More on language and toilets.

Years ago, in a small village in Mongolia, we were on a diplomatic aid mission so we were being treated quite well - a tour of the attractive Russian concrete architecture, an exciting exihibit of Mongolian wrestling (not that dissimilar to sumo wrestling except they wear vests and toss cheese) - and were preparing to sit down for a delicious repast of all the mare's milk ale and sheep fat we could stomach- but I had to pee. I had to pee bad. I'm pretty good at the whole sign language thing, but that one had me stumped. My initial attempts got me to a sink in the kitchen where I could wash my hands- obviously the washing hands gesture wasn't working. Did I mention that I was dealing with little old ladies? which kinda precluded the 'sticking my hand down my pants and dangling an index finger out my zipper' move that might have worked elsewhere. Eventually I made some vague pointing motions at my penis and got shown to the foulest outhouse I have ever had the displeasure of visiting and I've used outhouses at the Cheat River campground. Apparently my discomfort was a great source of amusement to the little old ladies who carried on about it for some time. And when I finally got back to the table, well-drained, with a lingering perfume of excrement, hands washed it the sink, all the other english-speaking bastards on the mission wanted to know where the toilet was. I was only too happy to give directions.

The lesson learned? Always, and I mean always, learn how to ask for beer and the toilet in the native tongue. Nothing else really matters.