Splish Splash

I am taking a bath… tadumdumdum…

“Don’t you want to put more water in than that?” Mum says, when she hears me running a bath. “Oh and put some of that stuff in.” She means the bath oils. I love baths. As a kid we never had a tub, so baths were reserved for sleepovers at my grandparents. My favourite bath toys were the red plastic wale, and my grandmother’s bathchair. It had this pattern of tiny holes. I would soap it up until all the holes were closed. Then using the shower head, I would wash it all out again. This was my incredible elaborate way of distributing bath gel.

Once in, it was a godawful challenge to get me out. I was not receptive to any arguments, like “the water is getting cold”, “you will shrivel up like a raisin” or the worst one “it is bed time now”. It became even harder after I had discovered the theory of evolution. I now spent endless bath times “evolving”. Into a fish, or a mermaid, I am not sure what I had in mind exactly. As an adult I had some health issues (this is not a euphemism for cancer, but stuff I dealt with before that). I ended up seeing an orthomolecular specialist in Rotterdam. Besides monthly perfusions full of vitamins and minerals that made me feel like super woman -seriously if I am ever in a position to afford it I am inviting him to my home- he also recommended baths with scoops of Epsom salt. FOR A MINIMUM OF THREE HOURS. Music to my ears. And if you are an athlete or suffering from crappy menstrual cramps, I highly recommend it.

This yearning for regular long soaks makes it all the more puzzling why I have spent the majority of my time in Transylvania without plumbing. I even lived in a house where there was no water at all. The old well had run dry. The one freshly dug did not generate enough water to justify the investment of pumps, waterlines, taps and all the other bits and bops involved in a proper plumbing job. I had quick showers at the neighbours and did my laundry at the other neighbours. Initially my plan during the planned renovation, was a weekly trip to the spa. I was in walking distance of Haller, a small estate turned into a pretty hotel. The spa was open to everyone, not just hotel guests, and it was affordable. It was also where the massage therapist with the golden hands worked. Unfortunately, the pandemic messed up those plans.

All jokes aside, the increasing water shortage in Romania is no laughing matter. In theory, the Romanian government is obligated to provide water for all its citizens. But if like mine, your house is located on the edge of a village, on a wobbly dirt road across from the cemetery, good luck. For two and a half years I went to the mayor every other Friday to beg him to get water to my house. To no avail.

Drinking water I took from a well, that was about a kilometre’s walk away.

I then spent a year and a half occupying a small holiday cottage in Campu Cetatii. Probably the loveliest place I ever lived. Here there was indoor plumbing (except for a few weeks in winter when it all freezes shut), but I had a tiny electric boiler. It provided just enough water for a shower to wash my hair. Drinking water I took from a well, that was about a kilometre’s walk away.

Moving to Valea Zalanului I did something stupid. I again went for a house without plumbing. And where the well had been filed up with rocks and earth to prevent cows from falling in. There is a stream right next to the house and a giant well up the hills, where both my neighbours get their water from. I wanted to dig a well, and according to the two copper wires I am in luck. There is water. But, for how long? Drought is a nationwide crisis in Romania. And when one of my neighbours in Valea Zalanului told me that the wells of three other villagers ran dry this year, I started to worry.

I have not got around to digging a well, let alone get some plumbing done or build a bathroom. Right now, I don’t even know if I will. In summer I do my dishes and bathe in the stream. When it gets too cold for that, I carry water from the stream into my house using 5 litre bottles. It made me incredibly mindful of how much, or in my case how little, water I use. It is why I refuse to fill up the bath. Unless I plan to stay in there long enough to become a mermaid.

I do miss my outhouse.

My French cast iron bathtub was stuck in storage for years. Because I did not want it to go to waste any longer, I gifted it to some friends. Who promptly installed it on their terrace, while I was staying with them. I don’t miss showering at the neighbours. Wherever I go or whatever I do next, I fully intend to have my own bathroom. With a tub. I do miss my outhouse. It is where I have done some of my best writing….