peeing at pilgrim's guesthouse

Kathmandu

the deep, old-world smile of the receptionist (cook, cleaner, travel agent...) at Pilgrim's Guesthouse in Kathmandu made me lay down my bag and decide i was home.

room 702, looked fine, $8/night. i was living in luxury compared to the $3 and $4 deals found by my backpacker compadres. but this is not my gap year, kids. i'm long spoiled and all grown up. in third-world inner cities, i'd like my mattress at least a few inches off the floor.

regardless of where i am, however, i have a funny habit of not immediately trusting toilets that are not mine. i am, and always have been, a serial squatter. often even at the houses of friends and relatives. i am also a seat-wiper, even in public bathrooms such as airports and restaurants, and even, sometimes, when the piddle isn't mine.

i found room 702 to be clean enough. but the bathroom floor, less so. and the toilet, i will spare you, had been recently used by someone with none of my urinal sensibilities.

i go to reception. could my bathroom please be cleaned, nowish? old-world smile. of course, of course.

i have tea on the porch. really need to go, but that's okay, i'll wait.

10 minutes.

hello.. hello... your room is ready!

greaaaat. i'm there in 15 seconds. the floor is clean. she shower polished. the toilet lid is closed. i open it. uuuuggghh.

i go to reception. this time, i am much more graphic. and i do not just want someone to press the flusher. i can do that. i want to smell disinfectant. i want someone with a long bristly brush and strong arms.

10 minutes.

hello... hello... okaaaayyy...!

the toilet seat is down again. i lift it with pincer fingers. and it is bright and sparkly clean... except for one thick black pubic hair, which i don't remember being there before, stuck to the side of the seat.

whatever.

it turns out, also, that the bathroom has a kind of slope to it. and that in order to squat, you can't just suspend yourself hands-free over the toilet seat; the sink plumbing gets in the way of your knees. so, you have to lean one elbow on the sink itself, and let yourself down slowly.

i was seconds from relief when, without warning, the sink detached itself from the wall, thrusting my right knee straight into the rusty pipe; meanwhile my left leg shot out to regain corpus balance, and my arse plummeted rapidly downwards, coming to sharp, professional stop about six millimetres about the toilet seat.

i knew one day those skills would come in handy.

i did finally pee. and reassemble the bathroom.

to add to room 702's charm, the flushing of the toilet sounds a lot like the wet fart of a rhinoceros. it lasts for seven minutes, and fades out for three.