Tag Archive for: What Am I Doing Here

Picture it: A collection of engaging, fascinating, and even educational stories about the world from a seasoned and prolific traveler. Also, the writer is 10 times funnier than Anthony Bourdain, 50 times funnier than Rick Steves, and his collaborator and spouse contributed hundreds of indelible, one-of-a-kind photos. And also also, they went to places that aren’t at all tourist hotspots, often unpleasant, and even deadly.

This is all a real thing, and it’s What Am I Doing Here? A Simpsons Writer Visits the World’s Hellholes So You Don’t Have To. Mike Reiss — he’s won four Emmys for his work on an amusing animated sitcom called The Simpsons, and when he’s not putting words in the mouth of Homer and Disco Stu, he’s semi-willingly going on trips to odd locales with his wife, photographer Denise Reiss. What Am I Doing Here? collects their accounts of all of their variously interesting, entertaining, and probably ill-advised jaunts.

Here’s an exclusive excerpt from that, the latest Humorist Books title. It’s about all the different toilets of the world and titled, appropriately “Toilets of the World.”

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I’m going to start with an important bit of information, something no tour guide will ever tell you and no travel book will ever print. When you take a big trip, you don’t poop. You’ll pee, but you won’t poop. If you’re traveling with a group, no one in the group will poop.

Once you’re aware of this, you can relax. You can even be smug about it. “Using the toilet? Oh, yes, that’s something I used to do myself. Back in my younger days, of course.”

In time, the problem corrects itself. Generally after six or seven days, when you’ve reached maximum storage capacity. Before you know it, you’ll be crapping like a native. Bully for you!

But why does this even happen? According to Professor Ross E. Forp, the act of defecation puts you in a vulnerable position –your pants are down, you’re squatting, and you’re alone. You’re an ideal target for predatory animals or hostile outsiders. So our hominid ancestors evolved to shut down the poop reflex whenever they found themselves in an unfamiliar land.

Actually, I made that all up. There is no Professor Ross E. Forp – Ross E. Forp is just “professor” spelled backwards. But I think it’s a pretty good theory. And it is related to a genuine phenomenon, one I’m sure you’ve noticed: The sound of rushing water makes you pee. It’s the reason Niagara Falls has more toilets than any other National Park: The sound of rushing water convinces your brain that other people are peeing around you. It’s safe for you to do it too, and the sooner the better.

Once you’re on vacation and it’s “all systems go,” heh-heh, you will need to use foreign toilets. Be warned that in Cuba, every toilet is broken. Every single one. The Cuban flag should have a broken toilet on it. They should put one on their money.

We were leaving a restaurant in Cuba when we spotted a busted toilet in the alley – cracked ceramic, large chunks missing, stripped of all its metal hardware. “There it is, honey,” I told my wife. “The brokenest toilet in Cuba. So busted they finally threw it away.”

She replied, “Or maybe they’re getting ready to install it.”

In Europe, you’ll encounter a different obstacle – the bathroom attendant. This is a woman – it’s always a woman, generally old and bitter at the hand life has dealt her. She guards the entrance to a public bathroom like a troll in a fairy tale. To get in, you have to give her a small local coin. If you don’t have one, you must give her a large local coin – and they don’t give change. Your money pays the salaries of the people who keep the bathroom clean. But once you get inside, you realize the bathroom is not clean. It’s filthy and there are always several inches of water on the floor. Too late – you paid your money, no refunds. For an additional fee, you can also purchase toilet paper, because there’s none in the bathroom. The bathroom attendant will dole that out in meager squares, as if she were dispensing original Lincoln letters.

And folks, you’re still in Western society. Just wait till you get to the developing world. For most of the people on earth – North Africans, Middle Easterners, ALL OF ASIA – a toilet is just a ceramic hole in the ground. You straddle this thing, one foot on either side, standing on two corrugated bricks. These are like the starting blocks Olympic racers use, because once you’re done, you want to sprint out of there like you were Usain Bolt. Once again, you’ll find no toilet paper. Instead, your tiny stall will be crowded by a giant trashcan full of water, a garden hose with kitchen spray nozzle, and a plastic pitcher. I’ve used these toilets for years and have never figured out how all this equipment is supposed to work.

In Africa, you’ll find abundant Western-style toilets. But no toilet seats. Even in the finest hotels, you’ll see beautiful johns with brass fixtures and wood cabinetry – but no seats. It sounds like the plot of a just terrible thriller: Who is stealing the toilet seats of Africa? And how are they stealing them? Do they slip them under their clothes? Is this why they wear daishikis? And why are they stealing them? Is there a resale market? Who sells used toilet seats? And who would buy one? Maybe they steal them for personal use. But why? Did they buy a toilet that had no seat? Or did a friend steal theirs? And is that a friend you care to have?

So many questions. Africa, truly a land of mysteries.

When you do need a toilet overseas, it’s very hard to ask for one. The British, who seem so refined, go right for it. “Where’s the toilet, mate?” Good for them.

By the way, I used a public restroom in London, right across the street from Big Ben. As I entered, I saw a homeless man using the hot air hand dryer, to, well, blow his wiener. Several hours later, after a tour of Parliament, I went back to use that bathroom. My wife asked, “Was your friend in there?”

I said, “My friend?” Denise has a very loose sense of what constitutes male bonding.

ANYWAY. When I ask for a toilet overseas, I rely on American euphemisms. These completely baffle foreigners: the men’s room. The restroom. The washroom. The bathroom. They all sound like great rooms, none of which contain toilets. And the line, “I need to use the little boy’s room” makes you sound like Michael Jackson.

I’ve heard some great euphemisms over the years: “I have to pick some flowers.” “I need to visit the old house down the lane.” And my favorite, used by members of the French Resistance: “I have to telephone Hitler.” By the way, in researching this – and I do research this – I learned that Hitler’s toilet is now in New Jersey. Hasn’t it suffered enough?

There will come times in your travels where the toilet is not just a convenience – it’s a necessity. If you travel long enough, you will get sick with what my wife calls “tummy trouble.” What she means is diarrhea, but I don’t want to say that and you don’t want to read it. So instead of saying diarrhea, I’ll say… Diane Keaton.

The first time I got sick was in Tanzania. I have no idea what caused it – maybe it was that ice cube they put in my soda, or that baked potato I found on the sidewalk. It was in foil, people! Whatever the cause, I was suddenly overcome with Diane Keaton. My tour guide drove frantically through the countryside, trying to find medical help. Along the way, I made emergency stops wherever I could – gas stations, the middle of a corn field, and once – I’m not proud of this – in a half-finished building using a toilet that wasn’t hooked up to anything. Eventually he got me to a medical clinic that had clearly been a bicycle shop in the not-too-distant past. A doctor quickly saw me and handed me a teeny tiny green pill. Within three minutes, I was completely cured. I don’t just mean ‘no more Diane Keaton’ – I felt good enough to win the Indy 500, without a car. The cost of this doctor’s appointment including medicine: seventy-two cents.

The next time I got sick, it was completely my fault. I was visiting Syria, a country known for the destruction and vast human toll of its civil war. But before that, it was the most welcoming place I’d ever been. Of the 134 countries I’ve been to, I found the Syrians the finest people on earth. I wish we could populate the planet with them.

I was so enamored of these people that I joined a group of strangers for dinner at a café. Then I started drinking water from a pitcher on the table. The Syrians tried to stop me, but I wouldn’t listen. I was operating under the shaky logic that if the people are so nice, how bad could their water be? I drank the entire pitcher. If you’re thinking I’m an idiot, well, you’re right. I mean who else would vacation in Syria?

The next day, I discovered that the friendliness of the Syrians does not extend to the microbial level. I was racked with explosive Diane Keaton – I pooped all over the Roman ruins at Palmyra. These were a UNESCO World Heritage site. They were. Till I got there.

We were on group tour of Thailand, when our guide pulled over to buy us a roadside treat: sticky rice. It’s a mixture of white rice, milk, and sugar, all steamed inside a bamboo tube. It was delicious, but within hours, forty of us on the bus were afflicted with Diane Keaton, in an Oscar-worthy performance.

It hit me that night as we were strolling the streets of Chiang Mai. I started sweating profusely – I stripped off my shirt, something I never do in public and rarely do in private. Soon I became delirious, and everyone in Thailand became my friend. I began shaking hands with passing strangers, saying “What’s up, Jar Jar? How you doin’, Jar Jar?”

“Stop being charming!” my wife pleaded.

“I can’t,” I replied. Eventually Denise got me back to the hotel. Luckily, she had skipped the sticky rice. My wife watches what she eats and avoids carbs entirely. This has given her the trim figure of “Annie Hall” star Diarrhea.

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What Am I Doing Here? A Simpsons Writer Visits the World’s Hellholes So You Don’t Have To is available right now, this very moment, from Humorist Books. Get it in travel-ready ebook form, or a coffee table-enhancing paperback version.