Rest Stop (not for the easily disgusted)

One of the inevitabilities associated with road tripping by car is the rest stop. You can avoid it only for so long, but eventually you gotta stop. In Mexico, the poor quality of the rest areas force Scotty and I to do our best to coordinate our "movements" around our driving. However, occasionally the habañero-drenched shrimp tacos, which were so damn pleasant hours before, decide our rythm needs to be skewed somewhat.

After getting off of the horrendous ferry from La Paz at Topolobampo, the fear of drug-related violence and kidnappings convinced Scotty and I to jump in the car and head for higher ground, in this case Mazatlan. Our organs had different plans, and we soon found ourselves at a gas station bathroom combo about two hours north of the resort city. I bought a Red Bull and contemplated whether or not the protests emanating from my bowels could be suppressed or not. Scotty, on the other hand, who had just polished off a carrot-orange juice combo, went straight for the rest room. I eventually decided that I, too, must listen to my body, and followed Scotty into the unknown.

The dirt and mud covered floor would have been a perfect warning sign for someone more observant than I. There were two urinals on the right hand side that smelled so strongly of stale urine that they could be detected through to t-shirts held over the nose. Urinals, aside from the stench, are easy, but my mission was on a much larger scale. There were two stalls as well, the one on the left had found a patron, an I headed for the one in the back. I rounded the corner (there was no door). A Pollock-esque splattering of yellow and brown and black(?), the toilet seemed anyone who came within inches would need to immediately retreat to a hospital for lengthy treatment. There was no toilet seat either. I couldn´t imagine how one might approach this. I called out to Scotty, thinking nothing could be worse than what lay before me, including his current throne, and said "hey, dude, does your toilet have a toilet seat on it?" His labored reply was a negative. I thought long and hard about this, then asked the next question, "What are you sitting on then?" I should of guessed what his response would be ("I´m hovering"). That was enough for me, and I quickly vacated the restroom. Outside, I 180´d after a quick one-two from my intestinal tract, and re-entered the theater. I decided I could live with the result if I merely emptied the fluids. While washing my hands, a middle-aged Mexican man entered the bathroom.
"Esta sucio," he said (This bathroom is dirty).
"Si, esta un poquito sucio, pero yo he visto peor," (Yes, it is, but I have seen worse).
He seemed oblivious of my decent Spanish and apologetic of the dirtiness of his country. "Esta sucio!" he said even more emphatically, pointing to the floor and grinning slightly. "Viva Mexico! Pero, esta sucio!" (long live Mexico, but it is dirty). I left, the bathroom was appalling. While there are some things in Mexico that are dirty, the humor and kindness of of its people create an intoxication that will overcome any dirty bathroom.