Misadventures....Part Four

"Well, since we're already here, we may as well go inside and have something to drink. What d'you think?"  "I could use a coffee," replied a still drowsy Shelley. The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the open door and set our mouths to waterin'! "Smells heavenly," she said as we dropped our backpacks on the floor and seated ourselves at the counter.  

We looked at the couple seated several stools down from us.  I eyed the plates in front of the couple and said quietly, "That looks so good. Excuse me, do you speak English?" "A little," replied the man.  "Can I ask you what you're eating?"  "I eat 'sa sirom'...it is cheese pie, and my woman eat 'sa spanacom'...it is spinach pie."  "And what are you drinking," I pantomimed holding a glass to my mouth. "Milkshake," he answered, "It very good." We ordered the same and as we were waiting for our food, I spoke again. "We would like to take a bus because we want to go to Petrovac.  Do you know where we can get one?"  "Ah, you very lucky.... you wait one hour, maybe one hour and one half...bus stop here.  Bus stop every day...coffee."  "That's great," said Shelley.  "What a relief!"  

An hour later, we boarded the bus.  It was not the newest or the nicest conveyance we'd ever experienced, but the chickens, ducks and goats and the general odour that they and their owners emitted was certainly up there on the sensory scale.  The baas, clucks and quacks of the various livestock, and the toothless or nearly toothless grins of some of the animal caretakers were charming, even if the aroma wasn't.  

We settled in for the long ride, the bus slowly climbing the road that wound its way through the mountains.  The scenery was spectacular.  The road, however, was not at all what we expected.  It was mostly unpaved, serpentine and very narrow.  All was fine when the bus shared the road with oncoming cars, but there was not enough room if a truck approached.  When this happened, and it did more than was to our liking, the bus driver was forced to stop and back up to one of the many strategically placed inclines adjacent to the route....a feat that set our hearts pounding!  Several times during the trip, we swore that one of the bus's wheels hung over the edge of the very steep cliff. Neither one of us was at all happy about this and squealed in fear, clutching painfully at each others' arms. Hours passed. We finally managed to doze off and when we awoke, the bus had finished making its descent and had, thankfully, reached ground level.  

By this time, we were both desperate for a 'potty' break. Fortunately, the bus was not far from Pec where it would stop to give the passengers the chance to 'relieve' themselves. The bus station was the only part of Pec that we would visit but, as it turned out, that was quite enough!  

Upon arriving, the passengers from our bus dragged themselves stiffly outside. They walked over to stand behind a group from another bus who were lined up in front of a small shack.  "Do you think that's the WC," I asked Shelley.  "I guess so." We followed our group and waited as the line very slowly inched forward.  The closer we got to the WC, the more intolerable the stench became.  We'd been subjected to malodorous toilets during our six-month stay in Europe, but nothing could top this.  

Breathing through our mouths and doing the desperate-for-a-toilet-right-now dance, we found ourselves, at last, within striking distance of the shanty.  The door opened and a man exited. Unfortunately, we were at that point, able to see inside.  We found ourselves wishing we'd been struck blind. Instead we saw the floor of the shack.  It was covered with excrement! How could anyone go in there? Where could they possibly step?  There was hardly one foot of floor left uncovered. "There is NO WAY I'm going in there," declared my sister.  "Me, neither!  But, I need to go, now!"  "Me, too," answered Shelley. "Let's go into the bus station. There must be toilets in there."  

We sprinted over to the building to our right and once inside, approached the only female ticket vendor.  "Excuse me," I smiled, hoping to charm the agent.  "Where is the toilet?" The woman behind the counter pointed to the front door, and said coldly, "Outside." "Is there a toilet in here that we could please use," I asked politely.  "Toilet for bus passengers is outside."  "Can we please, please use the bathroom in here," Shelley begged. "No! Passenger toilet is outside!"  We'd been so hopeful but with that, our hopes were quashed. "Oh, my gosh.  What are we going to do?"  We exited the building, eyes scanning the surroundings. We could not go back to that shack, but where could we go?  

Another bus had arrived.  A young woman separated herself from the crowd and started walking behind the bus station.  We followed.  I've had many, many toilet dreams in my life (I could write a book), but nothing could compare to what my eyes beheld that day. Behind the bus station there was a small stream, the same stream, in fact, that ran behind the outhouse.  On either side of the stream were dozens of men, women and children, pants down, all relieving themselves.  We stopped dead in our tracks. It was too much.  What kind of country was this? The young woman that we'd followed, pulled her jeans down, and squatted, not at all bothered it seemed, that there were men everywhere. I looked at my sister. "What d'you think?"  "I think I have to go, NOW," she gasped.  We joined the congregation, dropped our drawers and left, far behind, whatever modesty we'd once had.