The water man

Writing about the deluge (9 December 2015) reminded me of a strange incident from a few years ago.

Late one afternoon someone hammered on our back door, a flat-palmed thudding like a four-in-the-morning drugs raid. This is normal - nobody tippety-taps in the Canaries, if you knock on a door it's because you wish to be heard.

I opened to find a plump, pink-cheeked individual encased in a slightly rumpled grey suit and with a black leather portfolio under his arm. He didn't look like an evangelist, not polished or smiley enough, and anyway they come in pairs. He looked like the Man from the Council.

'I'm here about the water, el agua,' he tells me. 'You know about the problems with the water?'

'What problems?'

'The quality! You haven't noticed? With the drought, you know, no rain, the water quality's very poor. Can I talk to you about it?'

I invite him in, a little concerned and rather more puzzled. It's true the rain is a little late this year but the island practically floats on fresh spring water, it's never a problem. However, here's this official telling me something's amiss so of course we need to know more.

I show him into the kitchen, which is where we keep the kind of water you might worry about. 'We haven't noticed anything wrong,' I tell him, turning on the cold tap. Water runs smoothly, normal colour, no bobbly bits, doesn't smell funny...

J has arrived to see what's going on. 'He says there's a problem with the water.'

'What problem?'

The Council man has deposited his black leather portfolio on the kitchen table. 'I'll show you, if you can spare five minutes?'

He requests a glass tumbler, which he fills with water from the tap. Then he pulls from a bulging pocket of his jacket a little black box. It has four metal prongs on one side and an electrical cable sprouting from the end, terminating in a plug. The plug is chipped and the cable insulation has been repaired with insulating tape. You'd think the Council would equip its water engineers rather better. Doubts are forming.

He places his little box on top of the glass tumbler with two prongs dangling in the water, then plugs the cable into a mains socket. Within a few seconds little streams of bubbles being rising to the surface from each prong. 'You see?' he says, indicating the bubbles.

Well yes, you'd expect bubbles. 'That's normal,' I tell him. 'Electrolysis.' Basic science – electrocute water and its molecules ping apart into their constituent hydrogen and oxygen. Which are gases, so they bubble.

I attempt to explain this in Spanish to our demonstrator, who agrees smoothly but cuts me short, holding up a hand: 'Wait a few moments!'

A green scum begins to spread across the surface of the water. He turns towards me, smiling grimly. 'Now. You see?'

After a moment's thought I suggest politely that the green scum is probably copper oxide from one of the electrodes. But he's now on the alert for this kind of nonsense and holds up his hand again. 'Give me some bottled water and I'll show you the difference!'

I'd love to do that, I tell him, but we have no bottled water. 'You drink only tap water?' he cries incredulously.

Of course we do. It's fine, the tap water is excellent, sourced from the island's springs, properly treated and monitored - why buy bottles?

The man who, I am quite sure by now, is not from the Council shakes his head. 'I wouldn't drink that stuff, myself. Not from the tap.' He dries his little box on a paper handkerchief, wraps the cable around it and slips it back into his pocket.

'So now what?' I invite him cordially. By now I'm really curious to know.

'Ahora qué?' he repeats, smiling. 'That's very Spanish.'

'Thank you.'

He sits himself confidently at the kitchen table, as a man who has the answers. From his portfolio he extracts a two-page leaflet about his company's domestic water purifier.

It's quite small, he assures us, would easily fit under our sink. Takes just a couple of hours to install then no more problems with dodgy water and murky scum! He produces an application form for us to fill in.

I break it to him not very gently that we don't want a water purifier. There is no way I'm going to spend a thousand euros or whatever it is on a complicated piece of plumbing we don't need. He gives up without a struggle, puts away his leaflet and application form and leaves, looking miffed or perhaps just tired.

After he's gone I ponder a little more about his gadget. Four prongs, electrodes. You only need two for electrolysis. Three were bright and shiny, I remember, while the fourth was dull and greenish, probably copper or a copper alloy.

Here's how it runs. You use the copper prong for your demonstration with tap water because it produces a nasty-looking scum. Then if the householder is a normal member of the modern world and can supply you with bottled water, you use the other pair of prongs, neither of which contains copper, so they produce only nice clean bubbles.

Your victim is thus convinced that tap water is poisonous while bottled water is good – but even better would be the superlative water from one of these magic purifiers, which will save you having to buy bottles!

The more I thought about this, the more appalled I was. This wasn't just salesmanship, it was evil. And if I was mistaken, how else would you explain those four electrodes?

As far as I'm aware nobody in this village bought a water purifier, they're all sensible folk who recognise knavery when they see it. And I'm sure he didn't come from this island, he'd been sent here on a test mission, a sacrificial goat to see how the locals reacted.

A few more calls like the one to our house and he probably crept home to weep for a while then look for a job delivering beer.


Health warning: please don't try 'electrocuting' water!
It's extremely dangerous without the right equipment.