Typically we don’t explore nature when we travel to see family in Mexico. It’s usually shopping, visiting, eating (so much eating!), and ruins. But one brutally hot and humid April day during Semana Santa we found ourselves boarding a small boat heading for Corchito Eco Park. We settled in the baby-blue boat and held on as we zipped across the channel.
As we slowed to pull into the island’s mangroves, we popped out of the boat and scattered to explore this intriguing new place. It felt good to get off the beaten tourist path. A pack of raccoons greeted us, or more likely, checked us out to see what goodies we had to offer. We spotted exotic birds roaming the pathways. Behind them we saw coatimundis, tails raised in the air like flags, searching for dropped food. I was happy to be outside and at *home* in nature.
After we explored the island as a group for a bit, I let the group know I would be back. I crossed the wooden bridge over the channel where the boats were parked and away from the kids swimming in the cenote (a spring). I was headed for the bathroom. I soaked in the smells, sounds, and sights of the island. I was nearly spinning around singing, “The hills are alive with the sound of music” during my little nature high. I was thrilled to be exploring an unknown (to me) ecosystem.
And then I was there, heading up the steps of an outhouse. It was built up off the ground, painted dark brown like so many DNR buildings and cabins across Wisconsin. It felt familiar, like the hundreds of outhouses I’ve used while on outdoor adventures.
Lit only by natural light and seemingly empty, I walked right in the stall on the left and shut the door. I noticed a screenless window. Odd, but okay. I checked out the toilet. Something I always do before using any outdoor bathroom. You never know who or what might be sitting on the seat. Then I looked up, my hand already reaching for my phone in my back pocket. I take a lot of pictures of bathrooms whole traveling and I didn’t have one of a Mexican outhouse yet. My eyes widened and I stopped, phone still in pocket, unsure.
I pride myself on being an outdoorswoman. I’m not scared of snakes or spiders or insects in general. The thought of wild animals does not bother me while hiking through the woods. I know they’re more afraid of me than I am of them. Rather, I am fascinated by the natural world.
Now when I looked up to see a very large bat hanging from the ceiling in the corner of the dimly lit bathroom, the corner closest to the toilet I was about to perch on…well, I decided I didn’t really have to go to the bathroom that badly.
It would only be another half hour or so exploring the island and another 10 minutes on the boat back to town. I was reasonably sure there was a bathroom at the lookout tower near the dock. I could hold it. Like an hour max. I could do it. I. Could. Do. It.
I acknowledged the bat, said something like ‘excuse me, sorry’ (because midwest upbringing) while I felt behind me to open the door and backed out of the stall. I energetically skipped down the steps, casually walked back over the bridge, and joined my family again. I didn’t say a word. It seemed to take an eternity, to consider the bat and what it would cost me to pee on a pit toilet right under said giant bat; to my family, I had only been gone a few minutes. No one ever needed to know what happened in that outhouse.
On the boat ride back, I sat with crossed legs, mentally urging the guide to talk a little less and make the boat go a little faster. I’m sure the bat was just as harmless as Wisconsin bats. The bats I spent a childhood admiring, mesmerized, as they swooped in and out of the light of the streetlights up north. I just couldn’t bring myself to share the outhouse experience with my first international bat.
I did make it to a less populated bathroom in time. Then I looked up bats that live in the area and learned the bat was (of course, harmless). Now every outhouse I visit and every bat I see reminds me of the experience and I feel a little sheepish. And I vow to myself that when nature calls, I won’t mind sharing the experience with Mother Nature’s children.
Unless it’s an alligator. I draw the line at alligators.
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