Travel

TRAVEL LADIES AND GENTLEMEN... WHAT TO KNOW BEFORE YOU GO One member reveals her pet project of grading cultures on the restfulness of their restrooms A By Captain Karen Speight, Log Board member sked to describe the essential components of a toilet facility, I wonder what most westerners would say. Running water? A raised bowl? A wash basin with soap? The more cosseted among us might expect hand-dryers and lotion to smooth our chafed skin, but most savvy travellers appreciate that there are many countries where the priorities are somewhat different. In Peru, for example, atheme of disinterest at preserving ones modesty seems to run deep. Within hours of arriving, I had experienced the informal hospitality of the Colca Canyon, paying 50p to relieve myselfinto a boarded hole in the ground while the man who took the money stood guard with a fine view over the waist-level door should he fancy a look. Not all Peruvian public conveniences are this bad, though some are worse. Youve spent a soul-uplifting morning exploring Machu Picchu marvellous. The way down is a fiercely switch-backed road navigated by coach (for the five-star tourist), while enterprising back-packers can walk a steep path dropping between road bends to save a few sols. The famous goodbye boy will beat you, whichever route you take. Careering madly through the forest, he meets the bus at every bend, waving frantically to those seated within, hoping for a few coins at the bottom, where he will wait, catching his breath, for your precarious road journey to finish. Where are the toilet facilities for this entrepreneurial youth? Believe it or not, there is a public loo provided by the Instituto Nacional de Cultura Departmental Cusco. You will know it by the swarm of flies that greets you at 50 paces. The wooden shack fronts onto the path, leaving privacy to individual arrangements. A sign leaves you in no doubt as to the lack of running water. Going behind a tree is an infinitely more inviting prospect. Dumping ground The trek to Machu Picchu is equally worthy of mention. Acclimatising through the remote Dead Womans Pass, I was struck by far-reaching views of the valley and surprised by a high-altitude rubbish bin. Desperate to go, I climbed away from the path, to encounter afetid stench. The mystery of 4,200m refuse collection was solved as I stumbled across the dumping site for the aforementioned bin. Even when plumbing is provided, the perils of Peruvian bathing are clear to the naked eye. In all but the poshest of hotels, bare wires in the shower suggest one should limit ones armpit-cleaning manoeuvres to avoid free electrolysis of any body parts short-circuiting the water heating. Talking of which a travel tip. The blue tap is the hot one. It took two weeks of icy bathing for me to work that out. The train journey to Cusco embarked at Juliaca for a whole-day extravaganza. The impressive scenery of Lake Titicacas Altiplano gave way to icy peaks as we hoofed through valleys. After a couple of hours, I had become accustomed to the erratic motion. At each station, we shunted back and forth for half an hour, finally pulling off with a jolt then swaying drunkenly from side to side. Dangerous veering was interspersed with spells of fast, rhythmic bumping, one period of which coincided with the hostess clearing the lunch service. Despite her best juggling, she dropped a precarious pile of plates down the gap between carriages and we sped on to the expensive accompaniment of crockery breaking on the line. A relatively smooth section gave a chance to try the toilets: clean, raised bowl, running water. This pleasant surprise caught me off guard and I found myself seated with my trousers round my ankles as we drew into a station. It was only then that I noticed the belly-button level clear-glass view across the neighbouring scene, the frosted section below affording me little protection from a throng of hawkers. A lady knocked on the glass, determined to explain the merits of her alpaca sweaters. To her disgust, I declined to buy one and sat frozen with embarrassment until the train moved off again. Delhi belly With my belief in local customs shaken, I arrived several months later in Delhi. Walking to a temple, the fragrance of herbs from a tiny market between two rail lines mixed headily with the unwashed odour of poverty-stricken locals. Progressing onto a path beside a main road, this was overpowered by an even less appealing smell, the source of which was an elderly man squatting, bare-bottomed, in the bushes. The pathway degenerated into a bush-lined latrine, forcing me to prefer risking my life walking down the fast lane. Fortunately, because of the chaos on the roads, it wasnt that fast. Anyone who has walked up Mount Kilimanjaro will have fond memories of the long drop toilets. Unfortunately, the drops werent long enough for some of the ahem fuller versions in the popular camps. By daylight, one could just about manage, but by night If you havent been (so to speak), picture this: the temperature drops to minus 20, and you spend a good half hour making sure you are wearing all the clothing you have brought. You wriggle, pupa-like, into your sleeping bag, freeing your hands so that you can put two pairs of gloves on after zipping-up for the night. A toilet visit will involve doing most of this again, but in reverse. Then there is the question of where your torch ended up. Best not to venture out if you can possibly avoid it. Despite quaffing four litres of fluids a day to avoid altitude sickness, our team opted for the no liquids after 6pm method of maximising overnight comfort. This lesson in bladder management needed resurrecting and adapting the following year, during a cruise of the Antarctic peninsula. We made sorties to land to peruse penguins, visit ruined research stations, or seek out seals. Since the Antarctic Treaty, there are rules a-plenty to ensure preservation of this wildlife haven. A fellow passenger cautiously asked about the toileting arrangements while on Antarctic soil, and was told she could go behind a tree. The joke being, of course, that there arent any trees. This time, it was no fluids before 6pm, in order to make it safely back to the ship. A MOTORISED ARM SHOT OUT FROM UNDER THE TOILET RIM, SQUIRTED WATER WITH CONSIDERABLE FORCE INTO THE AIR, THEN RETRACTED Posh potty For the pice de rsistance of comfort stations, you have to head to Japan; nowhere can match the luxurious indulgence of a visit here. The ultimate award for computer-controlled comfort in powdering ones nose goes to an okonomiyaki (savoury pancake) restaurant in Hiroshima. After tucking into the local delicacy of meat and cabbage pancakes, I was first to test the premium plumbing. Changing into specially fashioned bathroom clogs, I was motioned with much headnodding and bowing into the entrance foyer for the ladies. A pin-neat Zen garden, sunlight twinkling through skylights onto the stepping stones, led the way to the inner chamber. The super-deluxe toilets within featured automatic seat lowering as one entered the cubicle (squabbling couples take note), while the padded throne offered a gentle warmth to ones bottom. To the left was an array of buttons to rival a modern jets overhead panel, depicting the various spray patterns and airflows with which one could cleanse, dry, buff and polish. Pleased to see there was also a supply of quilted, rosescented loo paper, I declined the scrub-up and arranged myself to leave. But how to flush? I spent 10 bewildering minutes looking for the right button before deciding there wasnt one and giving up. I was relieved to hear, on opening the door, the sound of rushing water. Flushing is clearly too low-level a task for humans in this country of futuristic faucets. Having informed my travel companion of toilet etiquette, she departed, returning a few minutes later in fits of giggles. Shed steeled herself to try one of the spray buttons not while seated, but while standing at the other side of the cubicle with the button at arms length. A motorised arm shot out from under the toilet rim, squirted water with considerable force into the air, then retracted. My friend squealed as the water dripped down her trousers. If you happen to be down under, it is definitely worth a visit to the Hundertwasser toilets of Kawakawa, in North Island, New Zealand. This is a clear winner of the Artists Choice award in the Competition of Convenience indeed, it is quite possibly the only entry. With his typical evasion of straight lines, Friedensreich Hundertwassers piss de resistance showcases his love of colour and organic forms, with its grassy roof garden, bottle windows and quirky tiling. A final point to note when planning your world tour of water closets is that the Japanese celebration of all things lavatorial is beaten only by Buenos Aires, Argentina, where the Palacio de las Aguas Corrientes houses a museum dedicated to the latrine. Now thats what I call potty. Antarctica