If you're just coming on the scene and like all the deets, peruse here first. See ya in a bit.
· This could get real long. Out of control long. I present this to you, in honor of brevity and bullet points (even though technically I'm not using them correctly, it should give you a feeling of brevity): The Saga, Part Deux
· Plumber dude realized he couldn’t finish his job because there wasn’t any water to flush the chemicals he’d just poured down our pipes. #classic
o Since people weren’t feeling desperate enough to call a water truck, they all decided to wait until the next day and see if water arrived from the city.
· We lived in the back of our house, avoiding the front+kitchen entirely and spending all daylight hours outside the home.
· The next day, the water didn’t come. They decided to wait another day.
· Panic set in when the pipes spit up a bit (remembering those same backstabbing pipes had been spewing EwThatsGrossWater for quite some time before that), the chemical spreading on my kitchen floor and eating through parts of the bottom of Josh’s tennis shoes.
· On day three, a wee bit of water showed up. The plumber also arrived. That is a miracle on the level of stars aligning in your favor, so we were optimistic. Plumber flushed the pipes with all our water.
o It didn’t work. Plumber asked to go downstairs to 1st floor apartment to check out the situation.
· “You can’t,” MaintenanceMan said, “The keys are partying on the beach.” (Translation: We’re lucky because the owners actually live in the US, but are fortunately in the country now. They have, however, gone to the beach for a few days.)
· At this point, I needed a guidebook on how to survive Idiocracy. I was living the sequel. We did almost consider bathing with Gatorade. But we continued using our garbage bin of water for sparse cleaning, only-the-necessary washing and bottled water to bathe the children. The apartment smelled/looked/felt #hashtag #sarcasm #awesome. Dear Oliver, this is why I hate camping.
· Again, we waited.
· The next morning, the neighbor downstairs, across the hall (also an apartment belonging to Dominicans living in the US) had a family member sent over with keys to her place. The plumber entered and tunneled a hole through her kitchen wall to the apartment below ours. Okay.
· Plumber discovered that somewhere in the middle of everything down there that a pipe was broken and had been slowly siphoning in sand—and not sending water up to the tinacos very effectively in the meantime. I have no idea how this works or the details thereof, but those were his words. Sand. You know, the stuff that those chemicals wasn’t going to eat through.
· Plumber worked for a long time over the course of two days, hopping from one apartment to the next, banging on things, responding to my neighbors sporadic yelling as our building erupted in various places and spewed out both ChemicalInfusedWater and EwThatsGrossWater into people’s homes and the hallways.
· At this point, my apartment was approximately 30% packed. All dressed up, with no place to go. While we’d been avoiding our home in the mornings, we’d been out apartment hunting. As some of you may remember, this is no easy task and is extremely time intensive. We almost signed contracts twice. We thought we’d found a place, stopped looking, but soon enough the things we were hesitant about blew up. Its security was shady at best and then one morning the owner called to tell us that all the car batteries in the parking lot had been stolen the previous night. Security concerns verified. We backed down and went to looking again.
· Plumber returned to our apartment to reattach the pipes to the kitchen sink. EasyPeasy. “You can use your sink now!” (Pause) You know, when you get water again.
· Water trickled in over the next few days. As it trickled in, the wall next to our sink began to leak. When Plumber broke open our wall to get to the pipes, he had accidently hit a clean water pipe that they never did figure out where it was coming from. Plumber patched it. When he was mixing the cement to cover the hole in the wall, I suggested, “How about we wait a day to see if the pipe patch holds?”
· You guessed it. Plumber returned, opened the hole again, fixed the pipe again and AGAIN patched the hole with cement. I said nothing, because “I told you so,” was about as eloquent as I was feeling, so I opted for silence.
· You guessed again. It continued to leak. Since we were receiving war-rationed portions of water for five days in a row after that, the leak was not an emergency and therefore was not addressed with any urgency. I do not own the apartment, and the LandLady had made it quite clear that if we addressed anything ourselves, then simply deducted the cost of the work from our rent, that she would take us to court. LandLady is a lawyer specializing in evictions. 87 of them, she says. And in a place where you get things done based on your connections, not really much else, it wasn’t wise for us to travel that road.
· It is now time for a joke and some tea -- post the jokes in the comments, please! We're in desperate need over here. We’ll continue the saga in the next post.