Shit Happens

THE SHIT SHIFTER



Our lovely house in the Dordogne, with its classic Perigordine roof, vines covering the exterior walls, marble fire places and polished floor boards, lacks just one thing - a fosse septique (septic tank). Instead the sewage seeps away into what is known as a “fosse communal” – a drain which flows into an open pit in our neighbour’s field just across from the house.

Our only WC requires an electric pump which churns up the excrement after which the remains flow into the aforementioned pit. The system seems to work as long as one is judicious about the amount of loo paper used, otherwise it is time to roll up your sleeves. If a warm westerly is blowing then it is not advisable to set up table for breakfast or lunch on our small patch of front lawn, a stones throw from the “fosse communal”.

If the sun is shining and a large evacuation is pending then the outside “dunny” – a rudimentary hole in a wooden bench over a deep hole in the ground - is recommended. If you aren’t shy and leave the “dunny” door open you can contemplate uninterrupted views of our neighbours orchard and vines.

If you chuck a bucket of water down the hole after use you can hear the effluent draining away along a tributary of the fosse communal. Sadly this drainage system is not perfect and it’s easy to forget, or not bother, to sluice it down. After a time the chamber gets blocked up and then it is time to call “The Shit Shifter” - in verity Lissague, the sewage people from Bergerac.

Last week an old boy turned up in a tanker truck with an assortment of large gauge hoses attached, one of which he shoved down the hole in the ground. After he turned on a heavy duty pump the effluent was sucked back up into his tanker. He then opened the two concrete traps on the path outside the “dunny” and sucked out the remaining excrement from the chambers they cover.

I witnessed the job being done from, what I thought, was a safe distance. The stench was quite staggering – like a combination of rotten eggs and the entire compliment of Le Havre’s oil refineries burning at full capacity. How our shit shifter friend was able to inspect the offending drains at such close proximity was remarkable. He was quite unperturbed. After paying him for his trouble he drove off smiling with a cheerfully bid me "aurevoir".