The Godzilla Papers

Herein follows an absolutely TRUE story of one of my adventures in Mexico.
* * *

Before you go into your daily litany of cursing your rotten life, consider this:

A) a week without hot water

B) very short periods without any water at all

C) this would include water for flushing toilets


Dishes pile up. Mountains of laundry sprout. You become a weasely fugitive as you sneak down to the corner coffee shop on the pretense of having coffee, and slip into their bathroom (clearly intended only for clients).

Hey! I was a client here. Last week!

All your wet-wipes are gone.

Plumbing:The fountain of . . . something.

I have decided I appreciate indoor plumbing more than electricity. Hah! I can hear you now, snickering, just snickering at me. You’ll all come over to my side the day you stand downwind of an unplumbed community.

You’ll choose between using your computer and using your toilet.

The Night of the Plumbing Iguana (herein referred to as Godzilla) was a typical Puerto Vallarta night . . . sleepless. Cats screaming, dogs barking, donkeys crying, roosters chanting (they have a rooster prayer-chain here-- you can hear it all up and down the canyons and barrios.) The rooster right outside my window starts it up, but I can tell he is getting tired of repeating himself.

Not to mention the disco music thump-thump-thumping from the gay hotel next door, and trucks that rumble up the hill. And it’s not even spring break yet!

After awhile of this, you get used to it and sleep through it.

But not This Night.

This Night I was awakened by some hideous clanging and knocking. It went on and on. I thought,

Finally! An authentic Mexican poltergeist!

I tried to ignore it, but it continued, getting louder and louder. It had to be loud enough to wake the entire building but, NO, this is Mexico.

Then I heard some muttering and what sounded like investigative activity. The flush of a toilet . . . and then . . .

a Roaring Metallic Groan I can barely speak of even now. It groaned through the network of pipes, moving from floor to floor. It was huge! It was long! It was loud! Help me!

Now I knew where Godzilla had disappeared to in the early 1970’s. He was alive and hiding in a toilet in Puerto Vallarta!

Then I heard hissing, followed by what I would confidently describe as human shrieking, the frantic slapping of bare feet on concrete, sounds of the complex coming to life.

Pancho! Pancho! (I would hear this cry often in the days to come). Should I get up? Nah.

We went the whole next day without water while Pancho slaved on the hot water heater. My roommate related the events of the evening:

I thought the whole toilet was going to launch! It was Cape Canaveral, man! Steam was pouring out of it, and it was hotter than . . . I grabbed my netherlands and got outta there!

We would eventually find out that Pancho forgot to turn his hot water heater off. You have to do that sort of thing here: turn it on and off. If you don’t turn off the hot water, it continues to heat and heat and heat throughout all the pipes, hot and cold and eventually, it’s Aye, Captain! She can’t take much more of this. She’s gonna blow!

This time we were lucky. Karina was not. Karina lives downstairs and was planning to leave for Arizona soon anyway, but not until the Pipe Dream God had His Way with Her. It was Karina’s last night in Puerto Vallarta, and I
swear I didn’t hear anything until a frantic pounding downstairs awakened me, someone knocking repeatedly on a door, and the cry, Pancho! Pancho!

I looked at the clock. 5 a.m. The sound of cascading, simply cascading water. Voices...

Turn off the water! Turn off the water!

It’s cracked, man. It’s broken!

What?

Her toilet, man. Water’s pouring out of it, boiling hot water!

Karina was scurrying, trying to save her rugs as her apartment flooded with scalding water.

This time Kevin, who meanwhile had moved into Pancho's old apartment, and therefore inherited the same water heater, had left it on. The water heated, as it will, and got so hot it literally cracked Karina's toilet in two!

We then went without hot water for several days and when we did get it, it was intermittent and didn't last long.

Kevin did this one more time and then did the only kind thing left . . . he moved out! There followed days of many repairs. No water.

Now, we have water, but things are still iffy. The toilet gurgles unhappily, but I am filled with gratitude each time it works.

When I turn a spigot and the water actually comes out, I get down on my knees and pray --

Dear God of Pipe Dreams
Who hears each toilet scream
Thank you for your VooDoo
That keeps me out of DooDoo