Water security is often a problem for Comoros. During my stay on Grand Comore water outages or shortages were common. Few people in Comoros have the luxury of turning on a tap and being presented with water. The fortunate and wealthy purchase water to fill cisterns or large water drums. The less fortunate beg for water from neighbors, wash in the ocean, siphon water from businesses, or generally scrape by. Grand Comore has no natural ground water. No lakes or rivers, or aqueducts. Water is imported in the dry season and collected in the rainy season.
I was told that Anjouan was different. An island of rivers and waterfalls. A waterworld. In Anjouan, I was told, water flowed free (literally, there isn't a charge). My (limited) experience hasn't supported that.
In my town, for many residents, water doesn't flow from anywhere. Not from the dry riverbed, or the unless pipes, or from the cloudless sky. It is dragged, unwillingly, from a rocky well at the edge of town. If you arrive at the blessed time. I have lived a privileged life. "Water conservation" was simply a buzzword. A favor I might do the planet to feel good about my karma. I might turn the gushing faucet off while I brushed my teeth in the name of environmentalism or global warming or, you know, one if those causes. Sorry California. Sucks to be you. Sucks even more to be an impoverished developing nation with limited resources and little infrastructure.
My life is radically different now. My hair hasn't been washed in days. I can bathe from a cup and feel grateful. That shirt can definitely go another two weeks without a cursory washing. When my water supply runs out I trek over the dried riverbed full of trash, across to the dusty edge of town, and down into the pit where sometimes water briefly resides. Dozens of women are there hauling water, washing clothes, and generally living their normal lives. For me it is a misery to drag my 20 liters of typhoid infested water home. Life shouldn't be this hard. This is how much of the world lives, but in this aspect I can't cut it. I'm waiting for a delivery of water, which I will measure cup by cup, no drop wasted, because every drop reminds me that many people in my town can't afford this luxury. They can't quit when the labor gets too hard. They'll balance their buckets and jugs on their heads and trek to the well because if they don't their families won't eat, bathe, or drink. Every drop counts.
