Toilet

On November 1st, we will be launching and entirely new, redesigned, rewritten, reimagined Transition Network website.  While we may all have given the outward semblance of calm and tranquility over the past 6 months, behind the scenes the team here have been hard at it, creating something really quite wonderful for you.  So we thought that this would be a good opportunity to have a bit of a look back, a dip into our rich and extensive archive, to bring you some of our favourite posts from the last 10 years from a variety of authors.  If you have any you particularly treasure, or remember fondly, we’d love to hear from you.  So that’s our September/October theme, a bidding farewell to our current website and what it has featured, as a prelude to moving onto the next one. We’re going to start with a piece that I wrote in 2006, in which, fittingly, I talk shit (thereby, some might argue, setting the pattern for the subsequent 10 years…)

Reflections on Six Years of Relieving Oneself into a Bucket (from February 2006).

The time has come at TransitionCulture to address one of the less palatable but, I think, more fascinating aspects of this whole energy descent business. What happens when it becomes too costly, unfeasible or, due to sudden disruptions to our energy supplies, impossible, to run our mains sewage system? When the whole system stops working and we still need to go, where will we, as it were, go? As someone who until a few months ago had spent 6 years of my life using a compost toilet, I thought I might share my experience of a flush-free life.

Humanity can fly to the moon, build the Channel Tunnel and so on, but we still defecate in water and then try and work out what to do with it. We have not advanced at all since the days of Crapper. Every time we pull the flush, anything between 4 and 7 litres of clean drinking water, already purified at great energy expense and chemical input, is mixed with our bodily wastes. We take that clean water and turn it into dangerous pathogenic water, which then requires extensive treatment to render it safe. Clearly the most sensible approach to this question is not to mix the two together at all in the first place. Indeed, when it becomes energetically impossible to do so, we will not have the choice. Then what?

Pooing behind the hedge is OK if one or two people do it, but not if the whole town follow suit. Etched indelibly into my memory is a time when I was 22, travelling on a bus across China, on the China/Tibet border. We had been rattling along through the desert for hours, when we finally arrived in the town. Everyone got off, and about half the people headed off down the street. I had made sure when I first go to China to learn the word for ‘toilet’, which is something like (if my memory serves me correctly) “sheshwor”. I asked the people around me in an inquisitive tone “sheshwor?”, and they pointed in the direction that half the people had already headed in. Off I went, then around the corner, to what was in effect an open square in the town, with houses around, and just dry dust on the ground. There were half the passengers, squatted hither and thither doing their thing. Possibly it can be got away with in high altitude deserts, but in Totnes it isn’t really an option.

Over the years I have become a bit of a compost toilet nerd. My slides I use for teaching permaculture courses contain photos of various peoples’ toilets, from the hi-tech to the uber-rustic. When I built my first house, we needed a loo. To put in a flush loo (all we had ever known up to that point) complete with header tank, pipes, septic tank and reed bed, would have cost thousands. We looked at various models of compost loos, and then stumbled across Joe Jenkins’ ‘The Humanure Handbook’. It was a eureka moment in a life of many eureka moments.

I realised that I could keep the poo and the water apart, and it would actually be a benefit, for everyone concerned. I could make great compost, grow better plants, build soil, feed worms and save money. That had to be a winning combination. Our toilet cost €20 to build (see left), including the bucket. A big sack of the sawdust produced by planking the timber that clad our house and we were away. The process is very simple, you use it like a normal loo, every time you use it you put a handful of dry sawdust in, when it gets nearly full you take it out to a compost head outdoors, a minimum of 4ft cubed in size.

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You take care to build your compost heap in layers of 6″, alternating carbon rich material like shredded paper, dry bracken, straw, with high nitrogen material like lawn mowings, weeds, green stuff in general (see right, that’s my heap…). Every time you empty your bucket you make sure you cover it. When the heap is full you leave it 6-8 months and there you go. I used to then turn it and let it compost another 6 months, but I think that was me being a bit cowardly, I’m sure it was actually ready by then, but I was playing safe. Best compost I ever made. Moist, sweet smelling, crumbly, beautiful. I have passed a bag of it round students on courses I have done and they have been amazed. It went onto the garden and grew great food.

I always meant to get it tested to see how it was, but never found anyone who could do it. Everyone I rang to ask I could hear suppressed sniggers at the end of the line. So I can’t tell you that the e-coli count was X and the pathogen count Y. I can tell you my family and I used it for 6 years, and the resultant compost went on our vegetable garden, and none of us ever had worms, dissentry, gastroenteritis, or any other of the things some people worry about. All the research I did on the subject left me feeling very confident that this process would render it safe. It struck me as the Rolls Royce of composting loos, it was so simple; nothing could go wrong, it worked as well in a power cut as when the power was on, I understood how it worked, and I made great compost. I couldn’t ask for more.

At one point we were in the process of applying for planning to retain the house as it was built without planning. We got the permission but only for 3 months. I rang the Council to find out what the 3 month thing was all about and they said it was because the engineer (despite not coming to see it) had deemed out toilet system “unsanitary and unhygenic”. I made an appointment and went to see the Engineer. I took him a copy of Jenkins’ book, and brought in a sample of my compost. I asked him why he felt I shouldn’t be allowed to use my humanure loo system. “On environmental grounds”, he says. “Well, funnily enough”, I replied, “that’s why I use it”. I asked him what would give him confidence to allow me to carry on using my bucket. He said either I would need an Irish Agrement Board certificate for it as a recognised sewage treatment system (which I later found out costs about €70,000) or find existing planning precedents. It turned out that actually the planning permission I had been given for the house I was building at the time specified humanure toilets, so his department had already approved it! He said he would need to come out and inspect it, which he did, and he went away very impressed. “I can see that the key to this system is good management, and this is a well managed system” he said. So there is hope for common sense in public office, even if the beginnings are not auspicious.

And in case you are wondering, my bathroom smelt fine (with one caveat which I’ll come to in a minute), there were no flies, and it was inside the house. The caveat was to do with the sawdust. It you have poor sawdust, it will smell a bit (but not as much as you would think). Sawdust which is, oddly, either very dry or very wet, will result in a smellier loo. The best sawdust we ever used was from the sawmill, from fresh logs (ie. not kiln dried), so it was slightly moist and delighfully fragrant. Every time you out a handful of sawdust in, the bathroom smelt great. Good sawdust is the key.

The bible for humanurists is ‘The Humanure Handbook’. It is funny, enlightening, and like all good common sense, completely obvious, and makes you feel that the flush toilet is one of the most absurd things ever invented. Here is how to make one, taken from the book. Do get yourself a copy. Even if you presently live in a house with a flush loo, you never know when you might need to know the skills this book contains… when you gotta go you gotta go. I now live (for now) in a house with a flush, but the thought of no longer being able to use my loo is no longer a cause of concern, in fact I would quite look forward to it, as I rather miss the alchemical process of turning shit to soil, a far more worthwhile process that turning metal to gold in my opinion.