DURING my working days in oil palm, I had one quiet habit whenever I visited estates and mills: I checked the toilets.
Not officially, of course. There was no “Toilet KPI” in the management report. But the toilet often reported more honestly than some reports.
In oil palm operations, discipline is not measured only in tonnes per ha or the oil extraction rate.
It is also seen in drains that flow, tools that are kept, roads that are passable, loose fruits that are collected and toilets that do not look as if a monsoon has moved in permanently.
The link between oil palm and the toilet is not as strange as it sounds.
As we flush, wash our hands or clean the floor, palm-based oleochemicals may quietly appear in soaps, detergents, surfactants, glycerine and cleaning agents.
Palm oil may begin in the fruit bunch, but through chemistry, it enters bathrooms, kitchens, hospitals, hotels and homes.
So to me, a toilet was never just a toilet. A clean, dry one spoke of order. A dirty, wet and neglected one spoke too – sometimes too loudly. It told me whether supervision had eyes and whether discipline reached the small corners.
Later, the industry would speak more of environmental, social and governance (ESG), sustainability, certification, traceability and carbon. All important.
But sometimes, the simplest ESG test was still behind a toilet door. If a company spoke grandly about sustainability but could not keep a basic toilet clean, something in the culture was leaking long before any audit began.
That old habit of “Toilet-logy” came back to me recently when a young boy asked his uncle a simple question about a toilet seat. It sounded childish at first, but as with many children’s questions, it carried more intelligence than expected.
A toilet, after all, is never only about plumbing. Sometimes it is about habits, manners, leadership, chemistry and civilisation itself.
From squat to seat
Toilets, like civilisation, have evolved. Once, there was the squat toilet: no seat, no lid, no debate. You entered, squatted, negotiated with gravity, trusted your knees, and hoped the flush had not gone on annual leave.
Life was simpler then. There was no argument over whether the seat should be up or down because there was no seat. Only your blood pressure went up or down, depending on the cleanliness of the place.
Then came the seated toilet bowl. Ah, progress. The porcelain throne arrived with a flush tank, a hinged seat, sometimes even a lid, and suddenly mankind faced a new moral crisis: the toilet seat.
Should it be up? Should it be down? Who lifted it? Who must lower it? Who left evidence behind? And why is there always one household member treating the bowl like an experimental irrigation project?
This great domestic issue came alive when a young boy asked his uncle a question with the confidence of someone who had just discovered a loophole in the Federal Constitution.
“Uncle,” he asked, “why must boys put the toilet seat down after using it? Why not leave it up? Then it is easier for boys to pass urine. If girls want to use it, they can put it down themselves.”
His uncle looked at him. This was not a question. This was a court case.
The young fellow had presented his argument clearly, calmly and dangerously. In one sentence, he had dragged his uncle into gender equality, public health, household diplomacy, facilities management and bathroom ethics.
To be fair, the argument had logic. From the male operational viewpoint, leaving the seat up does make sense. Ready for action. Faster deployment. Less bending. In plantation language, better labour productivity per visit.
Very impressive. Also very dangerous. Because in family life, many disasters begin with the sentence: “But technically, I am correct.”
A boy takes the stand
So the uncle told him, “My boy, your logic is not wrong. But being logical is only half the battle. The other half is surviving peacefully in a house where other people also use the toilet.”
The boy folded his arms. Clearly, the opposition bench was not satisfied.
The uncle explained that a common toilet is not a male convenience centre. It is shared territory. Men, women, children, guests, grandparents and sleepy people at 2am use it with one eye open and zero interest in philosophical surprises.
For most users, most of the time, the seat-down position is the safer and more useful default.
The boy came back quickly. “But boys also use it.” “Yes,” said the uncle. “But boys are the ones who changed the setting. So boys should return it.”
That is the whole moral universe in one hinge. If you lift it, lower it. If you dirty it, clean it. If you open it, close it.
If you finish the biscuits, do not leave one broken piece in the tin and pretend the family supply chain is still intact. Same principle. Different department.
Because a person who goes to the toilet half-asleep, sits down with full trust in humanity and discovers there is no seat may experience a sudden spiritual retreat. No registration required. Immediate conversion.
Then came the next question. “But why can’t girls just put it down themselves?” Ah. There it was. The young advocate had found his second point of appeal.
The uncle answered carefully. “Because seat-down serves more people more often. Girls need it down. Anyone passing motion needs it down. Children need it down.
Guests expect it down. Even men need it down when they are not conducting standing operations.”
By democratic majority, seat down wins. Not because males lose. Not because females win. But because civilisation cannot be run on male convenience alone.
The boy was quiet. Somewhere in that young brain, common sense was trying to form a coalition government with courtesy. So the uncle added, “And if the toilet has a lid, close the lid before flushing.” “Why?” the boy asked.
“Because flushing with the lid open is like holding a small pasar malam inside the bowl. A lot of movement, much enthusiasm, and things may spread further than expected.”
That one finished him. The boy laughed. The uncle laughed too. But beneath the laughter was a small truth.
The toilet seat is not really about the toilet seat. It is about how we behave in shared spaces. The road is shared. The office pantry is shared. The dining table is shared. The family car is shared. The nation is shared. And yes, even the toilet is shared.
A mature person does not ask only, “What is easiest for me?” He also asks, “What is considerate for the next person?”
That is where civilisation begins. Not in grand speeches, slogans, glossy reports or WhatsApp forwards written entirely in capital letters.
Sometimes civilisation begins in the bathroom, with one small act of returning things to decent order.
So the uncle gave the boy the full standard operating procedure. “Lift when needed. Aim properly. Flush responsibly. Wipe if necessary. Lower when done.”
The boy grinned. “So boys have to follow rules?” “Yes,” said the uncle. “Like James Bond 007 or Mission Impossible. Complete the mission. Clear the evidence. Restore the site.”
At that point, both laughed. What began as a toilet question had become a United Nations summit with tiles, slippers and a plastic pail.
But the boy’s question stayed with me too, precisely because it connected with what I had seen over many years in operations, offices and public places.
Children have a way of asking what adults have stopped examining. Sometimes their “why” is not childish at all. It is wonderfully sharp.
Clean toilets, clean character
After all, the toilet has travelled a long journey. From the squat toilet that required balance, courage and good knees, we moved to the seated flush toilet that introduced comfort, dignity and domestic debate.
Today, toilets have become technological marvels – bidets, heated seats, automatic washing, air drying, deodorising systems, motion sensors and more buttons than some television remotes.
This little bathroom summit came back to mind when I read about the reported RM11.8mil upgrade of toilet facilities at Kota Kinabalu International Airport (KKIA). Suddenly, the toilet seat had entered the world of infrastructure, aviation standards and public scrutiny.
The works reportedly cover 26 toilet facilities, 196 cubicles, facilities for persons with disabilities, baby-care rooms and related plumbing, drainage, electrical and high-traffic fittings.
In other words, the humble toilet had flown business class.
But whether at home, in an oil palm estate, in a mill, or at KKIA, one truth remains seated firmly: expensive facilities may impress visitors, but cleanliness, maintenance and user manners decide whether civilisation actually lands safely.
Once, a toilet asked only for water. Now it may need electricity, an instruction manual and possibly a software update.
There is, of course, a bigger reflection sitting quietly inside this little toilet story. It is funny only because it is also painfully relevant.
Malaysia has built highways, airports and malls, yet too many public toilets still remind us that infrastructure can be built faster than habits can be improved.
Wet floors. Unpleasant smells. Careless users. Weak maintenance.
A Mat Salleh friend once joked that the two most frightening words in Bahasa Malaysia are tandas awam – because in Malaysia, the public toilet is often less a washroom than a small-scale flood mitigation project.
Why? Is it poor design, poor maintenance, poor enforcement or simply poor manners? Perhaps all of the above, cooperating beautifully like a badly organised committee.
A friend once shared that his physicians advised men and boys to consider sitting when urinating, especially from a health and hygiene point of view.
I leave the medical details where they belong with doctors. But the hygiene lesson is obvious enough: less splash, less smell, less evidence, less shame.
A clean toilet is not just a facility. It is a mirror. And sometimes, sadly, the mirror reflects not the toilet, but the user.
It is easy to demand better airports, malls, parks and public facilities. We should. Standards, maintenance and enforcement matter. But user behaviour matters too.
A first-class toilet can become third-class quickly if treated by users with no class at all.
In the end, the toilet is strangely democratic. Rich or poor, young or old, titled or untitled, everyone must eventually answer nature’s call. Even VIPs cannot delegate the appointment.
Yet, despite all the upgrades, the basic test remains unchanged. The true measure of a good toilet user is not whether the bowl has bidet, heating, self-washing or remote control.
It is whether the next person can use it without muttering your name in disappointment.
So yes, toilets have transformed. But manners must not be left behind, stuck somewhere between the old squat model and the modern luxury throne.
Because civilisation is not only about technology, comfort or progress. Sometimes, it is about one simple question: after you have lifted the seat for yourself, do you lower it for someone else?
That is not just toilet etiquette. That is character with hinges. And perhaps the smallest room in the house still offers one of life’s biggest lessons: leave things clean, considerate and ready for the next person.
So yes, this reflection began in oil palm and ended at the toilet bowl. But the journey is not so strange.
Palm oil may start as a fresh fruit bunch, yet through oleochemicals it quietly enters soaps, detergents and cleaners that help keep daily life hygienic.
But chemistry can only clean so much. The rest depends on culture.
In the field, good harvesting is not complete until the loose fruits are collected. In the mill, good processing is not complete until the floor is clean.
And in the toilet, good manners are not complete until the next person can use it without muttering your name.
That is the real flush test.
Joseph Tek Choon Yee has over 30 years of experience in the plantation industry, with a strong background in oil palm research and development, C-suite leadership and industry advocacy. The views expressed here are the writer’s own.
