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Al-Ahram Weekly 18 - 24 November 1999 Issue No. 456 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 18 - 24 November 1999 Issue No. 456
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Special Profile Travel Living Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Clear water
By Fayza Hassan
I don't believe that young children have a clear perception of the way they look, even if they have ample opportunity to see themselves in the mirror. The image is slowly created as they grow up, through the opinions of others and by comparison. Although I vaguely suspected that I was a big child, the reality of my chubbiness did not hit me fully -- until Ophelia danced into my life. Hamda lives in a busy street near the Jewish Cemetery in Bassatin. Her dream is to move almost anywhere else. "It's a terrible place," she often says gloomily. "All the vices of humankind are concentrated in my neighbourhood. We have thieves and drug peddlers, drug addicts and thugs. How can I bring my children up properly in such a place?" She has neither electricity nor water in her one-bedroom apartment. Recently, however, a tap was installed not too far from her house, sparing her the long daily trip to the public fountain of Saqr Qureish, where she used to fill several plastic bottles with clean drinking water. "They used to be so heavy, on the way back," she sighs, remembering their weight on her head. "Now, all I have to do is wake up early enough to get to the tap before the morning crowd."
The water truck passes regularly in Hamda's street and the inhabitants can buy their supply of water to the tune of LE20 a truck-load, but Hamda, who shares the purchase with the others, does not drink the bought water. "One never knows what swims in it," she told me vaguely on a couple of occasions, adding that several of her neighbours are not as fussy as her. I imagined that she was put off by the idea that the tank was rusty and commented that a bit of iron in her water would not hurt her. It wasn't that at all, Hamda protested; she might be fastidious, but not to the point of being scared off by a few rusty scraps swimming in her glass. We usually left it at that, although I knew that she really would have loved to interrupt her chores and tell me what was putting her off.
The other morning she was in a particularly joyous and chatty mood, probably brought on by the new proximity of her source of water. She decided to treat me to the whole story of why she and her family only used the truck's water for washing and house cleaning. "It is Abul-Enein, the man who owns the truck," she told me confidentially. "I am disgusted by his antics." Looking surreptitiously behind her to make sure that my daughter was not around the corner, she whispered: "He is a scoundrel."
Apparently, every evening, when he has finished his rounds, Abul-Enein parks the water truck in a secluded corner of the cemetery, dries the tank thoroughly and spreads a couple of blankets and pillows inside. He then goes out to buy food and drinks and comes back with his acquisitions and a lady friend. "They eat and drink and make merry all night long," said Hamda, giggling mischievously. She knew better than to be more explicit, though.
"The woman leaves early in the morning," she continued, "and Abul-Enein carries on with his normal duties, cleaning the tank and filling it at the tap." Hamda must have noticed that I did not believe her, because she raised her voice slightly. "Do you want to know how I know about this delinquent's antics?" I did, but did not want to encourage too much intimacy, so I simply shrugged.
"One day, the trap door of the tank slammed shut on Abul-Enein and his companion, but they were fast asleep and did not notice," she continued eagerly, as if I had told her to proceed. "The woman almost suffocated in the tank; it must have felt like being shut tight in a box, and she fainted. When Abul-Enein woke up, he thought that she had actually croaked, and was terrified. He feared that the police would arrest him and charge him with murder. On the other hand, he could not stay in hiding much longer. There was almost no air for him to breathe. It was past noon, just before the Friday prayers, when he came out of the tank, screaming for help. And a good thing he did too. They caught the woman just in time: she had to be rushed to intensive care. The whole street was there -- even the men, who had been on their way to the mosque -- to watch the ambulance carry her away. Everyone made fun of him afterwards, and a young mechanic who works nearby composed a rude song about him, that we sing as soon as we see his truck. Abul-Enein tried to tell us that he had found the woman sleeping in the truck, that he had never laid eyes on her before, but no one believes him.
We all know now what he is up to, especially since Umm Ahmed's son saw him fold the blankets carefully and stash them away under his seat, right after the ambulance had driven away with the woman. From that day on, I began to fill our bottles at Saqr Qureish."
