Awash in the luxury of taking water for granted

I yell at my children about their water usage. I rap on the bathroom door during their showers, shaking them out of their reverie by hollering about the gallons of water going down the drain, accompanied by my money. I threaten to close the water main.
I have set a poor example for them; even as I scold them, I am conscious of my own carelessness with water.

As a native Californian, I grew up during significant periods of drought. Childhood was marked by odd-and-even watering days, turning off the tap while brushing my teeth, taking timed showers, and even earning a Girl Scout badge for water conservation. My lawn is a thing of the past; my garden is comprised of cacti. I don’t use the dishwasher, or run a load of laundry unless the washer is full. I know how to save water, and why I should.

However, as much as I want to be a responsible steward, I want to soak in a deep hot bath even more.

I perform complex mental gymnastics to justify my water use. “I was out of my house for two days. That’s two showers I didn’t take, so I can justify two superfluous hot baths.” I secretly plan ways to get my children to shorten their own shower time, in order to free up more water use for me.

Even during times of great drought, I don’t think much about where my water comes from or how it gets to my faucets. I use it with less restraint than I ought, and feel guilty.
Ninety miles south, however, water is very much on my mind. In the rural areas outside of Ensenada, Mexico, it’s a precious commodity. Families who live up in the dusty hills surrounding the agricultural fields are generally not hooked up to the municipal water system. As water service extends to more communities, residents are offered the opportunity to connect to the system, at a cost of nearly $300 per household. In a community of migrant farmworkers who earn on the average less than $100 each week, this is often an unobtainable sum. Many communities don’t have even the option yet.
Instead, they own a few 55-gallon water barrels, fillable for a dollar each. More fortunate people may have a 300-gallon tank.

Refilling the tanks presents its own set of challenges. The water truck passes through each neighborhood a few times per week. If a family member is home, and has 20 pesos at hand, and the truck still has water to sell, it’s a lucky day. It’s not potable water, but it can be used for washing dishes and clothing, keeping the dust in one’s yard at bay, and bathing.

Bathing is perhaps a generous term. While I’m enjoying a half-hour soak in a hot bath with a book propped up on my knees, ninety miles away a child scoops a tiny dish of water from the blue water barrel and pours it over his head and arms, a quick, cold birdbath. Early morning, late night, winter or summer, it’s the same cold water, the same shivering under a thin towel afterward. It’s a coin toss whether taking the time to scrub oneself clean will take priority over getting warm and dry as fast as possible.

It isn’t easier to obtain drinking water. In isolated areas far from the highway, enterprising citizens who own cars are able to set up tiny corner stores where their neighbors can buy eggs, a quart of milk, or one of the ever-present bottles of soda. Without a car, however, it is nearly impossible to buy or refill a five-gallon jug of drinking water. People drink whatever is easiest to acquire, and so often it’s not water.

On the occasions when travel brings me to these far-flung colonias, I’m conscious of my water use. I drink every drop of water in my bottle, instead of pouring it into the plants when it gets too warm for my taste. I shower quickly and infrequently, close the tap open as I brush my teeth. I’m careful to ensure that my presence doesn’t harm more than it helps.

And then I return home. Home where the water heater doesn’t really heat the shower up fast enough for my rushed morning schedule. Home, where I take a shower to begin my day, then luxuriate in a hot bath before bed. Home, where ice and water come out of the refrigerator door with the push of a button. Home, where if the washing machine breaks and I have to go to the laundromat, I feel sorry for myself. Home, where I quickly forget the miracle that is easy access to water.

Home, where perhaps one day I will practice conservation even in the land of plenty.

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