Paying the Water Bill

When we first moved to Isla Taboga, we were limited to 100 gallons per day for drinking, washing and cooking. The water came from a well up the mountain that was pumped into a huge tank. Every morning, Boris, whom we call “Water Boris” to differentiate him from the other Boris’ on the island (Taxi Boris, Little Boris, White Truck Boris),  would drive up the hill and open the valve that allowed the water to flow out of the tank and run down into the pueblo, filling the individual tanks that service each home.

Our 100 gallon tanks. Cleaner inside than out! Promise!

Occasionally Water Boris would oversleep. Or have a hangover. Or just forget. And then we would be on uber conservation mode until some of the women in the pueblo got on his case and chased his butt up the hill.

For the past two years,  however, a state of the art, Israeli built desalinization plant has provided unlimited water to the island so our tanks are always full (with the occasional malfunction). We continue to be mindful and conservative because having water is a luxury that only those who don’t have – or haven’t had – an unlimited supply can appreciate.

Giant desalinization plant provides water to Isla Taboga.

An impressive accomplishment for our tiny island!

Science lesson: Desalinization is a reverse osmosis process. Salt water is forced, at high pressure, through a membrane that will not let the salt molecules pass through. It also filters out the tiniest of potentially harmful particles. Only fresh water molecules are small enough to make it through. Many boats – including ours in Seattle – have similar systems to render sea water drinkable.

My husband, a systems expert / geek, has a TDS (Total Dissolved Solids) meter that measures water’s suitability for drinking. The water provided by the desalinization plant measures solidly in the range of good drinking water.

TDS Meter

Pump and pressure system designed by my brilliant husband.

This year we learned that the water company is going to begin charging for the service and that every household must sign up for a contract and begin paying a monthly fee for the water utility.

Unlike where we come from, that information did not come in the mail with an account number and the option to pay the bill online. No. Not here. On Isla Taboga, we learn these things via word of mouth. Once we heard that we had to do this, we began asking around as to how.

“Doña Irene,” explained José, our caretaker, “You wait until the lady from the water company is on the island and then you go to the Casa Dimás and she will take care of it for you.”

“When is she here?” I asked logically. “No se (I don’t know),” came the response, also logical as I am beginning to learn more about life in certain Latin American countries.

Several days later, a man from the water company came to our gate and handed out bills to our neighbors. I called José. “A guy from the water company is here. Does that mean the lady is here, too?”

“¡Si! ¡Si!” (Yup.)

We gathered what we needed: proof of residence, copies of our passports, our Panamanian ID cards and money – cash – and began the journey to the Casa Dimás.

The journey begins!

“Go down to the Chu and turn left,” we were told.

There’s the Chu – straight ahead on the right.

“Walk up the hill past the empty lot. Go past the bright green house where we used to pay the electric bill, and then a slight jog to the left and there it is.”

The Casa Dimas!

Outside the house, under that triangular roofed structure to the left, were four or five old men in hammocks who told us that the water lady had just gone to the doctor but would be back in a half hour. We waited for forty five minutes.

Because this was someone’s home, I refrained from taking photos, but let me try to describe to you the room we were in.

Just inside the door we were in a partially enclosed porch or outer room. Straight ahead was a hallway leading to the rear of the house. A little to the left and through an open doorway was the kitchen, dishes piled in the dish drain, counters full to bursting with tools of the kitchen trade and a bowl of fruit on the plastic, floral tablecloth covering the dining table.

Inside the porch, were several chairs whose grimy cushions I could not bring myself to sit on. Rusty, dusty tools that had not been touched in a very long time were haphazardly placed on broken shelves and the floor, intermingled with yellowed books tossed and left where they had last been used.

A makeshift altar to the Virgin occupied a table just to the left of the kitchen door. Among the devotional objects were several broken statues, rosary beads glued onto the statues and the table, an empty bottle of Seco (Panama’s national liquor), fake yellow roses and someone’s cell phone attached to a plug dangling from a wire that disappeared up through some access in the ceiling.

Occupying the left side of the room was a large, round table covered in papers and miscellaneous paraphernalia. A broken multi-paned window leaned up against the wall behind the table on the left side of the room next to something covered in a dingy, dusty cloth. And beyond that an open cement stairway leading to the second level of the home.

Finally, parched and tired of waiting, we headed down to the pueblo for a cold drink, and returned an hour later. Now, a line of people waiting to pay their bills, stretched down the road. We waited our turn and then, at last, entered the room. Several people were sitting inside, on those chairs that I, in all my northern gringasity had snubbed.

We sat down at the round table, piled with forms, sheets of carbon paper (remember that?), thick, hand-written record books and a couple of cookie tins that contained a stapler, a stamp and money.

We explained what we were there for and the lady, a rotund, business-like but friendly woman with a quick smile began the process of finding our names in the big book. Page by page of handwritten names were painstakingly gone through. It would have been excruciating had it not been so fascinating. Or if I had taken time off from work or had another appointment to get to. But I didn’t. This was my day’s goal so I just sat back and enjoyed the ride.

People who lived in the house traipsed up and down the cement stairs, a backdrop of action to watch, while we waited. At last she said, “No. No tengo sus nombres (I don’t have your names).” So we had to show our proof of ownership, our identification and then she added our names to the book next to our neighbors’ names and commenced the process of writing out the contracts – by hand – in triplicate – with carbon papers between copies. Lucky for us, José happened by and helped a bit with translation.

At last, it was done. Everything stamped – they love their stamps down here! Bam! Bam! Bam! Then initials next to each stamp.There was laughter and it was all very friendly. Each contract cost $20 (we have two condos so two contracts) Then we paid for six months of last year ($17.25) and for the entirety of this year ($34.50). Times two. Final bill for two houses, for a year and a half of water: $143.50…..

I cannot express the sense of accomplishment I felt when we left. Our pockets were lighter but not too much. And we knew that until we return next year we are paid up.

The next week, Jose said. “Sorry – we didn’t get water today. Please conserve.”

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