The public toilet—along with sidewalks, other public spaces and certain soap operas—is a metaphor for the state of a society. (Then again, I’m always saying that some thing or other is a metaphor for something). Show me a filthy public restroom and I’ll show you a society where discipline and order have broken down.
The toilet is a reflection of the hygienic state of a household or an establishment. Especially for restaurants. A chef once said, “If this is how they treat their restroom, I’d hate to imagine what happens in the kitchen.” Agreed, but I’d definitely make special exceptions for certain panciterias and tapsilogans where proximity to filth seems to be the secret ingredient. But for the most part, I’d think twice about returning to a resto where the bathroom is a scene straight out of CSI.
The only problem is that our society has come to the point that there’s just too many of them. Those of us who have been sufficiently exposed to public restrooms know what I’m talking about: the non-existent flush, the mud, the moss, the tiles that look like high-school biology experiments, the floating brown objects and the unspeakable mixture of bodily fluids encrusting the lavatory rims.
Listen: I’m no delicate doily. The sight of scattered fecal constellations on a bathroom mirror will not make me scream (Not that I’ve tried, really). I’ve taken a dump on the some of the worst toilets in the planet (including some that are not technically toilets; but those were desperate times). Generations of humans have also lived and died without the kind of absurdly ultra-modernist washroom pleasures offered by the Japanese burger chain Sango. It’s not even a matter of toilets being in the Western or non-Western-style. A number of Asian countries have become formidable economies while still lovingly crapping into a simple hole in the floor.
My point is, I’ve been living in this country for 36 years and don’t you think it’s about time we said to ourselves: enough of this shit. And f--k the pun.
Of course, in some parts of the planet, there is a correlation between discipline, sanitation, and progress. George Orwell once asked, “Do the lower classes smell?” Does “poor” instantly translate into “squalid?” Of course, I have yet to see Forbes Park residents defecating into plastic bags that are conveniently hurled into rivers. But of course, efficient sewer systems cost money and it is much easier and cheaper to treat Manila Bay as your own personal latrine pit. Let us be, reminded, however, that dignity starts with proper disposal of our bodily excretions.
I mean, really, unless you’re on 500 micrograms of LSD, how hard is it to shoot your crap or piss into the bowl? Is it so hard to shoot that damn wad of tissue into the trash bin? How difficult is it to fix a faucet, clean mirrors, and scrub tiles? Do you really need a Swiss bank account to afford a bottle of bleach or disinfectant? Just how expensive is a bottle of Zonrox? It is absurd to demand that all restrooms be equipped with a Toto automatic urinal and a goddamned bidet, but the least you can hope for is some semblance of civilization. That you can unzip without fear of being attacked by a squadron of cockroaches.
The phrase “public restroom” is an invitation to genuine horror. The first thing that comes to mind are those in bus stations. I have no idea what it is about transport terminals and the overwhelming fog of ammonia? But it’s exactly the “public” part where it becomes problematic.
Thank God for graffiti in restrooms. At least they provide a humorous, if absurd distraction from the squalor. “LOOKING 4 GUD TYM 0921-4457876… JHUN” takes your mind off the nasty stuff floating right under the dark planet Uranus. Who could Jhun be and what sort of good time does he have to offer? What is it about such places that inspire artwork based on phallic iconography? Or instant installation pieces involving strands of pubic hair held in place by dried wads of gum? See? I’ve just distracted myself from the point just thinking about one goddamned wall I’ve seen recently. Thank God for these unacknowledged poets and artists.
I’ve always believed that human beings are divided into two kinds: those with the ability to crap anywhere and those with rectums of habit (a.k.a namamahay). And it’s not just because they’re afraid of using toilets that are smeared with shades of bright caramel. Even if it’s a sparkling cubicle at the Edsa Shangri-La, they still can’t unload.
The vilest toilet I’ve ever seen in my life was not in Manila but at a hospital in Sagada. Made of iron, it was all covered in rust—I sincerely hope to God it was rust—and looked like it had been crapped on by William Henry Scott and, I’m sure, all the other foreign missionaries of the pre-war era. The worst part is this: I had to use it. Listen, I had no other choice. I had not moved my bowels for four or five days (I had joined a medical mission to Kalinga and found it impossible to uhm, unload on the edge of a rice field while warding off wild boars impatient to deal with your droppings). All the other toilets were occupied and I couldn’t hold it any longer. My head and all other parts of my body were about to burst. So I held my breath, set aside my dignity, sat down and did my business. The texture, the coldness, and the smell of that toilet still haunt me to this day. Anything after that is a Toto Neorest 600.
In the sidewalks of Manila, this is usually an encouraging signage.
P2—IHI (Sometimes P3 in certain areas of inordinate human traffic
P5—DUMI (Or the vulgarly optional “TAE.”)
P15—LIGO
