I led a very sheltered life before I moved to Bali. I knew
what a septic tank was in theory but had never had closer
acquaintance to one than making regular donations. Moving
into a badly built and maintained cottage was a crash course
in plumbing, electrical wiring and leaky roofs. My first introduction
to the septic tank was the realization that there was something
very wrong with it. Following my nose to the wall behind the
bathroom, it was immediately clear even to a novice like myself
that the damn thing was overflowing. My landlord summoned
a truck with a long hose that pumped out the tank the same
day. This was another revelation. I hadn’t really focused
on the fact that there was a whole subculture around building
and emptying septic tanks. And where was the truck going to
discharge its pungent cargo? Was there a sludge subculture
in Bali as well?
When it came time to build my house, I’d done some research.
I knew I wanted a wastewater garden that would purify the
overflow from the septic tank. My contractor was a civil engineer
and believed in doing things right. Two men measured out and
began to excavate a huge hole behind the bathroom wall. A
truck full of steel rods, sand and cement unloaded nearby.
The two men dug deeper and deeper, and another shoveled the
piles of dirt into a wheelbarrow and trundled it away. A crowd
of neighbours gathered as the excavators disappeared into
the hole that was now deeper than they were tall. (Later Wayan
Manis reported that they couldn’t decide whether it
was a swimming pool or a fish pond, but thought I had placed
it in a pretty eccentric location.)
When the hole was nearly 3 meters long, 1.5 meters wide and
1.5 meters deep, the workmen lined it with reinforced concrete
and separated it into chambers. The neighbours returned for
another look, really puzzled now. Septic tanks in Ubud are
a fairly new concept, and this one had three rooms and a floor.
It takes a very long time for a single woman to fill a large
septic tank, no matter how regular her habits. I was under
some pressure to do so, because until it was full enough to
overflow I wouldn’t be able to plant the wastewater
garden. I gave a lot of parties and encouraged visitors to
drink plenty of tea. The staff toilet also fed into the septic
tank, but because Nyoman and Wayan Manis didn’t start
work until mid-morning, I suspected they were making their
major donations at home. At that time I did not have the language
skills to renegotiate this arrangement.
Some months later, Nyoman reported that the wastewater garden
was ready to plant. We filled it with lilies and keladi and
bananas and papyrus and it soon became a vibrant green jungle.
All went well for several years. The bacteria in the septic
water was consumed by the plants and colonies of organisms
that lived on the gravel. There was no overflow, no smell,
no problems at all. Ecowarriors from around the world came
to admire it.
But a few months ago I suspected that there was trouble in
Paradise. Alerted by a certain aroma behind the bathroom wall
I prowled around wondering what could possibly have gone wrong
with my big, strong septic tank that was built to last a hundred
years. Then the plants in the wastewater garden started to
look peaked and eventually died. Nyoman dug around a little
and reported that it was dry as far down as he could push
his stick. We wrestled open the port hole over the final chamber
of the septic tank and saw that the level of the contents
was well below the outlet pipe that led to the waste water
garden.
This was a blow. Obviously there was a leak. How did one repair
a septic tank? And how did one cope without a bathroom in
the meantime? I pored over my old copy of the Humanure Handbook
and wondered where to site a composting toilet in the garden
while repairs were effected. Mercifully, it didn’t come
to that. The contractor returned to have a look, and pointed
out that the weight of the huge rainwater tank on top of the
septic tank had probably compromised the integrity of its
walls or floor. It’s important that a septic tank have
integrity, it seems. Pak Priyo’s solution was simple
– build a new septic tank next to the old one. I put
the Humanure Handbook back on the shelf with some relief.
Two of the same workmen who had helped build my house five
years before arrived at the gate and began to dig. Big piles
of earth appeared around the garden as if monster gophers
had invaded. The hole was not as big as the first one –
Pak Priyo explained kindly that my household was not generating
enough raw material to justify the larger size. I tried not
to feel inadequate.
But 1.5 meters is a very deep hole. One night as I was sitting
over dinner with a friend I heard a puzzled yelp from behind
the house. Daisy’s vocalizations are expressive, and
I didn’t like the muffled sound of this one. Grabbing
a torch, I picked my way through the mud and piles of earth
to shine the beam into the hole. Sure enough, Daisy’s
big brown eyes stared up at me from far below.
It was a long drop for a miniature dachshund, but Daisy has
as many lives as a cat. She’s survived an encounter
with a green pit viper, three falls into the pond and many
heroic leaps from the ironing board. When eventually hauled
out of the pit, her only injury was found to be to her dignity.
The contractor designed this new septic tank to sit slightly
below ground level so that it can be covered with soil and
grass. I’m grateful for this refinement. It allows me
to discreetly conceal the fact that I have not just one huge
septic tank, but two (one with integrity). I’d like
to think the chronicle is over, but a friend came by recently
for a look and asked thoughtfully, ‘Don’t they
explode if there isn’t a vent?”
