Water Access

 The air is really dry and there is ash on the windowsill. It is nothing like 2020, when the sky was a lurid green, but it is dry enough to have me thinking about water…who has access to clean water and who does not.

Until this summer, I understood the lack of water in homeless camps in an abstract way. Unless you are camping in a park, water is a long way away, maybe  a couple of miles. Even in a park, you may have to haul it from the central bathroom (if there is one) to your camp. It’s like backpacking, only every day without end. But, this summer, I spent time on Street Outreach, going to camps. I hauled bottled water in my old backpack when the temperature was heading for the high 90s and lack of water began to take on a new meaning. We use water to cool down, not only by hydrating, but also by misters, cool cloths on our necks, sticking our heads in water… When you are camping on the rail lines, this is not an option. We told everyone about the misters set up around town and reminded them about the library, but…it was hot.  Everyone hunkered down in place, with very little water. Water access.

Later, I was interviewed by a young woman earning her Master’s in Public Health. Hunched in the supply closet, bottled water piled around us, we talked about water access. People taking water from the river to drink, knowing that human waste was running downhill from a camp  nearby. People trying to stay clean while camping and looking for a job—because who is going to hire a dirty person? Whole families showing up for showers at the Hygiene Center when it used to be mostly men.  How hard it is to cook real food when you do not have water, so nutrition suffers. And then, how do we change our policies to improve the situation.  Water access.

On my last day, we were asking people what they would need to come into settled and sanctioned camps, rather staying on ODOT land. Water, they all said. Drinking water.  Showers. Toilets. Laundry would be nice. We’d like to be able to cook something, so we need water.  Over and over. At first, I thought it was because I was along the railroad lines, were there is no water nearby, not even a river. Then I talked with people who had been in the city parks—the same answer everywhere. Water access.

Then, it was my last stop of the summer. Three people sitting by a rail line, slipping down the slope. They had a tarp rigged up, two battered garden chairs, a pile of cans to be returned. Two were chatting and called out to us as we approached. Sure, they would all love some coffee. Oatmeal? Yup. Do we have any water with us? Of course. I handed over a couple of bottles. While two chatted about a bad song from the fifties, I watched the third unwrap an old sock from his hand. He had a nasty and bloody gouge on it—the kind of accident that sends me into the house for the hot water and soap, followed by clean gauze and a bit of tape. Nothing life-threatening, but painful. He winced. Poured water from the bottle over the wound.  Studied it for a moment. And then wrapped it back up in the same sock.

Water access.