Pooing in Paradise

It really wasn't my fault. Not really. That's what I tell myself.

Mauritius is a beautiful, lush green volcanic island with the purest white sandy beaches you can imagine, and I'd dreamed of visiting ever since I saw pictures of it twenty years before; being there was a once-in-a-lifetime, no-expense-spared extravagance, and this was why, rather than being one of fifty passengers packed sardine-like onto a catamaran for a day trip, I hired out the whole thing.

So there was me, Hazel (my wife), Olivia and her daughter Erica. Olivia seemed like a middle-aged hippy chick, chilled out and happy, but mad tales of her life and experiences revealed she’d led a wilder youth. She was great company. Erica on the other hand was a prissy, Prada-obsessed, nineteen-year-old with the permanently smug air of someone who was stunningly beautiful, had always been thoroughly aware of it, and felt that the world owed her a living because of it. She was rather tedious to be around, but they were a package deal, and having someone to split the eye-watering cost of hiring out the whole boat was most welcome.

We all travelled to Port Louis together by taxi in the morning and met with the chap who arranged it at 10am, as agreed. He strode towards me with a big smile, pumped my hand saying “Welcome, welcome,” then his face became more apologetic as he said, “Sorry.” Obviously, I became suspicious, but I said nothing and awaited his explanation of exactly what he was apologising for.

He admitted he’d been unable to secure a catamaran, but would we mind going on a trimaran instead? Brand new! The alternative boat with its three gleaming white hulls pulled in to the jetty and it looked fantastic. We couldn't have been more delighted, so we happily agreed, boarded, and found a spot to lay down on the broad deck. The crew hustled about to set off, but still found time to bring us cocktails and they would keep coming throughout the voyage; copious amounts of cane spirit, a rougher, home made alternative to rum, accompanied by with papaya juice. It was delicious.

Nothing more to do now other than look out over stunning blue waters and watch the ripples play over the surface. We chatted together whilst drinking in the joy of the experience along with the cocktails. I strained to hear the tales of Olivia’s teenage travels in Borneo as she spoke to Hazel, but my ears had been hijacked by Erica who was carefully explaining to me all the ways in which my largely Marks & Spencer based wardrobe was ‘just appalling, darling’, and how I should try to buy a new Prada suit when I returned to the UK and, when I saw how this would change my entire life, I would surely want to change all my clothes for Prada. I nodded and smiled politely, all the while knowing I couldn’t afford to buy Prada socks let alone anything else, and wished this entitled teen had been left behind. She held her empty glass towards me, and when I did nothing she shook it from side to side, ice cubes rattling, eyebrows raised. “I’m empty,” she said pointedly, and seemed genuinely shocked that I hadn’t leapt up to do her bidding already.

“Yes, you are. Quite empty,” I agreed, amused at my own barbed comment that went straight over her head; she was already busy beaming warmly at the crew member who had rushed over to fill her glass. I lay back and put my headphones in before I had to listen to another lecture on how all my choices were wrong, but I could make my life better if I only followed the advice of this egotistical, self-absorbed, know-it-all, girl who was half my age.

About half an hour passed by, and I felt a sharp pain in my stomach accompanied by uncomfortable gurgles and an urge to use the toilet that simply couldn't be ignored. I reluctantly rose from my comfortable spot in the sunshine to enquire where the toilet was. The captain, hands resting on a large silver wheel steering the boat, smiled apologetically, tilted his head to the right, and said "Sorry". A universal gesture indicating that whilst he might empathise or perhaps even sympathise, he was also either unable or unwilling to do anything useful about it.

"Sorry?” I repeated. Perhaps he hadn’t heard me, or understood. “I need the toilet."

"No, sorry, new boat, not all done. Not finish. No toilet."

Uh-oh. My stomach clenched. "But I have to go. I mean, right now."

"Oh, well you can just…" smiling again, this time more encouragingly, as he gestured towards the edge of the boat and the sea that surrounded us on all sides. There was a very insubstantial looking barrier made of steel wire around the edge of the boat; not enough to hold on to for support but enough to stop me getting right to the edge of the boat, and the idea of perching over the small gap in this barrier where a ladder could be let down in order to relieve myself as the boat saltated across the surface of the ocean seemed altogether too precarious to contemplate.

"I need to poo, not pee."

"Ah!" A flash of understanding. "Sorry, not possible."

"You couldn't just... pull over for a minute?" I didn't know a whole lot about sailing, and felt a little embarrassed by the crew’s stifled laughter in response.

"No. Will be at island soon. Wait just moment."

I looked around, and couldn't see an island on the horizon. Even Mauritius itself now looked tiny in the distance. "How long before we get there?"

He made a wry face. "Only one hour. Maybe two."

One to two hours is far from being a moment! The horror I felt was indescribable as visions of what the next hour might hold for me raced through my mind: filling my trunks long before we arrived at our tropical island destination, and spending the rest of the journey with diarrhoea running down my leg seemed to be the most likely outcome, and it wasn’t a thought I relished. I thought again about squatting over the side, but could visualise both redecorating the side of the boat rather unpleasantly, and then falling in the sea watching the boat disappear into the distance. Sigh. I had no choice but to try to hold out.

The remainder of the journey to the island was filled with painful, stomach gurgling misery, squeezing my butt cheeks together to the point of cramping, but fortunately I hadn’t embarrassed myself, and we finally reached a broad sandbank stretching between two tiny islands, where several catamarans were already pulled up, the passengers ferried to the beach of the larger of the two. It was truly beautiful, the stuff of dreams, but I couldn't really think about it. Not yet. Before the boat had dropped anchor, I leapt over the port side into the sea, swept my trunks down to my ankles, lifted my knees up to my ears, and let rip. The relief was close to ecstasy; my eyelids fluttered, the stomach pain ended instantly, and my whole body relaxed and I felt like I could breathe again. I circled my arms to move backwards, away from my mess. All was well.

Unbeknownst to me, Erica, not wishing to be outdone, had chosen to follow my example and leapt off the starboard side of the trimaran into the crystal clear waters of the Indian Ocean, whereupon swam under the boat, and straight through the revolting brown cloud I had just produced. I opened my eyes just in time to see her head emerge from the surface in front of me. Her eyes were tightly closed as she coughed, spluttered and spat, and I just had time to pull my trunks back on before she blinked her eyes open and looked directly at me. I was mortified, and then she spoke, a look of revulsion on her face, and I braced myself for the inevitable torrent of abuse: "The water… it looks clean, but it's not as clean as you think, is it?"

Hmm. It seemed she might not know who was responsible for the unclean water, and I didn’t feel compelled to explain. "Um, no," I quietly agreed, my cheeks reddening form more than the sun.

She looked like she was going to say something else, but was interrupted by a shout from the captain, encouraging us to the back of the trimaran where a wooden rowboat had been launched into the water so we could be ferried to the shore. As I swam towards the dinghy I was suddenly aware of the enticing scent of cooking. Whilst we were en-route, the crew had caught a large bucket full of fish and cooked up a grand meal which we would eat as a picnic on the beach. Now purged and relaxed, I was ravenous, and looking forward to a grand repast. We clambered into the boat and the crew began to row. I glanced at Erica. Her long, tightly curled, honey-brown hair had acted like a fine net which had secured numerous small brown particles. I felt a bit uncomfortable, and whilst I told myself it wasn't really my fault, I felt slightly guilty. Still, I didn't feel it was appropriate to share the reason for her speckled appearance with her. It was all a bit awkward, and could only have become more so.

A blanket was laid out for us on the white sand of the narrow strip of beach, and whilst I felt a pang of disappointment that we ended up in the same spot as everyone else despite having hired the boat for ourselves, we were far enough away from the other boats’ passengers that it still felt quite secluded and private. Signs of freshly hatched turtles were all around us; broken shells and trails left in the sand from the nest to the water's edge. Just beautiful. But there was no shade, and the sun was high and hot.

A sumptuous meal was laid out before us, augmented with fresh bread, cakes and pastries, and we all ate with gusto. Well almost all of us. Erica sported a new aroma, and with the heat it was becoming quite noticeable; not only to us, but also to a number of persistent flies which she kept swishing away from herself whilst still trying to pose elegantly. It seemed to have put her off eating, and she just nibbled a little in between brushing away flies and blowing upwards at her hair, which was setting hard and persistently sprang back over her face. She was clearly feeling embarrassed. I was too, but mostly I was dreading being discovered as the source of her new hair style.

It wasn’t long before I felt another uncomfortable gurgle. I made the excuse that I wanted to look around a bit, and then walked up the dune that backed the beach, looking for some enough cover to afford the kind of quiet seclusion I’d need to be able to go again. As it turned out, the island was painfully small and offered only a few bushes to hide in. I hustled to the nearest one, and tried to get into the centre of the bush so I couldn't be seen if someone else came in this general direction. The bush was thorny, and I became quite tangled and covered in small scratches, but it was better than being spotted and maybe giving the game away as to how Erica's hair turned a darker shade of brown. I finally got to a point in the centre of the bush where I could get ready to go. I pulled down my shorts and was just about let nature take its course, when the edge of the bush parted and a face peered in. A young boy, I would guess no more than six years old, was staring at my naked, squatting body. Crap! I could just imagine some angry father accusing me of indecent exposing myself to his son, so I hastily pulled up my shorts and left the bushes, still in dire need of another purge.

Not finding another obvious location of outstanding natural beauty to abuse horribly as a surrogate potty, I wandered back towards the picnic location. Hazel and Olivia queried what I'd discovered on my brief exploration, and I had to admit, not much. I made an excuse about stumbling and falling into a thorny bush to explain the scratches, met with sympathy from Olivia and Erica and mocking laughter from Hazel. I looked about me, and realised there was nothing else for it. The sea worked for me before, it would work again.

I started walking out to sea. And walking. And walking...

Sadly, the water was still no deeper than my ankles. Curse this gently shelved paradise! I looked back towards the beach and realised I couldn't make out any details of people there; I'd walked out further than I had expected. I saw a bluer patch of water to my left; surely this must mean it was deeper. I sloshed my way towards it.

The water was soon almost up to my knees; this would have to be deep enough. I dropped down onto my back, moved my shorts down to my ankles, lifted my knees; I waited until the gentle tidal movement was taking the water out and away from me, and pushed. A little squirt, followed by several more substantial releases. I laid there a moment, as the clear waters moved back and forth around me, savouring the sense of relief once more, but just then, one of the brown fish I had produced floated past me, uncomfortably close. In my effort to dodge weave out of the way of the others, which were now shooting in my direction, my shorts came off completely and were swept past me on my right towards the beach. Disaster!

I turned to look behind and to the right, but the tide quickly changed direction and my shorts floated back past me on the left, and by the time I realised it was happening, they were quite out of reach. I wasted valuable moments deciding what the best course of action would be, by which time, even running out to get my trunks was simply not an option. Typical! I laid there a few more minutes, lamenting my situation with consternation and disbelief. I was suddenly aware of how hot I was, and of the sun beating down on upon me, and how long I'd been out in it without my skin covered.

It’s fair to say the sun in Mauritius is extremely fierce. The UV index rating indicates the risk of harm from the sun. The index is from one to ten, a logarithmic scale where each number is ten times higher than the preceding value, so a UV index rating of eight is ten times high then a rating of seven. Mauritius has a rating of ten. However, I was advised that this is just because that's where the scale tops out. If the scale continued beyond that, the actual rating for Mauritius would be more like fourteen; or to put it another way, ten thousand times higher than the maximum scale the index can show. And at that precise moment, I was painfully aware of it. I couldn't stay out in the direct sun for much longer.

It appeared that some groups were already leaving the beach and heading back to their boats, and if we were to do the same, the boat might just afford some shade – shadows from the sails, towels, pillows, or maybe I could go inside the cabin.

I could just about see my shorts bobbing around in the distance, and I knew I'd never reach them. So, it was with sense of resignation, embarrassment, and more than a little resentment, I stood up, stark naked, and started walking back towards the beach. At least there was a towel there I could cover myself with. I sighed, wishing I'd never booked this sodding boat, each heavy step seasoned with gloom and despair.

I'd walked about halfway back to the beach, and people were paying me deeply unwanted attention, shading their eyes with their hands and straining forward for a better view. I suppose they couldn't really understand why someone would march out to sea, divest themselves of their clothing, then march back again. But then then, a stroke of luck: I felt something brush against my left leg. It was my trunks. The water was shallower here and so they were moving more slowly, tumbling over themselves as they were snagged on the sand beneath the water, slow enough that I could grab them easily and I quickly put them on. With a sense of relief I made my way back to the beach, with a lighter step, though my whole body was crimson and burning. There was no comment about my nudity from Erica and her mother who seemed to be avoiding looking in my direction, just an angry stage whisper from Hazel: "What the hell were you playing at? People are staring! I'm so embarrassed!" I felt she could have been a touch more supportive.

We were soon back on board, but there was no shade other than laying a towel over myself as I lay on the deck, but my skin was already as burned as it could be. My wife, still clearly embarrassed, didn't want to speak, and Erica, certain the water was dirty and therefore not having tried to clean herself off in it, was still wearing my baked on poo and smelling pretty foul, also didn't seem in the mood for discussion. I chatted a little with her mother who regaled me with tales of growing up in the Solomon Islands, and the journey seemed much quicker on the return than it had on the way out despite the horrible burning discomfort. In fact, my sunburn was so bad it required medical attention, and it was almost a week before I could venture outside again, even fully covered up.

When I did finally venture back outside, staying safely in shaded areas, I was quickly found by Olivia and Erica, and over cold beers in the air conditioned beach bar, they sympathised with my plight. After much peeling, the layer of skin revealed beneath looked bright pink and new. Erica was being quite personable and I felt fresh waves of guilt wash over me. It wasn’t long before she returned to form though, and again trashed my appearance. I couldn’t help myself. “Yes your clothes are lovely, and it’s nice to see you’ve had a wash today. Your perfume is altogether nicer too!” Erica was quiet after that. I saw her around for the remaining week of the holiday, but aside from a nod, wave, or polite hello, we didn’t really interact again.

What should have been a spectacular day out was, well, not all it should have been, and the desperate need to find places to have a quiet poo in paradise led to me being seriously sunburned and losing a third of my holiday stuck in my hotel room with the curtains drawn avoiding sunlight.

I still sometimes remember Erica and her miasma on the beach that day. I still tell myself that I really wasn't to blame: how could I have known she would take a swim in my poo? I am nevertheless flushed with shame when I think about it (pun not entirely unintended), but I have to confess that I’m also amused in roughly equal measure, and can’t help but think that she entirely deserved it. Was I just an unwitting agent of Karma? I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being mean. What do you think?