Thursday morning I had barely dug into the newspaper and the lead story on the current water crisis in Jeddah when my driver buzzed me with the foreboding news that we were low on water ourselves. The water tank was kissing empty. With the weekend starting and my daughter flying in from Dubai that evening and with news of the water shortage throughout the city in the back of my mind, I decided to take matters upon myself and drive down with my driver to the water distribution depot in hopes of securing a water tanker before long.
Wishful thinking! If any of you readers has not experienced some time at this bureaucratic zoo, I suggest a visit. It is worth the experience of a lifetime, and mind you, I did not state it would be a pleasant one. Located at Macarona Road just south of Tahliya Street, the place was hard to miss with so many cars mulling about trying to gain entry into the compound housing the offices of this water depot.
It was just after noon prayers when I finally trudged in a section supposedly reserved for citizens to get water coupons. In a room no larger than 8x14 meters, there must have been over 250 people tightly crammed in several queues that had no meaning to a first timer like me. And more people were brushing past me by the minute and grabbing spots in the different queues while I stood there taking in this surreal atmosphere.
After a few dumb questions, I managed to determine which line was designated for those wanting the largest size tanker, and I quickly settled in. Mind you, there was enough pushing and shoving from all directions, and a few raised voices and lost tempers. But all in all considering most if not all of those standing in line were observing the Ramadan fasting, it was a miracle that there were no fistfights or more.
The line moved slowly, and as there were probably over a hundred people ahead of me, a sense of anxiety came over me. At this pace, we would have to break our fast in this room later that evening, I surmised. And what made matters worse was witnessing a few who had come in with the “wasta factor” and were served quickly ahead of us. An elderly gentleman, sensing my apprehensive state, patted me gently on my arm and told me not to worry. He had been coming to the depot weekly, and while the queue looked exceedingly long, it would move.
When you are standing in a long queue that takes two or more hours to eventually get you to your destination, you get to meet some of those around you. Samir, right behind me in line, was fuming. “Look at this. Can you just believe it? The whole city is drying up, and there is absolutely no action from the authorities. And in Ramadan! But I can assure you of one thing. Neither the minister of water and electricity nor his underlings suffer water shortages. Nor will you see anyone of them standing in this queue. On that I will stake my life.”
Abdou, another veteran at the water depot, offered his take on the shortage. “This is all made up. They are playing a numbers game with us. We have enough water, but it is not being piped in to the people. Why else can we so freely get water tankers and in such huge numbers. It is because the ministry wants to make a profit at our expense. Piped in water is much cheaper. Here you pay eight to ten times as much for the quantity of water in these tankers. And there are a reported six thousand or more tankers working daily.”
Yousuf, young and brash, and with a look of mounting impatience vented, “Look, we can send a billion and a half dollars in a day or two to help re-structure a neighboring country, or send an astronaut to space, but we cannot guarantee ourselves running water. And this crisis is not getting any better. What a pity. Third World countries fare much better.”
Mohsen piped in. “Third World! Nonsense, we are probably the fifth or sixth world, brother. You know what infuriates me. All the ministers sit in at the weekly Council of Ministers meetings, and what happens? Are there any proactive measures offered by these ministers to alleviate the sufferings of the people? Or are they too happy to rote out numbers and statistics, or worse yet, blame us for all the problems. I would really love to see the honorable minister take his turn in this line, and see for himself what we are subjected to.”
“Fat chance, my friend”, volunteered Ibrahim, an airline technician, taking time off duty to ensure some water for his family. “They are closeted behind giant walls, cloistered in their palatial mansions. Such issues never touch them. That is why I suspect things will never change. They don’t feel your pain or mine. There is far too much corruption in the public services sector.”
There were numerous other comments, but limited as I am in column space, I cannot include them all. But in remark after remark, I cannot honestly recall one kind word reserved for those managing our water resources.
After two hours or so, it was finally my turn at the window. A clerk handed me a coupon with some numbers scribbled on it, and told me to seek out the driver of the water tanker. That experience in itself would constitute another column. After another 45 minutes of missing drivers or tankers, duplicate coupons, more lost tempers, and nerves on edge, we finally located the driver on the third replacement coupon, and made our way home. As the water started flowing into our tank at home, I reflected back on some of the people I had encountered and the words they had to say. And you know what? I sympathize with all of them. After all, I’ve been there.
