Looking out my Backdoor: What you gonna do when your well runs dry?

Three weeks and counting. Two deep wells supply the municipality of Etzatlan with water. One of the city well pumps quit working. Died the good death after a life of service to his community.

Down on the lower edge of town, we in my neighborhood experienced an extreme decrease in water pressure. We had no idea or thought of concern to what was occurring up on the hillsides. A week passed before we were aware of a problem. Until our own water ran out.

I took immediate measures to conserve. Short showers every other day. Laundry piles grew high in the bodega. Flowers gasped with thirst. My green grass faded to brown. I flushed only when necessary. I stacked dishes in the sink for the once-a-day wash. My insular world is coated with dust. But I have lived with less water.

Here’s the background story. Etzatlan snuggles tightly in the foothills against a mountain. Water from the two city wells is pumped up the mountain to a huge tank. From there water flows by gravity to the maze of water pipes and to the tinacos or storage reservoirs on every business and household roof.

I am fortunate. There is enough water coming down the hill in the evening while I sleep to replenish my tinaco. I’ve not gone dry one single day. Yes, flowers will wilt and some will die. Most will recover. Laundry will eventually dance on the clothesline. Living with less water is inconvenient for me, no more than that.

Water runs downhill. We at the bottom might have little water but generally enough to keep the tinacos full if nothing else. Those in the foothills have no water whatsoever. None. Zip. Zilch. Nada.

I am fortunate. I repeat, I am fortunate. What I did not know until a few days ago, is that entire sections of town have no water. Miguel, who works on the ranch for Josue, is one without water to his home. Miguel has five children. I quit my whining in an instant when I heard. So, a few flowers die, so what.

The city hired an independent business to fix the pump. When the pump was determined to be unsalvageable, a new pump was ordered from Monterey. By this time we were two weeks into the water shortage. In installing the new pump, somebody with fumble fingers, imagine that, dropped the pump into the well, Whoops! Days pass as attempts are made to retrieve pump. Days.

The “fixer” company ordered a crane in from Guadalajara, which also failed to reach the drowned pump, now in permanent residence in the bottom of the well. Did you notice the water tastes metallic? More days slide by.

The schools have issued a request for teachers to go slack on the uniform requirements for students. Many families are unable to launder uniforms. Let the children wear whatever is clean and available. It is these little details that let me know how fortunate I actually am.

How do people in town get water? Some walk to a public faucet and fill buckets they lug home. Neighbors put containers into a pickup truck and drive to the water plant to get enough water from the public spigot to get along another day. I quit whining immediately on hearing these stories.

Etzatlan is a small city. We do not have unlimited funds, no spare half a million pesos or more lying in the coffers to order another pump when the city already paid for the first one, which city workers did not drop. I’m telling it like I heard it.

Going into the fourth week, the outcome between the city and the “fixer” company is uncertain. The president of town, an office similar to a mayor, is an astute rancher. Citizens with no water are predictably angry. If I were a gambler, I’d bet the city will scrape together funds to buy a new pump and it will be installed on arrival, even if it takes all night.

News Flash: At 10:00 last night the mayor announced that the city purchased a new pump and it is installed. By tomorrow, everybody should be back on full water service. Who paid? The city.

Listen to the rattle of sinks full of dishes. Every washing machine in town is swishing school uniforms, every clothes line full. In my own yard, hear the small gulps of gratitude as flowers drink heartily.

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Sondra Ashton grew up in Harlem but spent most of her adult life out of state. She returned to see the Hi-Line with a perspective of delight. After several years back in Harlem, Ashton is seeking new experiences in Etzatlan, Mexico. Once a Montanan, always. Read Ashton’s essays and other work at montanatumbleweed.blogspot.com. Email [email protected].