I'm typically a creature of fairly clean habits, but now and then events conspire against Me.I haven't brushed my teeth in three days. An unplanned stopover in London, a night flight over God knows where, tap water that comes with a reputable Typhoid warning, and a failure to remember to buy a bottle of water at any time other than three am have collectively booted dental hygiene out of the window.
When it comes to drinking tap water, and in particular using it for my teeth, I tend to be a little reckless. Thankfully I have guts of steel, so a mouthful of dubious murk here and there doesn't tend to phase me. Why, then, is this trip to Dushanbe any different? It's the plumbing at Hotel Poytaht.
Poytaht is a Soviet monster - a vast concrete facade, endless corridors with well-worn carpet, and a scowling babushka on every floor. The bathroom in my room is split into two parts for no immediately apparent reason: a toilet and sink, and a bath and sink. The pipes in the latter part sing through the night something that's reminiscent of whale song: a moaning, gurgling noise with the occasional whistle that makes me sure some unfortunate creature, dead or alive, must be jammed in a tube six feet up. When I turn on the taps there's a rushing of air, but whilst you'd expect it to herald a torrent of water, only a miserable dribble seeps forth. Many words spring to mind, but 'appetising' sadly isn't one of them.
I'm restricted, then, to substituting teeth brushing with a variety of ingenious (but not particularly effective) alternatives. I've dry-gargled with toothpaste, wiped my mouth round with wet wipes and drunk cup after cup of mildly antiseptic tea. I've still got that furry feeling though, only hopefully by morning it'll have reached the stage where I can't but remember to buy a damn bottle of water!
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