Man Cans of the Yucatan
by Justin Teerlinck
There are those who would shake me after reading this article, saying, "what did you expect from a toilet on a bus, a gold plated potty with a bidet that squirts a mixture of water and fresh herbs?" There are those who would tell me, "You're an elitist pig! How dare you presume to judge the facilities of a developing country! Geez, its no wonder everybody hates Americans."
I meet these objections by stating the obvious: the things written here about my bad experiences with bathrooms amount to observations of bathrooms, not judgments about any nation or people. It would be silly to assume that my entire trip was sour, based on a few bad bathrooms. In fact, aside from the restrooms, it was perfect. In no way do I intend impugn the reputation of the Mexican people, a beautiful people in a beautiful country, whose warm hospitality and good natured patience helped smooth over the few rough spots in an otherwise exciting, memorable trip which I will continue to recall with joy for the rest of my life.
After our plane touched down in Cancun, Mexico and we passed through customs, there was only one thing on my mind. I needed to unload some extra baggage, and do it quickly. It's an international airport, I told myself. There must be bathrooms around practically every corner. Wrong. After making several faulty interpretations of confusing directions, I finally reached my destination. The men's room was tiny, marked by one lonely sign, but once I got inside it wasn't lonely at all. The place had two dingy stalls, one of which with a door ripped off, neither with toilet seats on the toilets. Wads of used toilet paper hung in streamers from the inside the bowls of the commodes to the floor, as if they were trying to make a futile escape from this cesspool masquerading as a restroom. Paper towels lay in wadded up piles in two individual urinals, a small urinal trough, and on the floor near a single, overflowing waste basket.
Surveying the scene was difficult, as I had to jockey for a place in line behind a half dozen or so gentlemen standing against the wall, eagerly waiting for a prized place at the trough. In one of the stalls, a customs agent - identifiable by the uniform trousers which hung about his ankles - sat groaning, as if experiencing the great agony of birth. I wondered to myself, was this man injured? Was this restroom the site of a recent terrorist strike, one that somehow only struck the bathroom, but left the rest of the airport unscathed? Should I rush into the stall and try to give first aid to the customs agent? No, I thought, it would be impossible to try to redeem this place from whatever disaster had befallen it. Any survivors would have to wait for a professional rescue team. The best thing I could do was try to find relief quickly, and then locate the proper authorities to report the sad news. The headlines would read: Al-Qaeda Hits Mexican Bathroom In Precision Strike, Families Grieving For Missing Relatives. The photos would show shell shocked victims being spirited to safety on the backs of soldiers and fire fighters, not on stretchers though. Stretchers could never fit in there.
The stench, which had my nose hairs fleeing like refugees for the upper regions of my nasal cavity, became manageable after a few asthma provoking gasps, and several minutes of mouth breathing. After taking a few hits off of my inhaler, I took out a piece of gum I had been chewing and held it near my nose. This seemed to do an adequate job of holding the gag reflex at bay. Finally, my turn came, and I approached the doorless stall as one might approach the gallows. Indeed, the constriction of my airways already made it feel as though some unseen, demonic hangman held an invisible noose around my neck, just waiting for the right moment to pull the lever holding up the trap door.
The toilet was so besmirched with filth, excreta and other substances identifiable only by a crime lab that I thought, why even have toilets? Why not just use the floor, or go outside? But as I gazed down at the floor, I saw that many others before me had entertained similar thoughts... and acted on them. I tried to do my business, but in the absence of a door, I felt many sets of eyes on my back, silently pressuring me to hurry up and get out. It was no good. I could not perform under this kind of pressure. Sullen and defeated, I zipped up my trousers and retreated to the safety of the pick pockets, vendors, hustlers, and con artist cab drivers in the rest of the sweltering airport.
When I finally caught up to my girlfriend she asked, "What the hell happened? I was starting to think you died in there."
"I almost did," I said, tears welling up in my eyes. "Lets get out of here."
"Are you okay?"
"I don't want to talk about it," I said. "I just want to forget." It will probably take years of counseling to finally get past the nightmares, but months of shock therapy, anti-depressants and heavy sedation have helped me come a long way. Veterans often ask, where did you become a man? Gulf war one? Afghanistan? "No," I reply, "I did one tour of the Cancun can."
My experience during that first hour after touching down in Cancun set the tone, unfortunately for the duration of our week's worth of restrooming in the Yucatan. At the bus station for the Ado bus line, in the city of Merida, capital of Yucatan state, I had to convince a security guard to let me through a checkpoint in order to get to the restroom. The Ado bus station restroom was clearly a close cousin of the one I encountered at the Cancun airport, with seatless toilets, collapsing stall walls, and doors that refused to close. Toilet paper and feces on the floor helped explain why none could be found in dispensers or the toilet. Yet, here there were choices at least. Five stalls and three sinks, only two urinals, and these separated by barriers. And this bathroom had stalls with doors, and to my shock and awe, relatively clean sinks with hot water, paper towel dispensers containing paper towels, all contained in a space large enough to accommodate the constant traffic. (No soap though. With the exception of hotel rooms, I did not encounter soap in any form, in any restroom during our travels.) Amazing. It was a welcome sight after my failed attempts to achieve relief on the bus bathroom, during the four hour trip from Cancun to Merida.
During the hellish bus ride, I wondered how all these people could be such champions in the art of holding it, until I got up the nerve to check out the facilities. I tapped on the door, feeling like I was entering a haunted house. The people in the seats nearest the can had tired but bemused expressions on their faces. Why would anybody go in there? Ah, a gringo! That's what their looks seemed to say as I spent minutes fumbling with the door latch as the bus bounced up and down on the lonely jungle highway. Finally, I finagled the damn thing open and crept inside. Crept, I say. Not walked. The entry way was about four-feet high. Once inside, my head banged back and forth on the steel walls with each bounce of the bus as I tried to brace myself. With my feet planted firmly against each wall, I unzipped thinking I could now handle the G forces. Nope. One small jolt, and I was throttled against the back wall, my arms smacking against the ceiling like an ape in a circus cage as I groped to regain my balance. Fine, I thought! This will be a sit down, but as soon as my trousers were down, my cheeks seemed to create some kind of vacuum as they suctioned onto the seatless, steel commode. The next thing you know, I felt gusts of wind from down below. I looked behind me, wondering where the handle was and saw nothing. The whoosh of air and lack of handle seemed to indicate that what went into the bowl, probably ended up on the road. I never found out, because as I attempted to perform the business at hand, I could feel the business being blown back against my be-hind, rejected by the elements. Upon this disconcerting discovery, I stood up, and to my absolute horror, noticed little spots of a black liquid on my thighs. Oh my God! What is this? No, not feces. Motor oil! And no toilet paper to clean up with and regain some human dignity. After yanking my trousers up with all due haste, I approached a steel bowl that looked exactly like the toilet, but stood at waist level. Ah, a "sink." Alas, no water. I thanked my lucky stars for a tough immune system and my supply of hand sanitizer. Knowing what I do now, I realize that if I had been robbed by revolutionaries, I would've sooner parted with my credit card and passport rather than give up my two peso bottle of hand sanitizer.
When I finally opened the door of the capsule... er, restroom, I felt pale as a ghost. Half the bus had turned around to stare. With all the banging going on, they must have thought I was partying pretty hard in there. Needless to say, how do you explain to a group of people who do not share your language that you've just been beaten up by the bathroom. I was determined to file charges with the police against this insolent bus bathroom that roughed me up, but that was not to be. You need bribes for such things.
Upon exiting the bus station in Merida, we went to the Nest, a hip youth hostel on the edge of downtown. With lime trees bearing ripe limes, hammocks and a rooftop patio, the place had charisma and class. I couldn't say the same for the restroom though. At the Nest, the "man can" was also the "woman can," and here feminist ideals are put into play as each gender was forced to endure the same conditions of squalor. Conditions at the Nest were much better than either the Merida bus station or the bus toilet. Although there was no toilet paper or paper towels, every door closed on each of three stalls. The toilets refused to flush during our two-night stay. Since the bathroom was shared by many, there was an assortment of razors, used bars of soap, and shorn facial hair in and around the sink. Yet, the sink was large, the water was hot and the lights, bright. On the whole, it seemed that there was a correlation between the quality of the restrooms and the amount of tourists expected. Only a small percentage of the American hordes offloaded in Cancun ever reach Merida, four hours away by bus. Halfway between the two cardinal Yucatan cities, we found the best public restrooms of our trip at the ruins of Chichen Itza, greatest of the great ancient Maya cities. Depending on the time of year, Chichen Itza groans beneath the weight of 5,000-15,000 camera laden tourists per day. And with a minimum of four to six hours required to get a good look at all the splendors Chichen Itza has to offer, one can fairly well guarantee that its bathrooms must also serve thousands. I had the pleasure of sampling the toilets in large interpretive center where tourists pay entry fees, and at a snack bar/bookstore located at the far end of the complex. The well marked lavatories in the interpretive center were located at the end of a long, romantically lit hallway. Here, I found rows of sinks, spotless, white tiled flooring and about a dozen private toilet stalls, each outfitted with doors that closed. I picked one at random, and was shocked to find toilet paper and a clean commode that flushed when I pushed the handle. In addition, paper towel dispensers were filled with paper towels, and the garbage cans were spacious, and only half filled. It was a miracle of modern sanitation engineering that would surely have impressed Chichen Itza's ancient former rulers.
I suspect that Chac Mool, no bit player in the Maya pantheon, would have smiled on the loo found at the snackbar, some distance in the opposite direction of the main entrance. Small, cozy and painted in mellow blues and yellows, this latrine featured one private stall, one urinal, and a sink with a mirror. I was impressed to find that the stall was made of wood, rather than painted steel. However, I found that while it would easily accommodate an average sized, sitting adult, urinating from the standing position was cramped and awkward. In addition, I noticed a sign on the stall door that stated in English: "Don't Throw Paper In the Toilet." Lest there be any ambiguity about what kind of paper, an iconographic scrawl underneath the words depicted a roll of toilet paper with an "X" crossing it out. Oooooh, me no like! In spite of the sign, I noticed a roll of toilet paper hanging on a dispenser in the stall. Now this was a bit of a paradox. Why provide the paper if the authorities don't want it in the toilet? Furthermore, if you do use it, where does it go when you're done? I discovered the answer to my question in the small waste basket in the stall. Yuck. But when I tried to flush the toilet, I understood the prohibition. A high pitched squeal emitted from the cantankerous potty, unlike like anything I have heard, seemingly from the underworld and then a loud, roaring gurgle tortured my ears and provoked me to fearfully flee the john for my life and the possibility of overflow that threatened my sandal clad feet. The toilet, nestled in such a deceptively simple, serene restroom was definitely in touch with the human heart eating Jaguar gods featured on many bas reliefs nearby!
The only other place on our trip where I found a restroom rather than a rest-ruin, was at the bus station in downtown Cancun. This is ironic, given the fact that the Merida bus station bathroom was so memorably awful. One would think that some type of system-wide standard might define the facilities at each bus station, but such was not the case. Here, I discovered a lavatory which was palatial in demeanor, if not size. The lighting was elegant, soft but not dim. Romanesque pillars lining the entryway evoked a faraway, classical theme, while sinks with marble counter tops rounded out an otherwise impeccable vanity. Four or five stalls with doors that closed AND latched, warmly invited my eager, private visit. Of course, toilet paper and paper towels were readily available and every surface was shiny and clean without coming off as sterile or antiseptic. More than a place to perform biological functions, this was a temple in which to retreat from the chaos of the bus station, relax and meditate. Although I must admit I would have felt more comfortable in a toga, with a plate of grapes to chew on. I should also point out that this was the first privy I have ever encountered - in Mexico or anywhere else - that I had to pay to use. As I am a just an ignorant hayseed, planted and plowed up in the American Midwest, I confess to being a bit befuddled by the sight of iron bars and a turnstile when I approached the entrance. Arrrg! It was especially irksome when I put the correct amount of change in the slot, but the metal gate refused to budge. But finally I managed to make it work, and I have to admit that the two peso charge (about 22 cents) was money well spent.
In general I offer the following advice to travelers in the Yucatan. Buy hand sanitizer at home, and bring it with. A tiny bottle easily fits into even the most over-stuffed duffle bag or suitcase. It will come in handy when no soap or water is available. Even after washing my hands with soap, I used the hand sanitizer anyway because water quality can and often does vary between locales. Given my restroom descriptions above, it should be obvious that bring-your-own-toilet-paper-and-soap is a close to universal policy at public cans in the Yucatan. I also suggest carrying a small quantity of travel packaged Wet Wipes. Don't be ashamed or embarrassed. They're not just for infants. In times and places where lugging around a roll of toilet paper becomes a burden, Wet Wipes, or another appropriate antiseptic wipe will dramatically increase the quality and comfort of your visit. You have many other things to think about. What to do about your bottom should be the farthest thing from your mind, yes? And with that, I bid you happy trails. "Go" in peace.
Justin Teerlinck is a 28 year old freelance writer who resides in St. Paul, Mn. His bathroom reviews are founded on a bedrock of 20 solid years of independent toileting. You can find his work in the Double Dare Press, and in the Whistling Shade. Teerlinck has experience with travel writing, social commentary, movie reviews, miscellaneous reporting, short fiction, novels, animal stories, and fake advertisements but he mostly considers himself a humor writer above all. Teerlinck welcomes your non-threatening input. Write to him at Here_Leezard@msn.com.
