here we go again. This time it was an A4 envelope, sans the clear window but with a picture of a cloth shopping bag and words saying ‘Can you help us with the heavy lifting? Your free gift inside…’

My strategy this time was to return the package to the sender. In the past I have done this and placed the package inside another envelope which also contained a letter describing my concerns. Returning the package doesn’t really solve the problem but it does let the charity know that the strategy didn’t work with at least one person.

Let me be clear. I do not resent charities reaching out to me for donations. As it happens, I am a regular donor to a number of charities and give one-off donations to others each year. In doing so, my decisions are based on local and international causes that I think warrant support and that I care about the most.

I just wish that charities would stop using this dubious method to promote their causes and to encourage me to become a donor or to increase my commitment to them. For me at least, the strategy is counterproductive.

May 2026

We arrived at the Riverside Café and found a seat on the wide wooden floored verandah overlooking the Hunter River. To our right was a man seated alone, seemingly self-absorbed as he ate his bacon and eggs and scrolled his mobile phone. To our left were the only other people in the café – a group of about five blokes all in their 60s or older. Given their relaxed demeanour and that this was a Thursday morning, I reckon they were all more or less retired. Dressed in a motley array of T shirts, shorts and runners – the sort of attire that’s fine for hanging around the house in or working in the garden, my guess is that their visit to the café had been preceded by a walk, probably along the riverside path that stretched in front of the café and partly hidden by low scrubby gum trees. 

With our bikes loaded onto the back of our car we had left Wollongong the previous afternoon to travel to Brisbane. After attending a play – a Christmas gift from our three girls – at Sydney’s Belvoir St Theatre in the early evening, we drove to Raymond Terrace where we stayed the night at a little motel: a red brick box-like structure that was simple but clean and quiet – perfect for our need for a good night’s sleep.  

Keen to reach Brisbane in daylight, we were up bright and early the next morning, but our first port of call was somewhere to grab breakfast. Google search suggested Riverside Café as the nearest place on offer, and it had the advantage of being an easy place to park our car.

The blokes’ friendly relaxed banter, interspersed with occasional outbursts of laughter suggested a sense of familiarity with each other and the cafe: this was where they meet after their walk. Every now and again one or other them would call out a G’day, ‘How ya goin mate?’ or a friendly message of encouragement to a passing walker or jogger.

One of the joggers was a woman – I think the blokes called her Sue – very likely also in her 60s. Wearing a long, sleeveless white T shirt, black three-quarter length tights and old joggers, Sue shuffled past the café in a heavy sideways gait that suggested protection of wonky hips or knees.

Having cleaned up our scrambled eggs and skinny flat whites we returned to our car parked across the road from the café and next to the riverside path. Steve and I were checking that the bikes were securely locked onto the carrier at the back of the car when we suddenly heard Sue.

‘Going on a cycling trip, are ya?’ she asked as she stopped just beyond the car.

‘Yes’, I said, ‘we are headed for a three-dayer – the Brisbane Valley Rail Trail’.

‘Good on ya’, she replied her face spreading into a bright toothy smile. After a moment’s hesitancy, I added, ‘Actually, it’s our first post cancer cycling trip since my diagnosis two years ago. trip, so it’s sort of special.’

‘Oh’, she said, ‘that’s awesome’, and held my gaze for just a second before throwing her big bare, sweaty arms and drenched T shirt around me in a huge body warming hug. As we embraced, I felt utterly loved. ‘Thanks so much,’ I said. ‘Enjoy the rest of your run’.  

March 2026.

I stepped out of St James Station onto Elizabeth Street to face a police barricade blocking off the street from just beyond the station down as far as I could see east of the station.  My first thought as I wandered across the street was that a Christmas parade was about to take place. So, along with a few others, I found my way to the edge of the pavement and glanced into the distance, wondering where all the action was.  Less than 30 seconds later, bored with the absence of anything apparent on the empty street, I decided to get on with my Christmas shopping.

Pulling out the scribbled list of items that I intended looking for, I checked the time.  It was 10.45am. This meant that I would have about four hours before I would need to make my way back to the airport to meet Steve’s flight. He had flown down to Melbourne early in the morning for a meeting with a client and, unusually, I had decided to accompany him the night before on the trip from Wollongong to Sydney, or more precisely to a hotel across the road from Sydney Domestic Airport. He was particularly tired because he had been working long hours on a number of large projects and I was worried about him driving to Sydney alone.

It was also extremely unusual for me to shop in Sydney as an intended, planned action.  Shopping for anything other than food, tends to occur for me almost accidentally or at least incidentally, and Sydney has been the location of this activity perhaps three or maybe four times in the last 28 years that we have lived in Wollongong.

David Jones was the first shop that I visited.  Within a few seconds of having made my way to the Clinique counter to purchase cosmetics for my youngest daughter Tessa, the sweet sales assistant, perhaps in her early sixties, and all bonhomie, reached for two jars of moisturising creams, and midway through a comment about the benefits of Youth Dew for a young complexion, dropped her voice to a barely audible level and asked me whether I knew about the ‘hostage situation’.

‘No’, I said in surprise.

‘A Muslim is holding a group of people hostage at the Lindt Café in Martin Place’, the word Muslim expressing a you-know-what-I-mean sense of terrorist.

‘Oh’, I replied with a mixture of shock and surprise, ‘that must be why the police are manning a barricade across Elizabeth Street’.

‘Yes’, she said, ‘you need to be careful. That’s a lovely pendent you are wearing.’

‘Yes’, I said, ‘it’s a gift from my choir friends in the ‘Gong’. And on our conversation went until she wished me merry Christmas, and having given me instructions for getting to the nearest Sussan shop, encouraged me to be careful. Why, I wondered for a fleeting moment, before remembering that there was a hostage situation just a couple of streets away.

A few minutes later I found my way to the Pitt Street mall, stopping for a few seconds to take a photo of an enormous Father Xmas display made out of Lego. The photo I thought would make a good conversation piece with my four grandchildren who would be spending a few days with us over Christmas. ‘Wow, Lulu that’s huge.  Is it really all made out of Lego? I reckon I could do that if we had enough pieces’, were some of the comments I imagined them making when I showed them the photo. I walked around the Lego display to take in whatever else was happening.

To one side a strange agglomeration of dogs sitting in a cart was attracting a fair bit of attention. They were there to raise awareness and money for Assisting Wellbeing Ability Recovery Empowerment (AWARE) Dogs. A metre or so away from them on another corner of the giant Father Christmas was an old man playing a Christmas carol on a violin, his tune struggling to compete with the piped music – another vaguely familiar Christmas tune – that pervaded the air, and frustrated me because I could not locate where it was coming from.

Glancing to the right I realised with a touch of surprise that King Street was closed, and I noticed a number of police officers purposefully striding along and across Pitt Street. And, all the time, I could sense the growing unease among other shoppers: the comments about the hostages.

‘Have you heard any more news?’

‘No, nothing more; just that there are 40 hostages. One has been forced to hold up a flag with Arabic script on it; others are standing with their hands up against the front window of the café. Well, I think he’s from ISIS.’

My thoughts returned to Christmas shopping. I checked my watch: it was 12.30. Yes, there was enough time before Steve’s return to Sydney airport to pick up some books from Abbeys in York St. Books are a standard favourite Christmas – and birthday – present for him, and I wanted to also get a few for the grand kids. Half an hour later I emerged onto York St. The load of Christmas presents in my little backpack had now been made considerably heavier by a couple of novels, and a couple of non-fiction books for Steve and a pile of young readers’ books and colourfully illustrated story books for our grandchildren.

Then it suddenly dawned on me. What if the trains are cancelled? Shit, how would I get back to the airport? What if the roads are closed and I can’t get a taxi? Picking up my pace, I made my way to the Queen Victoria building, navigated a path through the crowds of people shopping, drinking coffee, and eating lunch and headed down the stairs to the Town Hall Station.  Ok, which train will get me to the airport? Should I just jump on any train and get to Central or find out which one goes directly to the airport? Pulling my phone out of my shoulder bag, I quickly searched for the city timetable, completed the Plan Your Trip details, and with 2 minutes to spare, tapped on and walked as briskly as I could down the stairs to Platform 2, conscious all the time of avoiding a fall.

Stepping onto the train, it was surprisingly easy to find a seat. I gazed around only to be met by a silent sea of down-turned heads, most of them nonchalantly focused on mobile phone screens, some reading the newspaper, a few quietly dozing. Twenty-two minutes later I made my way up the escalator to the arrivals area at Sydney airport. Just as I downed the last mouthful of a coffee, Steve appeared. ‘Have you seen the news?’ he asked.

‘Yes’, I nodded. ‘Isn’t it awful’ I added, not sure what else to say.

‘I’ve been worried about you. I am so glad to see you. Let’s go home.’

 

 

My brother-in-law Tony warned my husband that he might not want to visit the gents’ toilet. We were on a cycling trip in the UK and had just finished morning coffee at a lovely café overlooking the River Tone in a little town called Taunton. Ignoring his advice, Steve returned with a wry smile and agreed that the turd in the toilet was indeed very large. Much merriment was shared as we contemplated the difficult task that lay ahead for the café staff in attempting to clear the toilet of its hefty load. Would they need a knife or perhaps blast it with hot water to break it up?

Toileting in India was always a challenge in 1977, when Steve and I backpacked our way through south east and central Asia to Europe and the UK, but one experience stays with me more than any other. We travelled on an overnight bus from Bangalore to Goa. Early in the morning, a comfort stop dropped us in a small barren looking town called Hubli next to an open field at the far end of which was a toilet block. We descended from the bus, weary from the muscle-aching half sleep that comes with travelling at speed on pot-holed roads, and started to walk along a debri-laden path that ran alongside the field.  As we did so, we were confronted by the image of a noisy, angry mob of men who chased and killed a mangy dog on the field. Gaunt and dishevelled, the men hit the dog repeatedly with heavy blocks of woods, the creature’s body bouncing up and down with each deadly strike. Perhaps the dog had done something to make them angry, but there was something about their vicious determination which made me wonder whether it might be their next meal.

With eyes turned away, and my heart still pacing from this shocking scene, I made my way to the women’s toilet block. One hand clutching toilet paper in my pocket, I tentatively stepped into the L shaped concrete building.  A shaft of sunlight cutting across the entrance revealed sloppy piles of shit lying on almost all of the available floor space. My second hand went straight to my nose to offer some protection from the nauseating smell, and I tightened my toes in my shoes in an instinctive but futile attempt to protect my shoes from treading on the squishy brown mess.

By this time, we had been on the road for a couple of months and had become accustomed to the awful smells and sights on offer in public toilets.  However, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw as I turned the corner into the main area of the toilet block.

Squatting on the footholds of each of the five door-less cubicles were old women. Each was gently swaying backwards and forwards, her bare feet gripping the porcelain beneath her, in order to keep her balance. Each was sound asleep. With grey hair pulled back in a neat bun, each was wearing a simple white and spotlessly clean cotton sari.

This was a perfectly awful personification of the utter hopelessness of poverty; it was also a picture of grace and beauty.

During this trip we discovered that toilets came in a number of forms in Afghanistan. Our entry into the country was via Peshawar, Pakistan from where we travelled to Kabul in an old truck that was laden with a miscellany of plastic and wooden wares that bulged over the sides of the vehicle and doubled its height.  Although the distance along the Jalalabad Highway through the Khyber Pass is only 200 kilometres, the trip took about 8 hours. The terrain was rugged, the road narrow, steep and winding, and at times the driver needed to edge the truck through highway passages that threatened to disgorge its precariously packed load.

Our driver had offered us the lift ‘baksheesh’, and his generosity extended to also inviting us to have some of his hashish. While we didn’t share this part of the journey with him, we somehow managed to engage in congenial conversation for most of the way, using hand and facial gestures, about Afghanistan, his truck, the Khyber Pass, his wife and kids, our relationship, our travels, Australia.

Half way through the journey, we stopped to eat, and shared a steaming hot chicken stew and flat bread with him and an afghan policeman who was also passing through the area. The place was a lone mud brick structure, just big enough for the four of us to sit on the straw covered earthen floor. The meal was cooked by a local tribesman on a woodfire, and its aroma and taste were gently delicious and restorative. I was just recovering from a bout of Delhi belly and this was the first real meal that I had been able to eat in about a week.  The conversation, challenged by our lack of a common language, was again halting but warm, the situation strangely free of any sense of menace that the policeman’s uniform and gun or the truck driver’s supply of hashish could have created.

Toilets were a rarity in this rugged, arid, mountainous terrain, and along the Jalalabad Highway there were few places behind which to easily hide. In addition, we did not see many other women travellers and there were certainly no women in this tiny outpost on the Khyber Pass. But on this day, there was a toilet. So, before having the meal, I made my way along a narrow rocky path to it. Located about 50 metres behind the café, the toilet was a rickety wooden box with a hole in the floor and two concrete footholds, just within reach of which was a tub of water. There was no door, and yet, as I squatted, I felt solitary, and strangely safe and private. All I could hear was the wind blowing furiously. All I could see was a wall of mountains.

Herat was a fascinating city and, while it was just as smelly, dirty and chaotic as Kabul, we found it more attractive. We walked along dusty, noisy streets and crowded alleyways, where most of the buildings were simple mud brick structures with cut outs in place of windows and doors. We made our way between colourfully decorated horse carts and clapped out old cars, a wheat grinder driven by a camel, and fly infested sheep and goat carcases hanging from hooks on the side of the road.  Narrow alley ways revealed noisy, messy bazaars full of all sorts of household paraphernalia from gaudy plastic goods to wool blanket shawls and densely patterned rugs, exotically engraved brass ornaments and leather goods, including a sturdy rectangular leather bag that we bought for Steve.

The city also indulged our taste buds with the country’s own form of mouth wateringly delicious roti – long narrow lengths of flat bread baked by being slapped onto the wall of a mud brick oven. Ours was purchased fresh from the oven – so it was piping hot, and the baker placed a huge chunk of sweet fibrous halva on it.  But the highlight of the city was the magnificent 800-year-old Friday Mosque, covered in intricate geometric patterned blue mosaic tiles.

Although our practice was to choose, not quite the cheapest, but the Lonely Planet Guide’s second cheapest recommendations, our options for accommodation were often fairly spartan.  The bathroom, laundry and toilet ‘amenities’ at the hotel we stayed at in Herat consisted of one grey concrete floored room with water supplied to a long trough which sat along one of the walls. Turds, large, deep brown and firm lay in neat piles on the floor.  I recall staring at them – there were so many they were impossible to ignore – and wondering whether their dark brown colour, solidity and sickly, pungent smell were a result of the high meat content of the Afghani diet.  On the floor near the trough stood a few bright red long-spouted plastic pots from which water was poured in lieu of toilet paper and flowed onto the floor. No doubt, at some other time of the day somebody would have the job of washing the turds away to become part of the local sewerage system. But in the meantime, we found a safe foothold at the troughs to wash ourselves and our clothes.

More than 30 years later, Steve and I did a six-week trip to South America. By contrast with our year of backpacking, this was not a $20 per day adventure: it was our reward to ourselves after having sold our company. As well as spending ten days cruising around the Galapagos Islands, and exploring the wonders of Ecuador, and a little of Chile and Argentina, we joined a small group of other travellers to walk the Inca Trail, a four-day trek through steep, rugged terrain to Machu Pichu.

According to the strict government regulations a maximum of 500 people that can be on the Trail at any one time, and they must also be accompanied by government qualified and licenced guides. Ours was a highly competent and wonderfully supportive woman called Maria. As well as providing an ongoing commentary about the Incas and their travails at the hands of the invading Spanish, Maria also indulged my delight in the complex and changing landscape. This was our first trip to South America and I knew next to nothing about any of the countries including Peru. So, while I was excited to discover the history and culture of the country, and enjoyed the novelty of seeing lamas nearby, including a huge one that prodded me in the back as I stood looking at an ancient Inca settlement, I was also gobsmacked by the natural beauty of the rainforests and the open rocky terrain through which we walked. And, an unexpected bonus was discovering that some of my favourite plants that grow in our garden at home are indigenous to Peru. I enjoyed the novelty of seeing fleshy-leaved begonias with delicate red, orange, pink or white flowers, and bright pink and purple edged flowers that protruded proud and strong from the centre of huge bromeliads, at each turn of the path.

Among the government regulations affecting the trek was one limiting camping to specified locations, all of which had toilets, or access to nearby villagers’ toilets. Most of these could be flushed; some just made use of a bucket of water located inside or just outside the cubicle. One of the peculiarities of the toilets was that soiled toilet paper was not dropped into the toilet bowl but was instead put into a bucket that sat next to the squatting footholds.

When we arrived at each of the three campsites in early evening, the toilets were relatively clean. However, a visit by torchlight in the middle of the night was more problematic. And, by the following morning when the serious task of shitting typically took place, the toilets were breathtakingly awful. Once the door was closed, and the benefit of sunlight lost, the challenge was to disrobe without letting your trouser legs touch the floor. Imprisoned in this tiny dark chamber, thankful for the protection provided by hiking boots, the senses were assaulted by a thick smelly stew of screwed up sheets of wet, soiled toilet paper as well as ruddy, used tampons and sanitary pads, all of which spilled over the bucket and onto the floor.

The fourth and final day of the trek began in the cold darkness at about 3.00am. This was to enable us to reach Machu Pichu in time to see the wondrous ruins emerge from the mist with the rising sun. Keen to avoid missing out on this experience, Steve and I secured a spot towards the front of the queue, which, within minutes, swelled to about 100 trekkers, all of us donned in familiar brands of warm clothing and hiking boots and carrying day packs, ready for the final stage of our pilgrimage.

Shivering with cold and nervous excitement, we eagerly waited for the signal to start walking, when I was suddenly gripped by stomach cramps. Reluctant to lose our place in the queue, I nevertheless realised that I just had to find a toilet as quickly as possible.

Even with the light cast by head torches, it was difficult to find any of the campsites carefully hidden from the trail.  After about 200 metres, the twinkling of torchlights to my right revealed the first toilets. These were the men’s and would have been fine, but they were all occupied, as were the adjacent set that were for women. My stomach cramps threatening to explode, I was desperate to find a loo, when I suddenly saw a huddle of young women standing near a third block.  They were American, I would say in their early to mid-twenties, and from their new colour coordinated trekking gear, and refined hairdos and makeup, almost certainly city girls – and probably university students.

‘Are any of these free?’, I anxiously asked. ‘Well, yes’, one of them said squeamishly, ‘but you can’t use them. They’re disgusting’.  ‘Ok’, I said and raced past them into the nearest cubicle. It was awful. The floor was awash with putrid stinking shit mixed with soiled paper and urine. The toilet seat was a mess of muddy shoe marks. But with the finesse of a trapeze artist, I squatted over the bowl and gave my erupting intestines full flight.

In India, Afghanistan and Peru, shitting was – and probably still can be – difficult to deal with. Often, toilets are at least uncomfortable, and sometimes seriously challenge not just our senses but also our perceptions of hygiene and cleanliness.  To a considerable degree, however, I have taken for granted that the ugly, smelly presence of human waste – along with dilapidated housing, dirty streets and disfigured bodies – is almost inevitable in an underdeveloped country.

To many travellers, San Francisco is an exotic place but perhaps not a place that one would expect to have to worry about public sanitation. However, an article in a recent edition of The Economist[1] provides a stark reminder of how powerful and yet fragile human waste management is as a measure of societal wellbeing, and more fundamentally, our understanding of the hallmarks of a civilised society.

Because of a complex array of market factors there is a shortage of housing, and in particular social housing, in the city. As a result, about 7500 people or nearly 1 % of the 871,000 that live in the US’s second most expensive city, are homeless. Last year, there were 16,022 complaints to the City and County of San Francisco about human waste on the streets. This represents a 2.5-fold increase in the number of complaints since 2011.

People are revolted by the presence of the stuff; some avoid sidewalks in fear of seeing it, smelling it or treading in it. To local residents and visitors alike – those that have places in which to live – it is an affront to their expectations of a civilised society. The homeless that defecate on the streets, probably wouldn’t disagree. However, they very likely also feel desperate, hopeless and abandoned by society.

[1] The Economist, June 2^nd-8^th 2018, page 30