By the Japanese bridge

In a nation with a population density twice that of China's, working wash closets should always be no more than a short walk away. This may not be true everywhere, but in Hoi An, the town's 17th century scale and abundance of farang visitors probably served to ensure that WC locations are helpfully marked on even sketchy tourist maps in this retired Vietnamese port of ancient call. Though no urgent calls (from both his bowels and buddies) were issued, budak took the opportunity to survey this abode by the Japanese covered bridge.  The bridge itself spans a stinky little stream as filthy as any Malaysian town drain, but the ochre-walled toilet facing the water was admirably dry.

So much so that the preserved remains of a Fledermaus were mummifying well on the floor just outside the colourful tiles of the gentlemen's quarters. Right opposite, the ladies' chambers are happily exposed to the Pacific breeze and bring to mind the earlier communal experiences shared by a friend of a friend. Budak deigned not to tread into this hallowed room, less out of fear of impropriety than from the sight of a saucer-sized arachnid squatting on the ground, a hairy-legged companion to any desperate enough to defoul the quiet of this sanctuary with their fecal squalor.

Comments

[monkey]

omg is that a dead bat?! poor thing

[fucktype]

Fucking standards! What are there to fuck about toilet? You are fucking stupid!