The woman in the toilets of the Capitolio in Habana has a terrible job. Of all the toilets I have visited in Cuba National Capitol Building
The sweat is lashing off me before I’ve even crouched down precariously. Flies swarm around me like a plague of hungry locusts. I am thankful I have brought some papel hygenico in my rucksack, even if the lady does hand me a few paltry sheets under the door that doesn’t close as she realizes that mine is not flying visit. Then she continues her conversation with a woman two stalls down as I focus. Focus. Focus.
When I finish, 15 pence seems a fair price to pay the woman to hand-flush the toilet, particularly since I have eaten a hot dog, a pizza with onions, a beer and an ice-cream today. I don’t look her in the eye as I leave.
