The Water Saga

With 13 sweaty Irish people attempting to survive 40 degree heat, sourcing water is definitely a priority. I met the landlady of our accommodation before the volunteers arrived and she agreed to organise a weekly delivery of drinking water for us. Feeling very smug at how easy it had been, I returned to the apartment a few hours before I had to go to meet the team at the airport expecting to find 50 litres of water and a dispenser.

Of course it wasn’t there. Neither was the landlady. Just a very helpful and bewildered young receptionist who responded to my frantic gestures with a cold glass of tap water and a smile. He eventually cottoned on to what I needed and offered to get me a bunch of 2 litre water bottles which I gratefully accepted. I collected the volunteers, got them home safely on our rickety mini bus and plied them with water and Diorolite in a desperate attempt to stave off dehydration, alongside airy promises that the water man would arrive tomorrow.

Of course he didn’t. Nor the next day. By the 3^rd day I had finally cornered the landlady (literally cornered, I waited 40 minutes for her to come out of her office and caught her peeping out to check if I was still there.) I discovered that she had indeed rang the water man but as he had not answered the call she had been unable to order any. I asked her to please ring again and she fobbed me off on the poor receptionist with the fabulous line “He is the man you need. Well, not man. Boy.” She guffawed loudly to herself as she walked away under the icy gaze of his hate filled stare.

He was indeed the man we needed. He helped me to ring 3 different companies and eventually find one willing to deliver straight away. The first order they delivered they forgot to give us a dispenser, creating a perfect opportunity for a team building exercise in water-pouring. The 2nd order they didn’t give us enough water jars. The 3rd time they gave us 5 litre jars instead of 20 litres and informed us that we would have to rent our dispenser for 30 rupees a day. The 4^th time they didn’t show up at all

I did some deep breathing and decided to buy a water purifier.

I went straight to the shop to buy the fanciest damn purifier I could find only to be informed that they were sold out. I arrived bright and early the next morning intending to pick it up before my meeting only to discover that the shop opens late on a Monday. I sat sweatily on the steps outside and fended off 2 tiny street kids, one of whom tried to distract me with his acrobatics while the other edged closer to my bag. Eventually the shop opened and I raced inside and pointed eagerly to the purifier I wanted. The sales assistant smiled at me, walked slowly and thoughtfully around the shop and informed me mournfully that there were none left.

I pointed frantically at the shop model and asked if I could buy that one. He paused to consider. Then he consulted a colleague. They both consulted a shop manual. I consulted my inner rage and held it at bay a little longer. Eventually they nodded in agreement and lifted my precious cargo down from the shelf. I breathed a sigh of relief and checked my watch: an hour and a half to get home, shower and make my meeting. No worries.

Then came the packing.  Oh dear Lord the packing. He very slowly took the purifier apart, lifted the Styrofoam out of the box, placed the purifier inside, then held the Styrofoam wonderingly up to the light as he attempted to remember how it fit in the box.

 Twenty minutes. That’s how long it took. Twenty minutes of peering into the box , lifting out pieces of the purifier, shaking his head, replacing the purifier and gazing perplexedly at the stryofoam again. I tried to interject with “No Styrofoam! Purifier is fine thank you, no styrofoam!” He responded with a languid “It is ok Madam, all ok. Styrofoam good to not breaking purifier.”

When he finally squashed the last lump of sodding Styrofoam into the blasted box, found his sellotape, taped it excrutiatingly slowly, searched for a scissors to cut the tape (it was in his pocket the whole time! Oh how we chuckled.) he then refused to let me take the box without a man to carry it for me. Weeping with frustration I begged and jumped for the box while he smiled benignly and beckoned several co-workers to help, all of whom widened their eyes in alarm and scurried away from the demented foreigner as fast as possible. When my white knight finally arrived (a spindly little bundle of nerves whose spine I could have snapped like a twig) I raced to the door as he staggered along behind me, his anxious little face hidden behind the box. I grabbed it before he could keel over, hefted it onto my sturdy Irish shoulders and was almost free when the security guard inquired “Bill Madam?”

I had forgotten that Indian shops require you to show your receipt at the door. I fished it out of my bag and thrust it eagerly towards the only obstacle between me and my freedom. He studied it thoughtfully, chewed his lip for a while and said “Shower gel Madam?” Initially bewildered, I remembered I had bought shower gel as well as the purifier. I attempted to explain that the inclusion of the shower gel on the receipt was clearly evidence that it had been paid for and thus negated the need to produce it for inspection. This met with a smile and “Shower gel Madam?” I shifted the weight of the box from one shoulder to the other and explained that I was in a rush, the shower gel was in the depths of my bag and I really had to go right now. At the final “Shower gel Madam?” I admitted defeat, plonked down the box and rummaged through the bag to produce the shower gel. An hour and 10 minutes after entering the shop I eventually succeeded in leaving with 20 minutes to get home, shower and make my meeting.

But of course, this is India, and what better day to have a taxi strike? I stood for 20 minutes gesticulating wildly at passing taxis until one driver took pity on me and called out “Strike Madam!” I clenched my teeth, rescheduled my meeting, got my best manual handling pose ready and staggered the 40 minutes back to the apartment in 42 degree sunshine.

Was it worth it? Hell yeah! Look at this baby! Take that dehydration!