Well I did the right thing and invested in one - on the strict understanding that it would be used for No 1's only. Rob bought me a bucket but when I refused to use it, she decided it would be great to use for washing the dishes. She reckoned that as the sink in the van is fairly large, it would save a lot of precious water. I didn't mind as it’s just not macho peeing in a bucket.
However, after a few experiences I had to change my mind: -
- the first time was at Ceratodus. Rob had a go at me when she woke early one morning and, on opening the door of the van, noticed in the dirt outside that I had not dotted either of the "i's” in my name;
- as time went by I realised that most caravan parks have a spotlight which would invariably be pointed directly at the door of our van. It would make my 2.00am pee a very public experience; and finally,
- Rob got sick and tired of having to get down on her hands and knees to extract the port-potty from, and replace it into, its home under the bed. Even before she started it was pretty heavy as it holds 11 litres of flushing liquid.
The purchase was an outstanding success - or so I thought after the first use. I forgot about the macho thing and would stand in the van in the dead of night and go for my life while Rob only had to pull it out from under the table, sit it on one of the seats and do her thing. This whole process could be repeated as many times as necessary during the night with not a worry of outside interference.
The problem arose in the morning - when the bucket had to be emptied.
Over the intervening period, I have realised that everybody (except for the snotty nosed bastards in Winnebago motorhomes) uses a pee bucket. There are various methods of emptying them and the job almost always falls to the male.
The first method is to open the door ever so slightly, stick one eye outside, swivel it around to ensure there is no one looking, then hurry to a place, previously reconnoitred and determined a suitable disposal point. If it is a drainage hole next to the van that is great, but not all parks are so well endowed. The alternative is to spread the contents over a wide area so as to fertilise the vegetation, not kill it. It is then a matter of getting to a tap, flushing the bucket, and returning it to the van before anybody has noticed the manoeuvre.
The next method is to fling open the door and, without a care, stride out and follow the disposal process described above.
The third process is to swagger through the park, bucket proudly borne, and empty it into one of the loos. Some blokes I have noticed actually place a lace doyley over the top to hide the contents from inquisitive eyes.
Being the type of person I am, I utilise the first method. I find that I break out into a cold sweat about emptying time. For me, it is even more of a problem than it is for others using the process. Rob being the type of person she is, insists that I disinfect the bucket each morning after emptying it. "So what's the problem?” I hear you ask. Well the disinfectant she likes is that yellow coloured Pine-O-Clean stuff, so just as soon as I have off-loaded one batch of yellow liquid, I have to repeat the process with another.
No matter how hard one tries, things can always go wrong. Take for example when we were in Cloncurry.
Next door to us on our blind side (the side opposite the caravan's door) were two Winnebagos. Separating us from them was a row of juvenile trees and my earlier reconnoitre of the area had determined that around one of them was the best place to off-load. There was a drainage point for us to use but our travelling companions, Brian & Sherry, had parked their van between it and us so it was not an option.
I was fairly confident that the coast was clear so I grabbed the bucket and took off. One last quick look around before unloading but horror of horrors, sitting on the step of one of the bloody Winnebagos, watching my every move, was a lady having a smoke.
Trying to pretend that I am just taking my pet bucket for an early morning walk I say, "Good morning, lovely day!"
"Hi!" says she, "Yes, isn't it."
"Nice rig you gave there." What the hell did I say that for? Get out of there while the going's good.
"Thank you" says she. "We've only had it for a few weeks, etc, etc, etc."
I blabber, "We thought about buying a Winnebago for a while but after weighing up the pros and cons decided on this rig." (I point at our caravan). Man, are you a nut! Why keep her talking? Shut up and get back to the security of the van.
"Hang on" she says, "its hard to talk with these trees between us, I'll come around."
Oh shit! What do I do now? I take a couple of quick steps towards the van, place the bucket in a place that I hope is inconspicuous, then rush back to where I had been standing.
"That's better" she says, "now I can see who I'm talking to. My name is Margo, etc, etc, etc."
Next thing I hear the door of our van opening and I just know Rob is coming to join in. I look back towards the van and suddenly realise that the bucket I hoped would be out of sight is sitting in the clearing between Margo, me and the van. Please God, don't let Rob trip over it -- or step in it!!
"Margo, this is my wife Rob."
"Hi, Rob. Oh and here comes Paul. He's been having a sleep in."
Hubby Paul comes along and although I try desperately to manoeuvre the growing crowd away from the bucket, everyone seems to be gathering around it, pretending it’s not there. The conversation drifts on but I have no idea what is said. It's amazing what goes through ones mind in a time of crisis. I marvel at just how full a bucket can become in just one night.
Finally, we break up and our new best friends move on. I don't care any more; I just grab the bucket and head for the drain behind Brian and Sherry's van. Notwithstanding that it appears to take forever to empty and it sounds like Niagara Falls as the contents drain away, I don't care - I just want to be rid of the bloody thing.
After a few days, I have just about managed to put this horrific experience behind me, we arrive at Karumba on the Gulf of Carpentaria and I'm starting to enjoy myself again. I have even found a very private spot where I can peacefully empty the bucket. On the first morning, that job having been completed without mishap, I wander over to the ablutions block for a wash and to clean my teeth. Along the way I read a noticeboard with a number of important notices to guests. The one that sticks out from all the rest, as it is in bold type, reads, “Night Buckets are not to be emptied or rinsed in hand basins."
As I had never heard of a Night Bucket, it took a while for the message to sink in. But then, when it did -- my God, what’s the story? Did they catch someone doing it? How many hand basins have I cleaned my teeth at in which "Night Buckets" have been emptied or washed?
Oh well, time is a great healer and life has moved on. Night Bucket might be the botanical name and more acceptable than Pee Bucket but to me, it's my Chick Magnet. I don't know if it’s the shape, the colour or what; but it’s incredible just how often women are attracted to me, wanting to chat when I’m performing my morning ritual.
Although at times it can be very stressful, trust me, life on the road is great.