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The Doe is a media and tech company creating paths to improved civil discourse. A few weeks ago, I was on a run. I don't know if you've ever heard of the running shits, but they're a real thing. A very real thing. At the time, I was adamant that I didn't want to defecate in a porta-potty and I was pretty certain I could make it home.

Years: 20
What is my nationaly: British
My sex: Girl
My hair: Curly hair
My figure features: My figure features is quite athletic
What I prefer to listen: Rock
Other hobbies: Diving

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May I pet the dog? Apparently, so was my digestion system. In the corner closest to the door there was a small wood fireplace, and squatting down next to it was Binaji.

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In the far corner sat a small electric stove and a set of pots and pans. The air felt different. It never failed to burn my sensitive hands.

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Or maybe that was just my smell. I needed to walk back up the hill to my room and to the potential of cleaner clothes. As I ran down the hill, I knew I was in trouble. Built of clay, the floors, ceilings, and walls sloped away from each other. I felt sorry for myself. It was dimly lit — the only real light source a small fire and an electric lantern in the middle of the room. As rewarding as it had been to challenge myself, I was getting a little tired with eating only potatoes and chapati.

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Years of smoke from the fireplace blackened the wall around her and the ceiling above. She spoke no English, and I spoke no Hindi. It was a long trek. With a hollowed out stick she blew on the flame to just the right height, and then grabbed the hot chapati with bare fingers and handed it directly to one of us. That time of year, late July, the peaches were perfectly ripe.

I swatted past dancing butterflies and hopping frogs to the bathroom stall and banged on the door. I had no choice. I had to stoop my head to avoid bumping it on the clay ceilings above me. I opened the shuttered window, thanked Binaji for the tea, and began to get ready to start the day.

I was also starting to miss the comforts of home. The toilet itself was a ceramic hole in the ground, that required a person squat to use it. Posted high in the Himalayan foothills, Reetha is home to mainly agricultural families. But it was too late. There were three mud nests inside the room, and the wall and floor beneath each was littered with stains of their excrement. That meant I got to pack everything in my backpack. Here I was, in rural India, with no real access to a washing machine or shower, with a poopy pants problem.

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As the three of us piled into the bed each night we could hear the cows sleeping soundly through our shared wall. My pants were a mess, not cleanable with the meager amount of toilet paper I grabbed in anticipation. A large cabinet stood next to it, so large it seemed like the room had been built around it — there was no way it could have fit through the stunted doors. One of the girls I was living with had already left the room to use the bathroom, and there was going to be a line. Sweet, gingery flavor enticed me out of the bed I shared with two other American girls.

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The shed was short — my head could touch the ceiling — and made of cement. When I woke up on that fateful morning, I was feeling a little off-kilter.

That morning we were leaving our homestay for the weekend to stay in a nearby resort. Binaji, our host mother, was the granpanchayat, or mayor, of the village Reetha. Smelly, sweaty, and sad I arrived at the resort.

The door to the bathroom was a piece of tin, with holes in it just large enough to make you pretty sure others could see inside, and held closed by a short length of string clasped to a rusty nail in the wall. Two months long, a relatively tourist-free area, a homestay component — I knew I would never be able to experience something like that if I tried to plan it myself. It was dark, and Stories about pooping only light in the front room came from a shrine Binaji and her husband used for worship.

I woke up promptly at six am to my host mother knocking on the window, bringing us morning tea.

These crazy poo stories will make you howl

I went to my cabin and faced the hard facts: I pooped my pants. The program was perfect. Binaji was in the kitchen. There I squatted, uncontrollable bowel functions on one end and a large spider inching closer and closer on the other, and I wondered at what point this had become my life.

I was in control of my own movements and self.

A short story about pooping my pants

The walls at one point were blue, but were now faded to a slightly-teal white. I could buy new pants, and no one would ever know if I threw the old ones away. I pulled my poopy pants back up, and stepped out of the stall. How long has your family lived in this house?

The flies, always present, were positively incessant. A poopy pants problem in the United States would be fine. I had an accessible toilet.

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Our room was in a side house, attached to the barn, separate from the main living quarters. It was square, with a large bed in one corner. I walked with a sad, slow pace. A flock of swallows had evidently occupied the room before we did. The bathroom was in a small tin shed down the hill and around the corner. All of the toilet paper and wipes, and yes, even the poopy pants, made it into my bag. Really, anybody else? The house was white with blue shutters. She poked sticks into the fire to start a large enough flame, then rolled chapati and placed it on a small metal plate above the fire.

My poop horror story: how i hid a turd from my boyfriend

I ran into the stall, squatted as fast as humanly possible, and ripped down my pants. I had so many questions I wanted to ask her: what is it like to be in a village leadership role, especially as a woman? There is no Stories about pooping garbage infrastructure in that area of rural India, and there was no way I was going to leave that particular garbage for my host family to dispose of themselves. A statue of Ganesha looked protectively over the room, ready to receive and ease all worries.

Luckily, I had a stash of wet wipes and was able to get cleaned up pretty well. The first time I walked inside was for dinner. Although none of the containers had words on them, Binaji always knew just which one held what. In a small village in India, someone would need to destroy my pants personally and would know who they belonged to.

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I probably knew, deep down somewhere, that I would never go someplace that challenged my way of living if I tried to plan it myself. So we ate peaches and tried to come up with innovative hand gestures to describe our hopes, struggles, and the world around us. The poop had already started, and it was not stopping anytime soon. When she moved, I saw a distinct outline of her shape forever immortalized in the wall behind her.

I was twenty one years old. Unluckily, I had no access to garbage disposal. As I re-packed my bag, I came to the slow realization that now I would need to carry all of my belongings, which now smelled highly questionable, the four miles to the resort. It was a sunny and clear morning in the Indian Himalayan foothills. She motioned for us to move closer. The shelves overflowed with Stories about pooping of spices and vegetables and flour. I trudged up the hill and got to the room. I should really go to the bathroom. At what point did it become me who was off having adventures and diarrhea, and not someone else?

Peaches, pears, apples, cucumbers, plums, and cabbages thrive on the tiered mountain sides. We came home each afternoon and she indulged in them with us, attempting to teach us Hindi and laughing at our inability to pronounce the eight. The kitchen was unlike any room I have ever been in before, and likely any room I ever will be inside again.