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I think that anyone living in an area not going through water restrictions needs to read this, and take note of what I am saying, because I am convinced that many people in this country are unaware of just how dire the drought is for some of us, or labour under some belief that it’s not their problem..
I currently live in a lower income area in KwaZulu-Natal, and because it is also a black area, we are experiencing the true drought while the mostly-white areas around us, seem to not have been hit by as bad a drought for some reason.
No worries, this always happens. Whenever the worst case scenario happens here, it seems that the mostly white areas are the least affected. Followed by the mostly-Indian and mostly-coloured areas. We are, by now, accustomed to nature’s ability to ensure that it just misses the areas mostly populated by white people, while ensuring that black areas are always a little worse off, due to nature’s possession of a keen sense of discernment.
Anyway, I digress, because the contents of this piece are really not about the issue of race even though there is that element present in delivery of services.
They are about my very real experiences living through a debilitating drought for the past two years in northern KZN.
When I arrived back here, I was thrown into the deep end, and went from having a shower twice daily, washing by washing machine whenever I needed and drinking water at all times of the day, to only having water at approximately a quarter of the pressure, for approximately four hours in a day.
Being in a household with more than five people at the time, this meant that there were days where a full bath was impossible – and by full bath, I mean water up to your ankles in a bath, with no option of a shower because the water pressure was just too measured to even .
I got used to bathing in a bucket with luke warm water. We became accustomed to living out of 5 litre water bottles. We got used to flushing the toilet only when necessary; filling up the cistern with bath water, washing water or dirty water from the bath that became a water storage facility to enable us to have water for emergencies during the day.
Sometimes, the effort became too much, and the water too little, so we’d go to sleep, sweaty and uncomfortable though we were, without bothering with the hassle, because after a long, hot KZN December day, the last thing you have the energy for is to haul water, put it in the pot, boil it, get some cold water, carry it from the kitchen to the bathroom, and wipe yourself down in the bath so you can go to sleep.
Eventually, we were fortunate enough to get a water tank, and the situation was alleviated for some blessed months. Thanks to a water pump, we were able to ensure that we had water available for our needs. We could shower again. I could go back to regularly washing my hair. We could have drinking water as and when we needed.
Having learnt about the value of each drop from the near eighteen months prior to it being installed, we had learnt how not to be greedy and wasteful. With fewer people now residing in the house, we were able to go back to two showers a day, but we were cognisant of time spent in the shower. We’ve learnt about using a little water to lather soap all over ourselves before even turning the shower on, so that we were literally soaping off once the shower is running. Where before I would use three or four fresh sink-fulls of hot and cold water to wash dishes, I learnt to make a little go a long way. We stuck to flushing only when unavoidable, solely for the big jobs. We learnt to appreciate every drop, and through living this experience, I was under the impression that those I relayed the horrible experiences of life without proper running water to would understand and adjust their own behaviours because the entire country is under threat of water restrictions.
I was wrong.
When I went to Johannesburg during the winter, I understood the extent of my own privilege prior to my being in a severe drought environment. I had been unaware of just how much I wasted; and I saw the exact same behaviour patterns in others when I went back.
Having gotten a bad flu, I was assured that I should flush the toilet after every nose-blow as it is disgusting to come into the toilet and see toilet paper in the bowl.
I used to think the same thing until the cistern ran dry.
We were assured that we must flush after urinating because the person we were with had no issue paying for water. No matter how much I stressed the severity of the water situation and thus reasons for allowing discomfort in an effort to save water, I realised that there was an air of “It’s not my problem; as long as I have running water” mixed with, “Someone will do something so I don’t need to worry”.
Let me just stress, it’s not ideal, it’s not sexy, and I have a near phobia of seeing someone else’s toilet paper in the loo I am about to use; but I have learnt to suck it up because I have experienced days where the water levels are such that we have no choice but to not flush for the better part of the day. And those are the days we’re lucky. Other times, all that helps is the water we store in water containers.
At 11 litres per flush, it is worth sucking up, because my mind now sees water as a precious commodity that I’d rather be uncomfortable and have available to me, rather than not. I’d rather flush when necessary, which for the average person is once or twice a day, and use the rest of those precious litres for cooking, handwashing clothes, or washing dishes, mopping the floor, or just to have enough drinking water.
Hearing South Africans talk about the drought, it hits me that that is the problem for many South Africans when it comes to the water crisis. Like me, before it was my reality, it was something that could happen – but wouldn’t because it was inconvenient for me.
I never imagined that I could bath from a bucket off for two days before I could have a proper shower. The drought has taught me different. And the rest of South Africa is not immune to the same fate.
After hopeful projections that the drought would be bad only for eighteen months, it has been over twenty-four. The dams, rivers and streams from where we get water are dry, with no rain projected for at least another year; let alone enough to get us out of this dire circumstance we are in.
Even the water tank is now insufficient because the reservoirs have run dry.
We’ve had to go back to ankle-deep baths; some days there is enough for a shower.
Many of you reading this hold the title’s assertion: the water crisis in KZN is not your problem because you still have options.
One day very soon, you’ll be where I am and realise that it was always our issue.
