Tasteless potty humor from Central America

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I awoke my second morning in Xela at four a.m. without reason. The nights here are cold and though I have not yet ventured out much past dark, the chill easily penetrates the flats of concrete and tile. My room is windowless (except for the large window that opens into the kitchen) and in the absence of a draft I'm snug as a bug beneath a sheet and two blankets. But waking here thus far is inevitably accompanied by the stark realization that I am, in fact, somewhere in the middle of Guatemala and a marathon of thoughts subsequently ensue, rendering further dozing ineffable. I lay in bed for two hours and, in a mental gesture of utter futility, periodically remind myself to attempt to fall back asleep.

I must admit that I have all the comforts of home here, and a home from the 1950's at that. I can not recall a day in my life that I have eaten three hot meals, much less at the same table, before coming to Xela. But while I am, for the most part, comfortable the simplest of activities can be daunting in this strange new place. My Spanish is in it's infancy and the generous family hosting my stay does not speak a word of English between them. This morning particular morning, after a only few hours of sleep I must prepare responses to a host of possible questions I may encounter in the journey across the hall to the bathroom. I consult the Spanish dictionary and choose words carefully. While I can generally get my point across I can not afford to offend anyone, as exaggerated facial expressions and absurd hand gestures are my only means of accompanying my broken speech with politeness and sincerity.

If I survive the hallway unscathed there is the bathroom itself to contend with. Seemingly innocuous at first glance the Guatemalan bathroom has a number of hidden dangers. What the guidebooks fail to mention is that the septic systems lack the fortitude to cope with paper products and the offending articles are reserved for an adjacent waste basket. For an American such as myself whose ingrained puritanical shame is forever linked with all natural bodily functions, this basket is not emptied quite frequently enough. An attempt is made, this being civilized society, to mask the abrasive odor with a tall aerosol spray can. A valiant but ultimately empty gesture as there is no denying exactly what has transpired here. The resulting bouquet is sweet and cold and inescapable.

Attempting to put the aroma out of mind I next face the challenge of the tap water. We have all heard about the water in Mexico from a faceless "they" who inform us only to drink bottled water and always refuse ice cubes but in Guatemala even the locals know better than to touch the stuff. I don't understand how something so seemingly benign as water can strike fear into the collective gastrointestinal systems of an entire nation whose diet consists solely of beans, eggs, cheese, hot peppers, beans, coffee, beef and beans, but bottled beverages are the norm here as you can tell just by looking at the piles of empty plastic containers on any city street . . . littering is also the norm. Travellers are warned not to brush their teeth with the tap water and thus I have taken to spitting a forceful stream of "agua pura" at my brush to rinse. The resulting splat in the sink sounds undeniably like another familiar noise and I often wonder if my host family thinks I'm bulimic. At first brushing was an awkward juggling act. I would go to tremendous lengths to avoid using the tap only to mindlessly thrust my brush under the faucet at the last minute out of sheer habit, but now it is nearly second nature. I have yet to determine, however, how to shower with out actually getting wet.

I was celebrating my greatest triumph thus far, that I managed to figure out the shower on only the second day, when a spark large enough to have been created by one of the lesser Norse deities nearly singed off my eyelashes. They are a little more cavalier about mixing electricity and water here in Guatemala, and perhaps that's why my shower head looks like a garden hose running through the business end of an industrial sized blow dryer. The exposed wiring precariously attached spirals back into a hole haphazardly chewed in the wall indicating that the shower was installed, presumably, by intelligent rats. Two control knobs protrude from the tile much like in any American bathroom but instead of "hot" and "cold" they indicate "cold" and "really fucking cold". And the cold knob is broken. The water, it seems, is actually heated by the blow dryer itself. There is a large black lever fitted into a slot in the side of the contraption, whose job I initially thought was to control the power to the heating mechanism but, upon further examination, is actually there to shoot large and threatening sparks at whosoever touches it. Ultimately I have been forced to succumb to the mighty will of the shower head and only bathe when, in it's infinite wisdom, it deems me worthy of water slightly above absolute zero.

There is a small plastic bucket which perennially rests upon the shower floor. I look at it and hope that I am not missing anything really important (remember the three seashells in "Demolition Man"?) but at this point it is just too late to ask. So I dance and shiver, flirting with the cold trickle, vulnerable to minor electric storms and think about the day ahead. Eventually, I decide, I will have to work up the nerve to leave the house.

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Comments

[His dad]

potty training
It is with a great sense of "RELIEF" (ahem) that all that training in his early years has finally paid off. Well done, Son! Love, Your dad.

[Sheila Smith]

Reply to adventure man
You are brave Dan, and still alive. I applaud you!! It kind of makes you appreciate home doesn't it? Your mom forwarded your blog site to me. I can't wait to hear more. : o ) Sheila

[Mary Barker]

Good to hear from you!
Hi Dan, sounds like you are having an interesting time. It can't be too easy to communicate with anyone - you're probably learning all the important replys and querys by now. I sold my home yesterday and will be moving to Oregon on March 16th. My trip won't be anywhere near as adventureous as yours. Take good care and I'll look forward to your next message.