Hypocritical Thirst

Hypocrisy is a fierce and greedy beast.

When I lived in rural South Africa I seethed with an intense disgust every time I went to Pretoria and passed the various consulate and international houses that lined some of the streets. They were magnificent houses – I assume. It was hard to tell much from the stone walls latticed with ivy purposefully woven along the front surface. Without fail there would be a small sprinkler system aimed at the roots of that ivy spraying incessantly. The water, having already saturated the roots, continued to trickle, leaving a dark patch of mud meandering into the street. Water puddled. No one seemed to notice.

 But I noticed.

Stepping past puddles of water I would rant to whoever was nearby to hear or simply in my own head, “How dare they water a stone wall? How dare they waste something the women in my village walk for hours to reach?”

But that was Pretoria and I lived in Makushoaneng, only a few hours – if worlds – away. In Makushoaneng it was normal to see women walk beyond the perimeter of the village with jerricans or buckets. Hours later they would return with receptacles sloshing lightly on their head, balanced neatly on the checha (folded cloth that keeps the bucket in place). Potable or contaminated, the state of the water depended on how far they were willing to walk. An open source nearby or further still. The pump at the center of town had been broken since before I arrived. We’d had meetings about fixing it, but when I left, two years later, the pump was still broken. 

I was obsessed with water back then. Obsessed with potable water despite the bore hole I had in my yard. Even when I returned to the land of flushing toilets and long hot showers, I found myself preoccupied with how much I used. How often I turned it on. How other people consumed it. I constantly reminded myself of the women walking for miles in search of that most basic thing…water.

And now I find myself in California. We are in the midst of the longest drought in decades (some say back to 1850). For the most part I am a bay area stereotype (sans the restricted diet), I recycle and buy local as much as possible. When I buy organic it is usually with the farm workers in mind more than myself, and my eggs are cage and hormone free, a mutually beneficial arrangement. 

And I’m an “if its yellow let it mellow” kind of woman. Once again, TMI (too much info) I know. But old American toilets use an insane amount of water and I live alone and so I don’t see a need in sending gallons to the sewer simply because I am well hydrated. 

I’m thinking about mother earth generally. I’m thinking about California specifically.

Only I don’t…think about mother earth that is. Not always. Not when it could really count. 

Last weekend I treated myself to a fancy spa day. I craved the serene space and humid air. I wanted the warm water and time with friends. Harmless enough…

Except the sheer volume of water I used boggles my mind. As soon as I walked in I was assaulted by my own shortsightedness…my own hypocrisy of lifestyle. 

I showered to get into the bath. I lounged in the bath. I walked past the wet sauna, the air so heavy inside that it looked like a cloud outside an airplane window. 

Water water everywhere. 

Outside a much needed rain fell softly on the streets of san Francisco. I emerged from the moist comfort of my spa treatment only mildly sheepish. In my head I’m fast-forwarding my thinking to March when I can return to my favorite local spa, only marginally (if at all) less water-logged.

I haven’t reconciled my hypocrisy yet. I’m sure, given a few quiet moments I can work up a reasonable explanation for my behavior and possibly some convoluted justification for it. But really, the answer is that, as with so many other hypocrisies, I took a time out. A time out from thinking and acting in the way that I swear I believe. 

Hypocrite is a heavy moniker to wear; I hope I put it down soon.