Bree shouted, slowing down to talk to me as we pedalled along Dunhuang’s quiet highway on rented bicycles. “Did you see that gross kid poopin’ in the flower pot?” I shuddered. “Don’t go there, Bree. Please?” “What? Didn’t you see him? He was like, full out, cheeks spread–” “Yes. I did. Now stop. I don’t want to think about it anymore than I have to. So disgusting.” Even though I’d seen kids and adults alike relieving themselves anywhere from alleyways to grassy medians on major highways on this trip, I still couldn’t get my head around why a child would have the urge to climb up onto a tire-sized flower pot (a feat in itself) to take a poop, and then kindly direct his butt into traffic for all to see. “As you’ve no doubt noticed, we’re back in the Chinese part of China,” Ammon said as he slowed to bike next to us, four abreast down the wide pavement. “I just can’t grasp how someone could lay a huge log and turn their back on it with no shame at all.”
