The maestro visits the throne room: Navigating the shoals of Ecuadorian plumbing

Three thrones grace my palatial apartment, each with its own operating procedures and temperamental flaws. One of them is turned off most of the time and only fired up for special ceremonial occasions or visitors.

In Spanish they are called inodoros, though the word feels too polite for the mutinous behavior of my favorite. This was the inodoro with the new seat I had recently bought from Kywi — a small luxury that had turned it into my preferred perch.

When it inexplicably began draining slowly, I assumed the usual Ecuadorian plumbing pipe gremlins were at work.

No matter, thought I; I had an arsenal of tools already on hand comprising a plunger, a drain augur or snake, a gallon bottle of extra-strength deblocking lye, and even one of those air pistols you pump up like the rocket launcher I had when I was ten years old, that fires a blast of compressed air to clear the pipes when all else fails.

Nothing worked. Nothing. I even tried my domestic specialist’s suggestion of a bicarbonate and vinegar mixture, hoping to fizz my way out of trouble, but the water still dribbled like a bored child at the dinner table and refused to swirl in a manner that might carry away solid waste. (Fortunately, at the time of the rebellion the device contained only clean water.)

The real mystery was the timing. That morning it had been flushing like a champion whirlpool, and no one else had used it before my random check in the early evening. Yet here it was, sulking and refusing to do its job, filling to the brim and then slowly retreating to the low tide level.

I called the landlord, who promised the maestro would grace me with a visit at five p.m. to “reseat” the toilet, and could I please buy an anillo de cera and some silicone. This it turned out, would cost me somewhere just south of $4 at Coral, although I will be able to eventually reclaim the IVA.

The problem, it turned out, was not a clog at all but a kind of loss of suction and swirling in the seal. A royal coup of sorts — proof that even a throne can betray royalty without warning. The maestro showed up 90 seconds late, but soon had the offending appliance untanked and lying submissively on its side on the floor.

Fifteen minutes later the maestro had restored it to service, with instruction to rest until the morning while the silicon set, and I could once again contemplate the water swirling clockwise in the expected southern hemisphere mode, but thankful to have two other seats for backup.

$20 for the maestro while he changed back into his street pants and we were all square.