SOMETHING is crawling on my neck. I search for the critter with my hand, but I realise it’s just a bead of sweat. Korean winter is starting to become fuzzy in my memory. Two weeks ago I wore five layers of clothing.
I rip my suffocating duvet off my clammy body and allow my legs to drag me to my bedroom window. I pull aside the heavy off-white curtains. The clouds are too shy to come out today; the naked sky, on the contrary, hangs like a proud masterpiece. I see the leopard tree standing in the garden, its leafy canopy drooping from the bustling city of weaver nests it carries. I listen to the birds chatting animatedly to one another as they build. It’s so strange to see so many birds again.
I can see Tinkle sniffing hopefully in the grass, her tail doodling the air. She gives up, collapses on the grass, then turns over and gives her back a thorough scratch. Satisfied, she flips over once more and prepares herself for probably her fifth nap of the day. I look past her to the winding driveway, lined by towering cypress trees. Here and there their green foliage is marked with red-brown leaves which are still literally hanging on though their time’s up. These trees are almost as old as me. They always remind me of great green, slightly rusted sentries standing guard before our home.
I let go of the curtain still clutched in my hand and sigh happily. Nothing’s changed.
***
I can hear the distant voices of my parents wafting through from the kitchen, probably discussing an article they’ve read in the newspaper.
I amble down the passage to see them. My father smiles sheepishly as a way of greeting. He grips a long, red bucket in his right hand. My stomach drops, knowing what the bucket symbolises.
“No water,” he groans as he trudges off towards the bathrooms to fill the cisterns. So that’s what they were talking about.
“AGAIN,” snaps my mother, clearly dissatisfied with how my father completed his incomplete sentence.
In the space of two weeks my reasons to be thankful changed drastically: I went from being thankful for having a boiler so that the water in my pipes didn’t freeze, to being thankful for a JoJo tank so that we had water in the first place.
My father returned from his toilet duties.
“Did you phone Ugu?” I ask.
“Ja, they sent me an SMS to say the water’s been restored,” he splutters as he plods off to the bathroom again to fill the water, which has not been restored.
I had mentally prepared myself for this severe change in lifestyle before I left Korea, but I realise now that my mental preparation wasn’t enough. Five hours pass and our pipes are still dry. My mother is irritable. Cooking is halted. Washing is halted. Dirty dishes are piling in the sink. And the dishes aren’t the only dirty things in the house; I haven’t showered or brushed my teeth.
***
Nine hours pass and our pipes are still dry. And soon our JoJo will be dry too. Life is a funny thing. Well, my life is a funny thing, anyway. When the water is limited, I suddenly want to do everything that is associated with water. Like toilet runs, for example. I’m pretty sure I don’t need to visit the toilet as frequently under normal circumstances, but for some reason when the water’s been cut off, I need the toilet all the time.
I coax my bladder into waiting just a wee longer.
***
Ten hours. I’m in the kitchen when I hear it: the familiar gurgling and spluttering of the geyser. But today it sounds less like gurgling and spluttering and more like a harmony of angels’ voices. Ten hours after we receive the deceitful SMS to say the water has been restored, the water really is restored.
While the others gush over the return of the water, I bolt to the toilet.
My bladder no longer bursting, my stomach starts whining. I head to the stove and reach for the first knob.
Suddenly everything goes quiet and dark.
“Dad?” I call out.
I hear his groan from the next room. “No LIGHTS!”
I sigh. Nothing’s changed.
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