Part One
Two doors separate me from meeting Kass face-to-face for the first time. One is the gate leading from baggage claim to arrivals. The other is the door of this toilet cubicle, upon which is hung a sign instructing me to place my toilet paper in the rubbish bin beside the toilet, not in the toilet itself.
Bemused, I oblige.
Not wanting to bring up poop discourse too prematurely, I let a few days go by before I ask Kass about the sign. Not all of the plumbing infrastructure in México can handle flushing away toilet paper, she explains. New buildings and retrofitted restrooms are modernising things fast, though.
I once used two different loos in a single mall. One in the ‘old’ part of the complex (it had the trash cans and flushing prohibition signs), the other in its newer extension (no bins in sight — straight into the bog, like Mark Renton).
Old habits die hard, though. Folks in the US whose older family members visit from México might tell you that they’ve had to remind their relatives that Stateside pipes will happily process their paperwork.
Even I did a double-take when I passed through the same airport a couple years later and found myself on the origami-compliant upgrade of the loo where I’d once rewilded some butterflies before walking out to meet the love of my life…
Part Two
…whose birthday it was about to be in the summer of 2022, amidst water shortages onset by climate change and corrupt beverage companies hoarding billions of litres for profit.
We had a good system going during the droughts. We’d fill up a few garrafones (multi-gallon containers) when water was available, and then try to stick to a “if it’s yellow let it mellow, if it’s brown flush it down” policy.
At a spot within walking distance of our home, we’re counting down the hours to Kass’ birthday with friends. When there are just 30 minutes left to go, my stomach starts aggressively protesting something I’ve eaten.
I hold in the demons just long enough to give Kass midnight birthday kisses and, in the same breath, whisper my emergency to her. So as not to force my Jackson Pollock imitations upon the public, I rush back home and commence the exorcism.
In postpartum, I go to flush. A dull dry thud and a subsequent peek into the arid water tank tells me there’s a problem. Or perhaps it’s more of a crisis, I decide, when I turn to find all the backup garrafones empty.
Oh dear.
There’s no water to wash away my sins.
Unless…
I scramble to our second toilet and pop the lid. The tank is full!
Now what?
I grab a litre-sized plastic cup from the kitchen. I can transport all the water from one cistern to the other in about 10 trips, then flush. Genius!
The plastic cup doesn’t fit inside the tank.
The biggest thing I can find that does fit is a dismally small plastic bowl that probably holds about the same amount as a small can of soda.
30 trips back and forth it is.
Roughly 42 minutes later (40 minutes to transport toilet water, 2 minutes to text Kass about my odyssey), it’s the moment of truth. I hit the lever. The cascade releases.
Absolution.
A few sprays of lavender to cover my tracks and then I’m headed back to the birthday spot.
Whenever I’m eating cereal from one of the other bowls from the set, I think: “I could be having 30 times the amount if I were eating from the toilet.”