I was in my friend’s apartment in Bogota long enough pay a visit to the bathroom when I was gravely informed that we don’t flush paper of any kind down the toilet in Colombia.
Not even when you do a poo.
Something to do with narrow pipes and weak pressure, all over the whole country.
You have to neatly fold it and place it in the bin beside the toilet provided for the task, which I assume is regularly emptied.
Initially my toilet modesty was a little shocked about this, I’m not going to lie. I couldn’t flush all evidence of my bathroom activities down? Some of the remnants just had to sit there, a public declaration of my bowel health?
I had to embrace it though and I quickly became one with the Colombian way. Habit flips you back of course and on occasion the involuntary kicked in and I was horrified to see I’d assumed kiwi styles five seconds after the event. Guilt would consume me as I slunk out the door, imagining blocked toilets, the proprietor wading through the debris of my inattention.
There’s another thing in the bathroom that I can’t fathom. No wash cloths. None. A towel, and maybe a big hand towel. Nothing else. I’ve had a devil of a time washing my face, the sweet experience of the hot cloth on the face at the end of the day just a memory.
So many mysteries, not all of them magical in the smallest room of the house.