In nearly every country I backpack through, the hunt for toilet paper is akin to Indiana’s search for the Holy Grail.
And so I bring my own from home, flattening and finagling to fit rolls of it into my pack.
I barely used them in Cuba, where I was taught by Cubanos to use pages of the Granma.
While staying in tent camps in Haiti weeks after the quake, I shared the flattened rolls with my Haitian neighbors. When we ran out, they showed me where to wash rags used for the shitty-gritty (add another to the multi-uses for Buffs!).
Local children of northern Madagascar rainforest villages followed me into the forest to see how I would use the flattened white roll.
In deeply rural villages in Afghanistan, girls stared suspiciously as I wiped instead of splashing with water.