One day, the taps simply ran dry. No water. The only way to truly understand
what that means is to live through it, to experience it, to suffer through it.
Only then do you realize that all the other problems about which you complain
are nothing in comparison, that your squatter neighbors live some version of
this tragedy every day of their lives. And then you recognize how precarious
human existence truly is on this earth.
We learned later - the hard way, of course - that Senegal's Presqu'Ile of Dakar
depends almost entirely for its water supply from a reservoir just south of the
Senegal river, carried through a pressurized conduit to the capital.
Precarious, but Manhattan has a similar relationship with the Adirondack
Mountains, actually. And a critical Y-fitting in the conduit had been damaged,
with no replacement piece available. Suddenly, we were dry. The news got worse
before it got better: the repair would take nearly two weeks.
Rich expats made out well enough: bottled water was for sale (and a government
edict put an end to the inevitable price gouging, yet another reason to think
the human race is scum), and villages outside of Dakar had water. Also, some
neighborhoods of Dakar had older wells and cisterns left behind from the
colonial period. Friends shared with friends; elsewhere, women and children
with buckets and pails formed lines wherever it was possible to fill even a few
of them.
Still we suffered. And we learned. Turns out, with a washcloth and some
diligence, you can wash your entire body with less than a liter. You can shave
with 8 fluid ounces. And you don't have to wash your clothing quite as
frequently as you might think, especially if everyone else is in the same
situation as you.
The one area where we really suffered though was the flush toilets, which grew
foul quickly when there was no water to flush them. I was ready to start using
seawater, when by the grace of God we had a deluge of a rain shower. I filled
every single bucket, pan, bowl, and barrel I could find, put the kids' plastic
swimming pool under the rain gutter, left the dirty dishes from the kitchen
outside for a good soaking. Momentarily we were saved. Even more grateful were
the neighborhoods of Yoff and Parcelles Assainies, where they'd resorted to
digging shallow wells by the beach. Thinking about it, if we'd been living with
a pit latrine like I did for years in the Nicaraguan countryside, we'd have
been better off.
I learned how little water you need to survive, and how many reasons besides
drinking we need access to water. I also noticed for once just what my
neighbors go through on an almost daily basis. I saw in some places where
crisis and need brought people together, and brought out the generosity in
people. I also saw what I'd expected from the human race:
When the water finally came back and repairs were finished: neighbors on all
sides went back to wasting it. What was the first thing they did? Wash their
now dusty cars.
