Many showers have water heaters that are connected to the actual showerhead, so that when you get into the shower to turn the water on, you may see some electrical wires and think “Hmmm, that can’t be good.” I am sure it has its risks, and I recently saw a show on TV that said you often feel a shock when you’re in such a shower. I have taken hundreds of showers with such heating methods and have never felt a shock, so I don’t know what they were talking about or if that is ever true. Personally, in the tropical regions where “hot and humid” is the norm, I do not need or want any heated water. The cold water coming from the faucets isn’t even that cold. So if you’re in such a place, it is quite refreshing to be without hot water. Eight months in Panama and I did not once have a “hot shower.” I had “refreshing showers” that felt awesome and cool and comforting. Ahhhh.
When I took Spanish classes in Quito, Ecuador and lived with a family for a month, I was staying in a lovely house with gracious hosts. It was a little too cold in Quito to take a shower without heat, but this house had a different heating system that also took some getting used to. It was heated by some sort of gas that came from a box mounted on a bathroom wall (not in the shower thankfully). When I wanted to take a shower, I had to light the heating unit, much like you light a gas stove when the pilot goes out. It was a little intimidating at first (I am also intimidated by gas stoves and grills ... because I have rarely used them, and I like my eyebrows). But once I got the hang of it, I was able to enjoy a nice warm shower. Such bathing experiences remind me how easy we have it in the U.S. when all we do is turn on a faucet and hot water comes out, without any risky steps to take to get there. Face it: we are spoiled.
Now onto a very important thing to know about Latin American bathrooms: you do not and cannot put toilet paper in the toilet. “What?!” you say. “No toilet paper in the toilet?!” Correct, no toilet paper in the toilet; the plumbing is not designed for the overenthusiastic wipers of North America. You must put your TP in a waste basket that is in every bathroom in Latin America (at least every bathroom I've been in). I know that seems gross, but that is the way it is. Better in the basket than a clogged toilet, overflowing onto the floor. No Drano’s going to fix that. Additionally, don’t make the mistake of thinking that just because no one specifically tells you to avoid putting toilet paper in the toilet it means it’s okay to do as you do at home. Because it isn’t. Someone at a hostel or hotel or host house is not necessarily going to point this out to you, because putting paper in a basket rather than the toilet is normal to them. They may not be aware that this is not the norm in your country. If you want to make sure, then ask, or check and see if there is a trash can near the toilet that seems to be full of nothing but toilet paper. It takes a while to get used to, but when you return home, you will probably find yourself automatically looking to put the paper in the basket, instead of the toilet. Seriously, you will.
When you are out and about and must use a public restroom, most you will find in cafés and restaurants have the necessary things: soap, toilet paper, garbage can for the above mentioned used toilet paper. But sometimes they don’t. Or sometimes you find yourself in a type of bathroom that you didn’t expect … like the one my friend Heidi and I had to use when we visited a market town a ways outside of Quito, Ecuador. It was chaos in that bathroom, women getting buckets of water, rushing around, and pushing bathroom goers into small, dirty stalls (we would have preferred to go behind a tree). Or the one in the bus station in Guatemala City that required I pour a pail of water into the tank so it would flush and all I could think was “If it’s yellow, let it mellow … hey, how about we just let it mellow?” Or the one my friend Anna and I had to use on the border between Guatemala and Mexico that was off behind some market stalls in the street and we had to pay to use it, even though it was pretty bare-bones and not really worth the quetzales we paid to use it. But as I’ve said before: it’s all a part of the experience. It’s a part of the adventure! At home, I get pissed off when the Macy’s restroom is out of paper towels, but these bathrooms I can deal with.
These specific types of bathrooms will not likely have toilet paper. And some of the nicer ones won’t either. This is why I always stash inside my daypack a ziplock bag containing a roll of toilet paper, from which I have removed the cardboard roll so it can be smashed flat. It doesn’t take up much room and you will be happy you have it should you find yourself needing a bathroom, but unable to find one with the amenities to which you are accustomed. A small bottle of sanitizer is also a good thing to throw in there. And have some change on hand because some public bathrooms have attendants, who keep it clean and equipped with such necessities. No better way to say “whew” and “gracias” than with a little tip.
As you have learned from this blog, I mostly travel in Latin America. So I cannot even speak to what bathrooms are like in other countries where the experience is even more “rustic.” Although a Danish friend I met in Guatemala spent several weeks living with an indigenous family in a very remote area and she went to the bathroom in the family’s hut, where there was basically a hole in the dirt floor. The same was true for my friend who was a Peace Corps volunteer in West Africa. And for my friend who went to Turkey. Holes in the floor (or ground) are sometimes the norm. So toilets where you have to fill the tank yourself are nothing to complain about. Anyway, complaining will get you nowhere … when you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go. So you adjust, set yourself to “traveler mode” and do what you need to do.
Sorry, I do not have a photo of an interesting (or uninteresting) bathroom to share with you at this time.
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