Bathrooms with a View, A Rustic Pause on the Orinoco

Many people think a bathroom should be just a closed cubicle, with privacy guaranteed behind a door. But in my nomadic life, I’ve found “bathrooms” so memorable that I never forget them. I want to share a series of those special places.

Puerto Carreño, Colombia

The city woke up flooded, and I woke up with the first glimpse of light slipping under my door. Rain pounded the zinc roof, and water seeped through the walls and across my floor. I packed my backpack and stepped into puddles that grew deeper with every step. Soon, the water rose above my ankles, and despite my rubber boots, my socks soaked through. I knew my feet wouldn’t be dry for days.

On the street, the water flowed like a river. I clung to my guide’s hand to avoid being swept away by the current and finally climbed into the truck heading south. We crawled along a dirt road that soon vanished under a lagoon of red mud. Visibility was nearly zero; the windows fogged up from the humid heat both inside and outside, and a heavy mist shrouded the land. Yet the guide never hesitated — he seemed to know every curve by heart.

The Flooded Prairie

Two hours later, the rain eased, and the sky cracked open just enough to reveal a strip of yellow on the horizon. We stopped to stretch our legs. Before me lay an endless plain. Although the rainy season had only just begun, the cracked earth absorbed water like a sponge, and the first green shoots emerged from the mud. Back on the road, we zigzagged to avoid termite mounds, rocks, and clusters of small shrubs and trees. Swamps and shallow streams we could cross, but the bigger rivers brought dense jungle: tall trees, moriche palm trees, and tangled vines forming an impenetrable wall. There, we had to find the ferry crossing, which shifted with the rains and the river’s flow. The ferry — a small iron platform with an outboard motor — carried us to the opposite bank.

The Guiana Shield

We left the grassland behind and entered the rocky expanse of the Guiana Shield: mesas, tepuy, and reddish hills split by deep crevices and channels carved by lava and water. Vines loaded with white flowers dangled from the dark stone.

By noon, we reached the banks of the Orinoco. Beneath the shade of lush trees, a couple of settlers had built a simple lodge surrounded by orchids. Their home was a necessary stop for river travelers. Behind the house stood a huge cell tower that never worked, dashing the hopes of the isolated community for connection to the outside world. Doña Rosalba invited me into her kitchen as she swept the dirt floor, chased away chickens hunting insects and lizards, and prepared lunch: fresh pineapple juice, yuca soup, and fish.

The house had a traditional kitchen with large, polished aluminum pots hanging on the walls. Porcelain dishes were arranged on rustic wooden planks, and colorful utensils, pitchers, and glasses were placed on the tables.

A Bathroom with a View

She showed me the guest area and pointed proudly at the bathroom:

“Take advantage, mija. This is the last flush toilet you’ll see for days.”

And there it was — a rustic wooden stall, a toilet with a bucket of river water to flush, toilet paper hanging from a rope, and a rusty screwdriver serving as a lock. From that humble spot, with its endless view of the Orinoco, I began a journey I had dreamed of for years — tracing Alexander Von Humboldt’s path — and carried home another image for my collection of “bathrooms with a view.”