By Antoine Abou-Diwan
Manuel Escobar has, arguably, one of the most important jobs in the Imperial Valley, but not many people know what he does.
Bankers are oftentimes left scratching their heads when they see his credit card application. “They say, ‘what is a zanjero?’” he says with a laugh and a shake of his head.
Escobar is a zanjero. He delivers water to farm fields by opening and closing the Imperial Irrigation District’s water canal gates by hand, one at a time.
Escobar’s day starts early. He checks his water delivery schedule at the IID’s office in Holtville before driving to the field in his pickup with some rudimentary tools in the back. Forty-two acre-feet of water need to be delivered to six farms during a 24-hour period on this chilly January morning.
His job appears easy enough: raise a canal gate, leave it open long enough for the right amount of water to flow through, and close it when done.
The IID’s water delivery system is gravity fed, and water, once in it, does not sit still. It needs a place to go.
“Water is like fire,” Escobar explained. “Once it starts going you can’t control it.”
He starts his run at the Oasis Heading. He unlocks the padlock that keeps the gate locked, cranks the wheel to pull the gate up several inches, and water rushes into the lateral canal from the East Highline Canal.
“Now we start working,” he said as he jumped in his truck and raced west away down a dirt road.
Escobar has very little time to get to the next gate to open it. If he’s too late, the canal overflows.
“Everything I do out here is by timing and my map,” he said, tapping a sheet of paper covered with numbers. Indeed, his “map” is a series of numbers that he checks off as he operates the gates throughout his day. He starts with 42 acre-feet of water. His first delivery is 4.5 acre-feet of water to a farm just outside Holtville.
He holds a yard stick against the gate with one hand and uses a lever to pry the gate up with his other hand.
“If I open it about 3.5 inches, that should give you 4.5 acre-feet for 24 hours,” Escobar said.
He does some quick math, subtracting 4.5 acre-feet of water from the 42 acre-feet he started with, leaving 37.5 acre-feet of water to work with for the remainder of this 24-hour run.
The next field is due 6 acre-feet of water, and there is no time to waste.
The IID delivers more than 3.1 million acre-feet of water every year over 1,600 miles of canals, and relies on just 125 zanjeros to keep the system running smoothly. Most of the gates are hand-operated. Water from the IID’s canals is used to irrigate thousands of acres of crops, and the way zanjeros make it flow has changed little during the past 100 years.
“I do this every day, but I love it,” Escobar said. “I work like this,” he added, illustrating how quickly he works by snapping his fingers rapidly.
Escobar has been a zanjero for 15 years, but knew the locations of the IID’s gates before he joined the IID.His work for a fertilizer company took him out to the fields, where he got to know the land and the irrigators that depend on him.
However, his job is not easy, he said, and there was a learning curve that was all-consuming.
“The first two to three months — all you dream about is water. It’s uncomfortable,” he said.
Because he’s racing against the water in the canals, he needs to know where he is at all times, and where the next gate at the next field is. The dirt roads are not marked, he starts his shift in the dark, and it’s easy to get disoriented. Accidents happen.
“You become a good zanjero when you crash your truck, leave your gate high and run a canal over,” he joked.
But what if he does crash his truck or has a flat tire?
“Then I’m in trouble,” he said.
But that’s when the relationships he has with irrigators make all the difference for Escobar as well as the farmers who depend on his work.
He said he finds an irrigator to drive him out to the next gate.
Mechanical breakdowns are not the only things that make a zanjero’s job difficult.
He can’t take a day off when it rains.
“It gets muddier than heck,” he said. “You can’t say ‘I don’t want to go out.’ You have to go out there,” he said, and sometimes that means leaving his truck behind and walking to the gate.
Typically, it’s the little things that make Escobar’s job uncomfortable, things that people who have conventional jobs may take for granted.
“There are times you feel you need to (go to the restroom), but you can’t,” he said, noting that water in the canal doesn’t wait for anybody.
Despite the long hours outdoors, Escobar said he enjoys his work, and takes it seriously.
“Look around,” he said. “Nobody is after me. That’s why I’m responsible.”
This story first appeared in the Imperial Valley Press, February 16, 2013.
By Antoine Abou-Diwan
Beirut may soon be the only city on the Mediterranean that does not have a public beach.
Most of the Lebanese capital’s coast has been developed into private beach clubs and resorts, making it inaccessible to most of the public due to expensive entry fees.
Ramlet al-Baida, commonly known as Beirut’s last public beach, is under development.
A small patch of sand near the famous Raouche (pigeon rocks), Ramlet al-Baida has been, for decades, a place for working class families to relax and swim.
Those days appear to be numbered. Construction has begun, and the Eden Rock Resort is slated to open in 2018.
The Dalieh, just south of the Raouche, may be next. The rocky outcropping has long been a place for working class families to picnic on its hills, swim in its pools and for fishermen to make a living.
But a fence went up a few years ago and construction machinery has been moved in.
Activists have filed a number of legal challenges, delaying construction, but if the rest of Lebanon’s coast is any indication, the odds in the long run are very much against them.
By Antoine Abou-Diwan
Thousands filled the streets in downtown Beirut starting mid-2015 through 2016 in protest against a political class that they say is corrupt, and a government that is unable to provide basic services.
The protests began in reaction to a trash crisis caused by the closure of the Naameh landfill.
Without an alternative place for the trash, the waste company Sukleen suspended operations, leading to tons of stinking garbage to pile up in the streets.
The grassroots movement “You Stink” sprang up in response to the trash crisis. It eventually spawned other campaigns calling for government accountability, the resignation of long-time politicians and an overhaul of the entire system.
Most protests were peaceful. Some turned violent, with police beating protesters, and using water cannons and teargas to disperse crowds.
The government has since opened two landfills, and trash collection has resumed. But a long-term, sustainable waste management plan is nowhere on the horizon.
By Antoine Abou-Diwan
Around 10 musical acts performed Saturday night at what may be the most unique venue in the western United States.
The Range, located on Slab City's main drag in Niland, is the site of "Free Music Under the Stars," a weekly open-mic event where anybody can sign up to play music, sing or showcase other talents.
Neil Mallick, a musician who spends his summers on the road and winters at Slab City, gave the estimated crowd of 80 a history of rock and roll with a dose of attitude, starting with solo performances of the Beatles’ “In My Life” and the Jimi Hendrix Experience’s “Castles Made of Sand,” through a Led Zeppelin tune from the ‘70s and Pixies and Weezer classics from the ‘90s.
“This monkey’s gone to heaven,” he sang.
Mallick purposely left out music released “in the zeros,” he told the crowd, referring to theperiod between 2000 and 2009 where bands like Mudvaine were king.
If you build it they will come
The Range is an outdoor venue that would not look out of place in a post-apocalyptic flick.
The stage is constructed of plywood, presumably donated or repurposed. Lighting, strung overhead, is a series of light bulbs housed in lamp shades made of buckets. Seating is a ramshackle collection of couches. "The Range" is painted on a backdrop of plywood. Slab City is off the grid, so the venue--from lights to amplifiers--is powered by a generator. The whole thing is the brainchild of "Builder" Bill.
Builder Bill was homeless, living on the streets and beach in San Diego before he took up residence at Slab City about 15 years ago. Citizen band radios were a more popular means of communication back then, and his "handle" was "Builder Bill.” It stuck.
Slab City was fairly quiet when he moved there, and he wanted to do something about it, he recalled.
"I thought I'd stir it up," he said with a smile as a gravel-voiced solo guitar player tore through drinking songs on stage.
Builder Bill began by building the stage, and financed the initial stages out of his own pocket.
"People started making donations when they saw what I was doing," he said. The project grew organically, and "Live Music Under the Stars" became a weekly staple.
"I didn't think I'd be doing it for 10 years," he said.
Builder Bill's management of the event, although loose, is fairly organized. He encourages everybody and anybody to get on stage and perform.
"All I have is an acoustic guitar," said Colin, a musician who was waiting his turn on stage.
"We'll work it out," Builder Bill replied.
But when Colin's turn on stage came up, he was nowhere to be found.
"Colin? Colin!," Builder Bill barked into the microphone. "You're up!"
Builder Bill would like to see "Live Music Under the Stars" gain a measure of legitimacy, as measured in the more conventional, buttoned-down world just outside the boundaries of the Slabs.
"I'm looking to become a non-profit organization," he said. "Maybe replace the benches with something more durable.”
This story first appeared in the Imperial Valley Press, Jan. 9, 2013