Promises

The photo is one of many I am taking as the sun rises over the breakwater. I will post soon on Malta Arts Festival and the arches that are taking shape in my flat. In the meantime, I have to prepare my lessons for next week!

Water on the block

Water is a precious commodity in Malta yet we are depleting the aquifer as though it is fed from a bottomless tank in the sky.

I guesstimate that there are 142 households in my large block of flats and each of us has at least two tanks on the roof, one for the kitchen and one for the bathroom. The tanks are replenished regularly and mysteriously by the government who then send irregular bills for large amounts of money. Everybody complains.

When I first arrived in Malta, I struggled to find my way in a new country with a very different culture. My neighbour was very helpful in helping me to switch on my water and he told me which of the many tanks on the roof were mine. I wrote it down on a bit of paper and forgot about it.

More recently I have begun to feel sufficiently at home to start wondering about things and explore beyond the feeble water pressure in the shower. I discovered a few things.

The first revelation came when I was investigating strange dragging sounds on my roof. It was the man from Melita who was busily dropping more cables down the front of the block to connect a new household on a lower floor to one of the many satellite dishes that mushroom around the water tanks. I learnt from him that if I wanted to get rid of any of the cables or disks or antennae, I should ring the office. His job was just to connect people, not make sense of the rivers of cables that snake all over the roof parapets.

He got on with his job. That was how I made my first discovery. His job appeared to be associated with the mysterious small box I had noticed near to my washroom on the roof. He had to connect the cable that he had dropped down the front of the flats to this box which was at the back. He did this by running the cable along the rusty iron beams that support four bathroom water tanks including mine.

My interest was aroused. I worked out which tank was mine by tracing the pipe down the service well to the bathroom wall on my level. Discovery number one, my tank was missing a lid. A small portion of fibre glass hung on one of the lid ties but where the rest of it had gone was impossible to fathom.

Now I had a specific problem to address. Where do I find water tank lids in Valletta and how do I get them onto my roof and then onto my tank? So I asked my hairdresser. He sent me to an ironmonger on the Marsamxetto side of Valletta.

"What size is it?" asked the ironmonger, "I only have big ones."

He advised me to go and measure the tank across the diameter of the top. This was a good opportunity to get to know about my water tanks, to become familiar with the dimensions of the problem.

I returned to the roof, calling into my flat on the way to pick up my steel measuring tape and incidentally discovering the scrappy bit of paper on which I had noted the whereabouts of my tanks according to my neighbour. It seems I have three tanks, one for the bathroom and two for the kitchen. At least they all look the same size.

Gingerly I climb on a table that was left on the roof when I arrived. It is the same table that caused the original dragging sounds that led me to investigate the Melita man. Now I am armed with measurements and I return to the ironmonger.

"That's a 500 litre tank," says he, "I don't have any. Maybe next week but if you can find someone else..."

Over the next few weeks, whenever I remember, I call into any ironmonger I happen to be passing and ask them about lids for 500 litre water tanks. No-one has one. The closest I get is when a woman says "Call back this afternoon when my husband will be here."

In the meantime, I have begun to investigate the other two tanks. I discover that I have two tanks for the kitchen because the large family that lived here before me did a lot of washing. I also realise with horror that I am leaking and have been for a long time judging by the green slime sitting in the corner of the lift shaft next to my tanks.

I scurry to my neighbour. She sends me to one of the ironmongers. He lives in my block. He gives me the phone number of a plumber. I phone the plumber and he says he will come round the next day, Saturday.

I am thrilled that I seem to be solving this problem so easily. I wait at home at the appointed time. When he doesn't turn up, I phone his number. His wife tells me he came but he couldn't find my door. A Maltese friend tells me the World Cup is on. I try and reframe it in a positive light but I can't block out my obsession with all the water I have wasted through evaporation from a lidless tank and dripping from a leaky one.

On Monday the plumber comes right on the allotted time. We go onto the roof to investigate. He is happy to explain to me what he is doing so that I can get to understand my water system. The leak is solved with worrying alacrity by adjusting the stop cock inside the tank. The lid will have to wait until tomorrow.

The next day, we discover that the leak is still leaking and it is from a hairline crack at the bottom of the tank. We ponder this issue as the lid is put on the bathroom tank.

"I don't really need two tanks for the kitchen."

He looks at me to make sure I mean what I'm saying. Then he beams as he works out how to get rid of the leaking tank and give me one good kitchen tank. I leave him to get on with the heavy plumbing stuff. I return when he is cutting up the old tank to take it away. I feel almost euphoric at the small extra bit of sky I can now see where the old tank used to be. The smallish fee seems very reasonable to have all my plumbing problems solved.

The next day I pop up on the roof to bask in the glory of my drip-free tanks. The slimy area is still damp and there is a glisten of water on the pipe above the new stop handle he has put in. I almost cry with disappointment. I phone. He will come tomorrow around midday. He comes a few hours earlier. In no time he has whipped out the offending bit of pipe and attached the stop handle at a different angle. And this time it seems to be fixed even though the pipe juts out against the Valletta skyline where the old tank used to sit.

I now have an urge to run up onto the roof and check! The photo is of the bouganvillea at the old Birkirkara train station.