Riddle Solved!!

I have just returned from the toilet block in the camping ground in Valencia with a smile over my face. Not as you might be thinking, because I had some triumphant  success at the loo. In fact, I had only gone there on the urging of Helena, as she had noticed that they had fires burning in the toilet block (more on that another time) when she was over attempting to do her business, then when finding that there wasn't any toilet paper available she had returned to the motorhome to get a toilet roll. Come and have a look for yourself, she asked, so I set off to view said spectacle. It was only on this happenstance that I had a Eureka moment as one quite often does - while in the thinking room.
The genesis of this story goes back to something we have noticed since being in Spain, particularly down in Sevilla, where there appears to be stop lights everywhere. The usual ones at intersections, plus some which are on the numerous roundabouts (so you get halfway around a roundabout then you have to stop, a trap for young players) and also at pedestrian crossings, which annoyingly often occur just a matter of metres from a roundabout, so that you can be forced to stop for a red light some 10 metres before entering the roundabout, then the same thing can happen just as you are exiting the roundabout. However this inconvenience is compounded by the excessive delay that is incurred waiting for these lights to change to green. First you get a green man displayed in Michael Jordan pose, which after an age flashes in a fashion which makes the graphic appear to run - most amusing. Those of you in Australia who have had to run to make the green  'cross' signal, will be comforted to know that you could cross, re-cross and cross again on these light phases. Quite often this tedious sequence will happen with nobody within cooee of the crossing and two or three lanes of traffic ensnarled waiting to proceed. All of this has next to nothing to do with my eureka  moment, except for the fact that this tedious ritual provides an excellent platform for the dread of all motorists - the Traffic Light Hawker. Over here this occupation seems to be the sole unchallenged province of young North African men and women. With Spain's proximity to Morocco I am presuming this is where they come from, but judging from their dress and demeanour they could be Caribbean Cricketers or Homies from the Hood. As soon as the dreaded red light appears one of these ambling 'brothers from another mother' comes sashaying down the line of cars. You know that feeling you get when you’re about 8 cars back and you think, well at least the lights will have changed before he gets to me. Well not over here, these guys can take their time as you are a captive audience, they have got enough time to service an entire Formula One starting grid before these lights change. So we are well versed in our polite Aussie way of indicating that 'No, we may not know what you are selling but we don't want it - whatever it is'. This is conveyed with the universal sign language of raised hands and lowered heads and solemn shaking of heads. However as we are quite often finding ourselves observers of these masters of the high five and five knuckle handshake it became apparent to us that they were all selling the same range of products at the traffic lights. These brightly coloured blister packs were about the size and shape of what looked like a pack of fruit boxes (flavoured drinks), but they looked lighter by the way they were being held and brandished about. The Spanish are quite partial to a type of baked confection which looks like a tiny loaves of bread and is often sold in small packs, but this did not appear to be the right texture or shape. Not being able to understand any writing on said items did not make it any easier for us to deduce the product, so this was the nagging question which had us quite vexed.
Public Toilets, many of you are probably rightly thinking, those are two words which should not ever, ever, go together, however when one is travelling in a motorhome or caravan it becomes somewhat more problematic as there is a necessity to dispose of all ones waste via a toilet cassette. This involves periodic visitations to a prescribed dumping site within the camping grounds. This occasions what I call the 'March of the Turds', a ritual often witnessed early mornings or evenings. Enough said. This leads us to a tacit agreement we have, that our loo is only for number one's unless we are of 'dire rear' (I think that spells it out enough). So unlike you good folk at home who would probably rather gravitate to your trusted home comforts, we choose the great unknown of public loo's as the lesser of two evils.
This brings me back to the start of our story. While I could easily, easily fill several posts on our throne room adventures, I will just point out the pertinent facts. Spain in particular (so far as we have experienced) is quite random with its public toilet facilities. It is not uncommon to plonk one's self down to do your business only to notice that there is no toilet paper, in fact no toilet paper holder and quite often not even a seat (and by design - not vandalism). The last one I recall had two large roll dispensers out in the hall, where presumably you armed yourself appropriately before combat. We have on several occasions had to beat a hasty retreat to the motorhome to grab a roll of Kimberly Clark's finest and return.
Helena had just done that very act before I went to the toilet, adding that there was a note saying not to put paper tissues into the bowl, which had us both baffled. This intriguing thought entered my tiny mind as I was standing there surveying my cubicle and pondering how the natives handled this laze faire approach to personal hygiene, we never seem to notice anyone going to the toilet clutching a toilet roll, surely they didn't employ the bidet that was prevalent when we visited Dubai and Doha (yuk even with water). I had noticed sometimes that the toilet brush was placed in a container of soapy liquid (as this particular one was!), surely not! those bristles would not be pleasant. Then it hit me - like a flash of lightening - that was what our African Traffic Light Hawkers were dispensing, small sanitary packs of tissues or in Paul Keating's vernacular - ARSE WIPES.
Well we can all rest easier having cleared that one up can't we.
cheers for now.
gRANT