Sin Agua June 21, 2022
For the second time in two weeks, our taps have gone dry, the toilet will not fill. I am flushed with exasperation, after just signing a lease in which the contract clearly stipulates who pays and who provides—I am the payer, El Arrendatario, and Hotel Abu is the provider, El Arrendador. The Hotel is just up the street from me, so I pay a visit to inquire about service. It does not go unnoticed that Hotel Abu has no problem with water today.
The liaison explains in Spanish that water is scarce downtown, and the entire neighborhood is affected today by the shortage. Nevertheless, his team is hard at work trying to solve my problem in prompt fashion. As a show of good faith, he offers me a bottle of water, and I indicate that I appreciate his dark sense of humor, although the comedy is lost on him.
“Cuidarla,” he says, referring to my water usage. This means, “Take care of it. Don’t waste it.” It is my new word for the day, which I should have learned a long time ago.
As I learn, the limited city water supply only flows to our building once a week, on Tuesday, and it is only then that our small cistern on the roof is filled to capacity. What we may need is a bigger cistern, I explain, but this would require an investment from the actual property owner, our neighbor Miguel Angel, the novelty-and-gift magnate, who is apparently disinclined to purchase the upgrade, lest it cut into his substantial profit in fiesta favors.
Here is where the American in me begins to show its ugly face. I wave my contract to emphasize the point that this byzantine document clearly establishes rights and responsibilities. Miguel Angel undoubtedly has an investment to protect, but I have a home that needs to be inhabitable. I point again to the satisfied upscale guests walking through the lobby of Hotel Abu, who are free to take showers and flush toilets to their hearts’ content.
“These problems take time to solve,” the liaison assures me. “Please be patient.”
“How long exactly?” I ask. I have already been waiting for 6 hours.
“Not long,” he replies, which is hardly exact.
My polite demeanor is waning. “Forgive me, but I have no confidence in your promises. I need to bathe. I would like a room for tonight at Hotel Abu. Gratis.”
This rattles the representative, who excuses himself to consult some higher power. He returns to say that I shall have flowing water in my apartment in one hour, for which I thank him and advise that I will return to Hotel Abu in exactly one hour with my luggage and towel if the agreement fails. Vanessa is astonished by my rudeness, which is so completely un-Mexican—which I so completely am.
Less than an hour later, the liaison shows up at my building with a workman carrying a thick hose, and the two ascend to the roof, where I find them surreptitiously syphoning water from another apartment’s cistern into mine. The action seems rather unethical, particularly if the other apartment is currently occupied, but, in an environment of resource scarcity and unequal distribution, we are all learning how to make do with less. And piñata-mogul Miguel Angel does not have to pay a single peso for our troubles, which, I suppose, is the entire purpose of our bloody contract.