There has been no running water in Banjar Tebesaya for five days now.
Repeated attempts to call the water authority have failed; the staff have obviously taken the phone off the hook. Consultations with neighbours in my lane reveal a consensus that something is probably broken somewhere. They sigh and shrug, go to bathe in the river and let the laundry pile up. Many Balinese haven’t had mod cons long enough to grieve when they disappear. They still have a foot in each bathroom, so to speak.
But it’s a terrible inconvenience to members of the privileged minority who have always had all the water they could consume — you and me.
We read stories about millions of people who live without access to clean water, but it doesn’t actually mean anything until our own taps run dry. You don’t realize how many times a day you turn on a tap to wipe down a counter, wash your hands, brush your teeth, rinse the veggies, wash the dishes, wash your smalls … until you can’t. To say nothing of flushing the loo or having a shower.
I’m fortunate in having guttering and two large rain water tanks, so I haven’t been completely dry. But I’ve had a chance to learn what it’s like to carry every drop of water you need, even though it’s only for a few meters. Water is heavy and messy to haul around. You have to be strategic about how you dip it out of the big container on the kitchen counter so you don’t contaminate the whole thing. You also learn to bring in all the water you’ll need for the night before it gets dark. You begin to feel lucky that you don’t have to scale a steep river bank every time you need to do this. And now the rainwater tanks are getting very low. Wayan and Nyoman are only here 5 hours a day. I am learning to cope.
Hauling a slopping bucket into the house, I am vividly reminded of a journey through Rajasthan 15 years ago. The desert women were tough and straight in their vivid saris, striding through the sand with gleaming brass water jars on their heads. It was a timeless, romantic scene. I even took a few pictures, may the Goddess forgive me, before the radiator of our old Ambassador started to hiss and we ground to a lurching halt.
A circle of women gathered around the stranded car talking among themselves, their bold silver nose rings glinting in the sun. Our driver opened the hood and addressed the eldest one authoritatively. The women looked at us and laughed rather unkindly, but they all set down their water jars. As the radiator cooled one of the women challenged me to pick up her load. It was so heavy I couldn’t even lift it off the hot sand. And they walked several kilometers twice a day to bring the precious water to their huts. These jars, too heavy for a soft foreign women, contained pathetically little water to meet the needs of their families.
Without expression, each woman tipped some of her water into the radiator. I was horrified at the value of this gift, knowing that the rupees I gave them were meaningless in the desert where the only currency was their own energy. Since then, I’ve regarded water with something like awe. As simple as breath, it is always there. When it is not there, we can’t survive.
Over 40% of the world’s population lack basic sanitation and access to clean water. One billion people drink unsafe water – contaminated with animal and human filth or chemicals. About 675 MILLION people in Asia still draw their water from polluted rivers and lakes. When small children grow ill from drinking bad water, they usually die.
There was a scandal in Ontario, Canada a year or so ago when many people fell sick and even died from a polluted civic water source. Things like that aren’t supposed to happen in the so-called developed world. But pure water is very easily polluted. Clean water sources, once fouled, are difficult and expensive to rehabilitate. In parts of Russia, access to clean water has actually declined in the past 5 years as civic authorities lose the will or ability to safeguard supplies. Conditions in some North American cities are deteriorating.
The water situation probably adds an extra hour to my day, because I can still draw from the rain water tanks. But in many countries, hauling water long distances to meet the washing, cleaning, cooking and bathing needs of a family is a full-time job. There is a special relationship between women and water. In most cultures, women and girls carry it. Pregnant women, women with babies and toddlers, elderly women, sick women. In developing countries, little girls are routinely pulled out of school to haul water for the family. Because nothing is more important to survival.
Nothing is more important — not status, power, money, possessions, politics, religion or technology. The elemental simplicity of clean water to drink, air to breathe and fuel to cook our food is taken for granted… until it disappears.
And when it does, we’re drop-kicked back into a time where we have to chop wood and carry water to survive, if only for a week. These may be useful skills, I remind myself as I wake to another morning of buckets and dry taps. But I’ll be a lot more aware of the blessings of running water when I have it again.
