Where The Hell Does A Squaw Squat?

So there’s this thing all of us do – British, French, Cambodian; children, women, men.

Piss.

And there’s this thing that none of us do, unless we’re Gerard Depardieu or Cambodian men.

Piss in public.

Not quite none. I’ve lived in Cambodia for eight years and can count the number of women squatting before my eyes on two fingers of one hand.

Whereas, during each waking hour and often the rest, my eyes are treated to at least two men rotting posts, rusting fences, eroding concrete with streams of steaming urine.

In truth, public pissing ranks pretty low on my antisocial scale. Were I running this country, I’d impose one year of continuous torture on those blocking pavements with monstrous SUVs, thus forcing me to dice with death on the chaos passed off as roads.

I’d subject mobile vendors who terrorize my eardrums with loudspeakers strapped on three-wheeled selling contraptions to exquisite forms of execution, always halted at the last moment, before the application of yet another imaginative method.

Indeed. The arrogance of public pissers is small beer compared with that of pavement-blockers and eardrum terrorists. But, while making allowances for the absence of a single public lavatory (this being the 176th poorest country), I can’t help wondering that, as Cambodian females must need to piss as often as Cambodian males, where the hell does a squaw squat?

(note the rust)

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