Postcards from the Edge

of Bangladesh

Water

Water. From a tap. In my bathroom. At a speed more than a trickle. Because Memory got the plumber to clean my pipes.

Isn’t she wonderful. For the last year I have lived with rusty and irony water in my bathroom (which I personally believe it the real reason behind my current dirty blond/mouse brown hair) that trickled out of the tap. Sometimes just drop by drop. And for the last few months even that dried up and I’ve been filling my bathroom bucket with water from my kitchen every morning and evening. Filling saucepans of water and traipsing through to my bathroom to decant.

And all along, ALL YEAR, there was nothing wrong my water supply. It’s just that the pipes were dirty. Now they are clean and I can fill my bathroom bucket in mere minutes. Not hours.

This has revolutionised my life. Ok maybe not my life, but certainly my morning routine. It’s amazing what one gets used to because you think there isn’t any other option. And it actually hasn’t been a major inconvenience either. I was in fact perfectly happy with my water arrangement.

Or… it’s amazing what I’ve come to accept without questioning. And this I’m not sure is a good thing. That said, I could not have survived Bangladesh if I went kicking and screaming through every day, fighting against everything I thought was wrong. Or broken. Or impractical. Or silly. Or stupid. Or dangerous. Or a waste of time. Or a waste of money. Or a social injustice. Or cruel. No one can survive here if you try to fight against it all. But surely I could have at least made an effort to sort my water out. No? If for nothing else, then at least for my hair. I’m not sure my hair will ever forgive me Bangladesh.

1 Comment»

  Julie wrote @

A year of clean water would have been nice, but I guess you can’t complain about 2.5 weeks’ worth which is better than no weeks or days at all. x


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