A Tempest in a Teapot

                     A Tempest in a Teapot     

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            We narrowly averted a minor crisis on Rancho Esperanza this week. A waterline broke, flooding the entrance road into our gringo enclave, which we fondly call Colonia Americano. This is a dirt road I am talking about so running water can do a significant amount of damage in a short while.

With residents’ vehicles plus delivery trucks, the city garbage truck and such, wading in and out, the ruts deepened, water ran faster, ruts deepened.   

Worse, what an incredible waste of water. The Rancho is private property. We are granted use of purified city well-water, delivered by gravity flow. While run-away water floods our roads here on the lowland, the poor people living up on the hills are left with empty pipes.  

To complicate the picture, and believe me, the story is twisted, the water pipes and the road are ranch property, private, not city responsibility.

So whose responsibility is it to fix the broken pipe, from which water ran like a small brook? Ah, that is the question.

The way I heard it, a delegation approached Bonnie, who manages the ranch for her mother, with the demand to “fix it”.

Bonnie’s response, “Read your contract. It is the owners’ responsibility to fix the breaks.”

Dusty contracts were retrieved and read.

While we each own the pile of bricks from which our casitas are comprised, we lease the land. With that, comes some clearly worded plus muddy-worded responsibilities. Among the clear words in our contracts, are these: We get to pay for the fix. (Among muddy-worded directives is found: We are not to run around the property naked and so forth. And so forth?

Now comes the storm. Words. But words hurt, never mind the sticks and stones. “Well, we shouldn’t have to . . .” “Well, they should . . . “ “We won’t.” There was a lot of he said, she said, they said, we said flying back and forth.

Thankfully, I wasn’t around for most of the fury. I’ve learned to sit back and wait; most storms blow over and amount to nothing. 

That’s not to say I wasn’t worried, that I didn’t feel my own stomach churn. I was on city council for seven years in Harlem. I knew a water valve cost substantial dollars. I think the emotional words flung about had their birth in fear of the cost.  

I’m not saying I was blameless. Pearl Pureheart I am not. I griped and grouched too.

Damage was done.  The Border Wall, built by our words, between the Gringo section of the Rancho and the owner section went up brick by brick. I sensed the stringing of a row of razor wire glinting in the sun.

Like I said, most of the time I hunkered down in my own back garden, coward that I am, dead-heading geraniums.

The plumber came; the men were shown where the valves were located, and the cost was declared.

The men fixed the water pipe before the sun went down. I’d bet good money a new valve was not installed. We are in Mexico. Here nothing is purchased new; everything is fixed. When presented the bill, each share was $75 pesos, on today’s exchange, about 3.75 USD. Shame on us.

I heard that Carol said, “All this upset over a few measly dollars.” And I was told that eyes were averted, faces flushed, cards were shuffled and the afternoon card game continued, though much subdued.

Fear had moved my mind (Would my share be hundreds of dollars?) and my mouth. In retrospect, it sounds like “I’m going to take my toys and go home. I don’t want to play anymore.”

The storm blew over. The wall came down. There is a party tonight, shared time with Rancho family and gringos. We will go to the party. We will share food. We will feel chagrin.

 Maybe, just maybe, we will have learned a lesson. Maybe we will seek accurate information before filling our mouths with words we will later regret, words that build walls.

Sondra Ashton

HDN: Looking out my back door

December 6, 2018

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