The DNA of Toilet Behaviour

In 1990 I was working from Port Sudan, one of the poorest and most wretched places on earth. In juxtaposition, I had a large luxury yacht, operating dive charters in the Red Sea, one of the most glorious marine environments on earth.

We had a favourite anchorage in a masa - a natural harbour behind the coast line engrossing into the desert. It contained a military camp with about 50 soldiers: ragged Sudanese youngish men with a few educated officers to haunt them.

We befriended them all, and shared our facilities on occasions. Unlike us, they didn't have many material possessions to offer, but when we shared our pasta and sugar, they quickly cooked it up into a communal meal for us. Their WW2 mobile camp oven made the best bread I've ever eaten, perfect for mopping up the sweet spaghetti.

Unfortunately we had to cut our trip short a few months when Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, and we returned to Rhodes in the Eastern Med.

We gave all our our extra supplies to our new friends, including some local fishermen who loved our oil change days.

But the possession of ours that they cherished most, and wanted all of, was the arse wipe. The pasta, sugar, flour, cheese, tinned food, WINE, and other staples were insignificant compared to their desire to wipe their bums with clean paper.

From that experience I learnt existentially the metaphysics of hygienic toilet practices. It is ingrained into our DNA.

That's why back in January before the rush, I bought a year's supply.