Water Water Everywhere...Or Not

In Khorixas, the donkeys bathe in dust. And these days, I do, too.

That’s because on Sunday, a water pipe burst near the school. It flooded the yard in front of the hostels, the road in front of the gate, and the makeshift soccer field beside our house. There was water everywhere.

For about three hours.

And after that, there was no water at all.

I used to live in a place where switches on walls meant lights and taps in bathrooms meant running water. The electricity never went out and never, in my life, was the water turned off. But since moving to Namibia, all that has changed. Here, taps mostly serve as a reminder of what I think I have—but more often than not—actually don’t.

A year ago this four days without water thing would have alarmed me. Frustrated me. Annoyed me. But today, as I sit here with the taps open, waiting patiently for the possibility of the sweet sound of water, it doesn’t. (I count this change among my chief accomplishments over the last 18 months.)

Maybe it doesn’t bother me because the last time this happened, the entire town of Khorixas was without water. None in the shops. None in the houses. And perhaps most alarming, none in the hospital.

In the dead of summer.

In the middle of the desert.

For five days.

It goes without saying that I’ve grown at least somehow accustomed to this (and definitely survived worse than these past few days). I’ve learned to live life with mostly-full jerry cans on hand and water stored in buckets and bottles. And while it makes life easier, it’s not really a long-term solution.

So while I wait for the pipe to be fixed—a project workers seem in no hurry to complete, since learners are on holiday and our hostel is mostly empty—I’ve found my own way of managing: schlepping empty bottles to work in the morning, bringing full ones home at night, and bathing in dust like the donkeys, while I wait patiently for the sweet sound of water once again.