This may be uncomfortable. Columns about scatology and pipe engineering tend to raise eyebrows, uproars, censors and nuclear arm races. But this is an issue of global importance, something that needs to have the hard, hygienic light of journalistic truth thrown upon it, something that begs for the cold but compassionate eyes of muckrakers and counter-culture revolutionaries.
Someone must stand up to the crime against humanity that is the East Asian bathroom.
Using public restrooms in Korea was ugly enough — but I was not emotionally or physiologically prepared for the bathrooms in China, which frequently have immigration officials next to them, checking your vaccination records upon exit (a poorly timed exercise, you can be sure). From a culture that gave birth to the architectural philosophy of feng shui, which occasionally advocates cutting holes through skyscrapers, I expected better design. What I got was a lottery chance to catch hepatitis and a new appreciation for how minimal the toilet could become.
Generally, in the high-rise geology of your average Asian city, buildings, rather than individual places of business, share bathrooms. This may make sense given the difficulty of piping water vertically; it also contributes to a breathtaking (literally, breath-taking) filth and fetidness. Without doubt, this communal system has lead to a breakdown in personal responsibility: There’s always a mop and bucket of water lying, unused, mildewed and dusty in a dank corner.
But don’t let the smell bother you: Go further in. Invariably, this will involve an unpleasant surprise. If you’re lucky, it’s something gentle — the sweet, mocking laughter of the uncaring cosmos — for example, no toilet paper. This is standard practice for many public restrooms in Korea and China, because, obviously, if you’re looking to cut costs and minimize supply-side expenses, you’re going to want to eliminate toilet paper. I have always been bothered by the bourgeoisie excess of stocking public bathrooms with toilet paper. Nothing’s more wasteful than the American proclivity for cramming toilet paper into giant, plastic boxes double-loaded with rolls that you access through a confusing set of sliding doors. No wonder indolent Western children roll houses as a juvenile prank; surrounded by the decadence of capitalistic exploitation, they’ve never learned to value toilet paper as one of the hard-earned, rationed fruits of the proletariat.
Sometimes these surprises are less pleasant. The most demoralizing is when you swing open the bathroom door to see not that swirling, cloud-shaped ceramic bowl we call a toilet, but a platform with an ivory pit cut into it. This is what we euphemistically call an “Eastern toilet,” although calling a hole in the ground a toilet is a little like calling Britney Spears a singer — technically accurate, but clearly exploiting the gaping void between the signifier and the thing signified, not the ideal but the shadow thrown on the wall. Nothing about the “Eastern toilet” recalls the luxury of that French-derived word.
Here’s what Eastern toilets do bring to mind: the game of leap frog. That’s the approximate position you have to maintain to “use” an Eastern toilet. It’s a pose that we might refer to in the Southern dialect as “crouching on your hams.” Eastern toilets require a light upper body, strong legs, flexible knees and, for balance, well-formed semi-circular canals. Needless to say, we Americans love Eastern toilets.
Maybe you’re as outraged as I am. It will serve as some consolation, then, to learn that the Chinese government has already stepped in to resolve this problem. Someone in the Politburo understands the daily drama of the people (or hypothetical 2008 Beijing Olympic Game tourist). The Chinese government has begun ranking public bathrooms, using a five-star system based on rigorous criteria: toilet bowl type, floor space, presence of handless-controls, hand soap supplies and, most importantly, pleasant background music. I personally visited a four-star bathroom near the Temple of Heaven — it wasn’t as divine as the setting might suggest, but at least it wasn’t like doing calisthenics.
As for Korea — well, there is no such helpful rating system. If you’re ever in Seoul, I personally recommend the bathrooms in the Outback Steakhouse near Seoul Station, in Sinchon. These toilets brought a friend of mine to tears of joy, symbolizing, as they do, the radial inequalities that have come to characterize the country. A far cry from the “Eastern toilet,” Outback’s restrooms set a new paradigm for what a public toilet can be. The bowl, which reaches out like a hand, is heated to comfort the human bum even in the coldest winter. The toilet’s arm has a set of confusing controls. One turns on a little fan in the toilet bowl. This is inexplicable, until you hit another button. Inside the bowl, a tiny plastic arm telescopes outward. It shoots out a pulsing stream of water, powerfully enough to hit the closed stall door. The French call this a bidet. I call it progress.

— Scott Patrick Thurman is a junior studying English literature. He can be contacted at sthurman@utk.edu.