Toilet H3ll

Squat Toilet

One of my pet peeves is a gross restroom. While traveling, I have realized that US public restrooms are plentiful and extremely clean in comparison to some other places in the world. Best of all, US public facilities are supplied with toilet tissue and soap. Not so in many countries. Oh, the things we take for granted!

Even a commode lid and cover are a luxury. Well, today I would've killed for these basic luxuries at I was met with a hole in the ground surrounded by a porcelain rectangle with impressions for your feet. WTHeck!! Here it was. My first squat toilet. I've read about these, but never encountered one. I don't know why I thought they could only be found in India or China. Yet, here it was in Ancona, Italy. I drink a lot of water and have to go often. With nothing else around the church I was visiting, I had no choice. Who knew when my next chance would be? Surprisingly, the sucker was clean. I mean, sparkling. It was in a clearing a bit away from the church, so it wasn't evident who cleans it. (Toilet fairies, maybe?)

I immediately thought back to the last time I had to squat, which was when I was a little girl. I recall my mama stopping on the side of the road because I really had to go and couldn't hold it. She'd hold my pants out of the way so that I wouldn't splash them. Well, she wasn't around to hold them and I didn't trust my own aim. How the heck was I to do this?? Did they NOT think about women when they designed these? I'll spare you all the gory details, but in the end I did what I had to do to make sure there was no chance of splashing my bottoms. It's not like I could change them if I made a mistake since I'd stored my luggage at the port while waiting for my ferry to set sail to Split, Croatia later in the evening.

While taking care of business, I was super thankful for the tons of stairs I'd silently complained about  having to climb the past 2 weeks in Italy. My thighs didn't shake not once as positioned my feet on the markings indicating where you should stand and squatted further than I've had to since high school P.E. Finished, I redressed, watched the "toilet" flush in what looked like a monsoon, and marveled at the sparkling shine that was left behind. It wasn't quite that bad, but it's an experience I'll not want to have again.

Siempre - For Me, Always

As I was sitting and waiting for my food at a local neighborhood restaurant in Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic, a nice young man walked by and began talking to me in lilting Spanish. He held up several Cokes he was carrying and kept talking. "No, gracias," I replied. He continued on his way to the back of the restaurant. When he came back, he plopped ½ a glass of Coke in front of me; his treat. I said a surprised thank you and he smiled sweetly at me and sat amongst his friends to eat his lunch. He would smile at me occasionally as he ate. His friends began teasing him.

As I was leaving, I said, "Muchas gracias por la bebida." He nodded smoothly and said quietly, "Para ti, siempre." I melted. For me, always.

Originally journaled on March 7, 2009

No Nearer the Cross Today

I traveled to Lago de Chapala (Lake Chapala) which is just south of Guadalajara, Mexico, today with the sole purpose of seeing it and the surrounding hills from on high. According to my guidebook, I simply needed to walk down a little side street, turn left at the alley, and climb up the hillside stairs for 15-20 minutes until I reached the Cross at the top of the hill. I've climbed higher with the promise beautiful views, i.e. the Alhambra's glow at dusk (Grenada, Spain), Camelback Mountain (Phoenix, AZ), so I was game.

I got off the bus and began following the signs to the lake. After taking a look at the directions in my guidebook, I noticed that I was at the little side street. Unsure of whether to turn right or left, I looked around for someone to ask. For some reason I decided to ask the little old ladies conversing on the corner. I say for some reason because 1) I don't interrupt people to ask and 2) I've found that elderly Mexican women talk very softly and I don't always understand their Spanish. Also, like elderly people everywhere they want to have long conversations and it's difficult for me to follow because they don't think to slow down for me. (They're used to younger people slowing down for them.)

Well, today I am grateful for too much information because when I asked which way to el Cruz, she pointed to the top of the hill and proceeded to tell me men drink and smoke marijuana along the path so it's dangerous for me to go alone. I expressed my disappointment and told her I'd heard the view from the top was very beautiful. She told me it was, but peligroso. Don't go alone.

I thanked her and she pointed me in the direction of the lake. Here I sit on the pier eating an almendras Magnum ice cream bar safe & sound however, no nearer the Cross.

(Title references the spiritual, Near the Cross.)

Mi Pelo IV

As I was walking down one of the main streets to my hotel in Guadalajara, Mexico, a guy rode by on a bike and make a sharp u-turn on the sidewalk. He stopped in front of me and asked if I was a Rasta. I told him no. It didn't take me long to figure out he was fascinated with my hair because he kept staring at it.

He pretended to be interested in where I was from, my name, etc. Eventually, he got to the point. He wanted to know about my hair. I told him they were locs. He asked to touch them. I pretended not to understand his Spanish request. Fed up, I guess, he reached out and grabbed a front loc, molested it ever so lightly, softly said, "Bonita" and rode off.
Loose or loc'd, my African hair continues to fascinate.

Mi Pelo III
Mi Pelo II
Mi Pelo

Beach Musings

I'm baking on a beach early on a Saturday morning in Acapulco watching a group of boys play a lively, if furious, game of beach soccer. The breeze coming from the ocean feels magnificent!

All too often I am accosted by vendors selling cruises, hats, shell jewelry, chains, sand pails, pastries, sunglasses, scarves, juices, you name it. The rest of the time, I am bothered by men whistling, calling out "Morena!", or attempting to talk to me in Spanish, which I pretend not to understand. Then they try in broken English, which I also pretend not to understand. Mean of me, I know, but I just want to sun, journal, and daydream on the sand before my flight leaves in 6 hours.



Leaving the Beach
It was so HOT. (Check out the tan.) Luckily, I had this sarong with me to protect me from the rays. Why men must've thought this was extra-sexy?? They were tryin' to holla for REAL while I thought I looked prudish as all get-out.

Calling on the LORD in Cairo, Egypt

Never one to take the LORD's name in vain, after a hard day in Egypt I involuntarily let out a "Woo, JESUS!" before I caught myself. I had to go all the way back to my roots when my Mudear used to call on the LORD when she was dead tired. That was me today.

Dodging and ignoring the men was a constant battle. I had to be wary of men who sidled up to me making innocent conversation or offering to help me find my way. It turns into an offer to visit their family's shop or asking me a million questions about myself. Now I don't mind male attention & I'm accustomed to getting it while I'm out and about, but these people are aggressive! They don't take no for an answer. Thing is, they wouldn't dare approach an Egyptian woman. It is completely against societal norms.

As tough and easy-going as I am (yes, a contradiction), I shed a few tears the first day I was there. I found few could be trusted, the men were pushy and overbearing, and the women were of little help. Almost everything was a scam!! (No exaggeration.) It also did something to my psyche to be stereotyped and treated differently based on my gender and nationality. Funny, but I'm accustomed to discrimination based on my race in the USA when it happens. It's hard to explain. Determined not to let these factors get in the way of my enjoyment I adopted the look you see above and took to wearing my iPod, which I rarely do while traveling, so I could block out the advances of the men. If I couldn't hear them, they couldn't bother me. I also learned not to make eye contact with them as they saw that as an open invitation. I learned to say الذهاب بعيدا (pronounced em-shee), which means, "Go away", although that was of little help and not a very nice thing to say. Covering myself as much as possible helped, too.

A quick study, by the end of Day 2 I was negotiating with merchants, rudely pushing my way through lines and crowds, and staying in my place as a woman with the best of them.


Smiling at the Pyramids

Stranger in Town, But No Newbie

"How do you know where to go?" I am often asked of my travels. When I got off the bus in Santo Domingo (Dominican Republic) from Punta Cana after 4 hours, I marveled at the difference in feelings from when I got off the plane in Rome two years ago. Then, I was so nervous I stayed in the airport for 2 hours before venturing out into the city. Now when I arrive in a new city in a new land, long gone are those feelings of anxiety. As long as there's a way to get to the airport, I can always go home. That makes me feel like I'm never lost. I know how to get home. I'm not even sure if that makes sense, but that's how I see it.

Someone once asked, "What if you get lost?" Well, when I get to a city I've never been to before I'm already lost. The key is to find where I need to go. I help myself by studying the city's map before I go so that I am somewhat oriented to the city. I familiarize myself with major streets & landmarks so that I can gauge how far (or close) things are, which direction they are, and what to say when asking for directions.

Here's an example: Before I left Bávaro (Dominican Republic), I pinpointed the bus station on a map & located the street of my hotel in Santo Domingo. From there I could tell it wasn't within walking distance, so I would have to catch a bus or taxi. Forever frugal, I knew I'd have to ignore the hawking cabbies when I arrived and find a friendly local to point me to the right bus stop. This is where how to ask comes in handy. Instead of asking for Isabela Católica 155, a street or address they've probably never heard of, I ask how to get to Parque Colón, a park that had popped up more than once on various maps & was listed as a must-see site. That meant it was probably pretty popular and well-known. My hotel was a few streets from there, so I'd ask for further directions once I found my way to the park.


After I got off the bus, I found a nice young lady waiting to cross the street so I asked her which bus stop would have a bus to Parque Colón. She was more than willing to help. After adjusting to Dominican Spanish, I got directions and asked her how much it would be so the driver wouldn't charge me some exorbitant fare. Once I got to the bus stop, I asked another young lady there which bus I needed. She explained that I needed a gua-gua, un coche, to get to my destination. I was confused. A car? At the time I didn't understand what she meant. She knew this and GOD bless her heart, she stood with me until this car full of people stopped and she told the driver where I wanted to go. She surprised me by walking off afterwards. I'd assumed she was waiting for a ride, too. I hurriedly thanked her and hopped in. (See, that's why I'm not afraid to travel. There's always someone willing to go out of their way to help.)

The driver dropped me off at what I thought was Parque Colón. Turns out, it was Parque Independencia. Not a problem. I was closer to my hotel than I was previously. I checked the map in my guidebook and saw I was within walking distance of my destination. I asked a man how to get to Parque Colón and he told me it was a direct shot down El Conde. (I had to strain hard to understand the lilting Spanish of the DR.) As I walked, I realized I must be in the heart of Zona Colonial. I'd read about it online and in the guidebook. How exciting! There were cobbled streets, old 16th century buildings, stores, lively shoppers, and restaurants. Within 10 minutes, I was in Parque Colón. Once there, I asked a passerby how to get to Isabela Católica, the street of my hotel. I checked against my map & knew I could take it from there.


As I was turning down my designated street, I was accosted by a tour guide who tried to sell me a slew of services and steer me toward certain hotels. Little did he know that although I was a stranger, I was no newbie. I'd done my homework and was set. I peeked through the window of his office where a nice German couple was being railroaded. I thanked him profusely and was on my way, thankful I'd done my homework.

Three minutes later, I was checking into my hotel and dropping off my luggage to head out and explore Santo Domingo, doorway to the "New World."