Bathroom Humor

June 19 2017

It’s time to mention an unwelcome companion on my journey through Mexico.  I’ve been suffering from Traveller’s Stomach.

It first hit me in the Copper Canyon area, where I ordered an Arancita thinking it would be bottled, and instead was handed a homemade pitcher of delicious orange juice with floating ice cubes.  It was a hot day and there was nothing for it but to drink it, though I knew perfectly well to stay away from ice cubes (they’re usually made from tap water).  The next day I was suddenly strategizing around rest room proximity.

Now, diarrhea when travelling is always inconvenient, but in Mexico it’s especially so, since in most bathrooms you’re not supposed to flush your toilet paper.  Instead, in each stall they set out a little waste basket.  For an American this is bad enough, but one adjusts; however, the next best thing is to endeavor to leave the CLEANEST possible TP.  It becomes rather a point of pride.  Alas, this was no longer possible for me.

But I had come prepared: I had brought from the States a bottle of Cipro pills for exactly this event.  It was a three-day course of two pills a day, and they seemed to work.  Too well.  The whole time I was in Mazatlan my digestion was at a complete stop.

That at least enabled me to leave a tidy rest-room reputation behind me.  But here in Guadalajara it seems the Cipro has worn off, for despite sticking religiously to bottled water the diarrhea is back.

This led to a funny moment at the Museo Pantalon Panduro.  When I needed to seek out their “Bano,” I was delighted to find it a spotless, large and modern room.  However, when I reached for the stall’s TP dispenser, it was empty.  And a craned neck confirmed that there were no spare rolls in there with me.

Well, I was the only one in the restroom, indeed almost the only patron in the museum, so I risked a quick duck-walk to the next stall over.  But what’s this?  No TP there either!  The third and last stall?  Empty!  Apparently the staff had completely forgotten the loading-up phase this morning.  The sleek modern rest room had no cabinets, cupboards, or shelves where TP might be hidden, and not even any hand towels—they used the blow dryer system.  There was not a scrap of paper in the place.

Back in my original stall I considered my conundrum.  While, thanks to the Trump administration, I don’t mind being a stinking American on the metaphoric level, that’s where I prefer it to stay.  Finally I was reduced to the last extremity: I sacrificed the microfiber cloth I keep in my pocket to clean my camera lens.  And into the little waste basket it went, a bizarre and possibly artistic token from the Republic to the North, but preferable to the alternative.

Now I just have to hope my stomach settles down on its own.  I have more Cipro, but if it’s cyclical it’s one cycle I can do without.