The Faucet

As a young kid, there were two trips I always looked forward to: a trip to Baguio, and a trip to the beach. The former was mandatory since my spinster aunt always declared that we have this "responsibility" to come up to our grandparents' rest house, and spend Lent contemplating about our year’s worth of sins in the company of pine trees. She would often make us walk the full kilometre around Quezon Hill. Thank goodness Baguio had ambient weather even during the height of summer. And the pollution was much less then. On occasion, Good Friday would come early (or come every other day) if she decided we should fast then walk all the way to St. Vincent parish. I loved Baguio for its weather and the strawberries. These almost made up for what the Gestapo made us go through.

One could say that the latter was the trip that I really looked forward to. My dad and siblings would leave the Gestapo behind and go to a different beach every year. We would always stay at a native hut, but the character of these differed from place to place. It was something different. No air-conditioning, no heated showers and no television. Probably the only time each year that I could survive without any TV! What I looked forward to even more was the seafood, the fishing trips and mangrove explorations.

One summer, our well-off cousins decided to stay in the same beach we were vacationing in. They billeted at the fancy resort which had air-conditioned rooms. I was envious though I could not complain to my dad since we all got used to the same humble accommodations year after year. It turned out I was not the only one envious of them. The following year, my dad saved up and we stayed at that same place.

The first night, I woke up thirsty. My dad then suggested I take a drink from the faucet. This was, after all first class accommodations. It was unusual during the 80s not to have potable tap water, especially houses in the urban areas. I know this was no urban area, but the sophisticated facilities gave you impression they were fitted with home-style fittings. The following morning, I opened the faucet to take another drink. So I was surprised to see that the water was muddy. I let it run for a few more minutes but it never turned clear.

So at a young age I learned how to be mistrustful. I never drank straight from any faucet ever again. Not in Japan, in Hong Kong or in Singapore. Neither when the hotel says that tap water is potable. I’d rather drink the overpriced Evian from the mini bar or cross the street in the middle of the night wearing my pyjamas to buy some bottled water from 7-11.

The experiences outlined above are true and factual. But this blog entry is not about faucets per se. But a metaphor.

When you’ve drunk mud from a faucet, you’ll be mistrustful even of water.