Bringing water from the well
I was full of questions on my first visit to an African village for our host, Arielle, the Peace Corps volunteer posted at Missira, a small seaside village near the Gambian border. Trying to grasp the basics of how the village managed I asked… “So, you get water from a…. well?” Next thing I knew, I was getting the full demonstration. Arielle’s Maman in the village, delighted that I had volunteered, provided me with une bassine, one of the smaller ones that the youngest girls use for learning how to carry water, and a colorful rag for cushioning my head for the return trip. We followed her with an entourage between huts, under lines of laundry, to the path behind the village compound, up a small hill, pressing through weeds and a forest of baobab trees to reach the well. She deftly dropped the yellow gallon seau down to the surface of the water, where it obediently fell to its side and quickly filled with water, then she jerked the long rope back up, hand over hand, soon filling her grande bassine with several or so of these gallons. “Your turn, toubab”, I imagined her to say in Mandinka. I was grateful for whatever I had done in life to prepare me for this task. It wasn’t so hard- only a few patient jerks of the rope encouraged the bucket to fill nicely. I managed to position my measly two gallons (less than one measly toilet flush back home) atop my head with Arielle’s help. I slowly proceeded like Princess Diana practicing good posture, watching the slow, easy gait of the “mother” in the lead, wondering if my ass looked “African” enough to be doing this properly. On the return, we were abruptly pushed off the narrow path from behind by a cow and two little boys chasing it home, later by some other miscellaneous livestock passing through. The water stayed aloft down the hill, but once inside the compound it insisted on gushing over the front lip as I took a step up into her hut area, then righted itself as I limboed under the clothes line to the finish. Not too bad, maybe I’d only lost a liter or so. I had saved enough face to still be welcome for dinner.
Telling stories around the fire
Electricity has come to this village, but not much of it. When we returned to the village near sunset, the village had gathered to break the day’s fast together. We sat on chairs that were offered to guests, watching the scene from midstream. Around us a pack of children squealed and ran. Some women prepared a fire for cooking, some nursed babies, some sat. The men mostly sat. It became clear that the real focus of attention was a small TV placed on a tabouret, its electric cord stretching to within a hut where a small fluorescent bulb burned bluish in the darkness. Save for these two things, the village became dark and cool as the sun retreated. Tout le monde gathered in the courtyard area for a viewing of “Married With Children” dubbed into French, only besser-ing the volume when the call to prayer issued from the tiny mosque nearby and men knelt on their prayer mats in front of the sit com.
I was full of questions on my first visit to an African village for our host, Arielle, the Peace Corps volunteer posted at Missira, a small seaside village near the Gambian border. Trying to grasp the basics of how the village managed I asked… “So, you get water from a…. well?” Next thing I knew, I was getting the full demonstration. Arielle’s Maman in the village, delighted that I had volunteered, provided me with une bassine, one of the smaller ones that the youngest girls use for learning how to carry water, and a colorful rag for cushioning my head for the return trip. We followed her with an entourage between huts, under lines of laundry, to the path behind the village compound, up a small hill, pressing through weeds and a forest of baobab trees to reach the well. She deftly dropped the yellow gallon seau down to the surface of the water, where it obediently fell to its side and quickly filled with water, then she jerked the long rope back up, hand over hand, soon filling her grande bassine with several or so of these gallons. “Your turn, toubab”, I imagined her to say in Mandinka. I was grateful for whatever I had done in life to prepare me for this task. It wasn’t so hard- only a few patient jerks of the rope encouraged the bucket to fill nicely. I managed to position my measly two gallons (less than one measly toilet flush back home) atop my head with Arielle’s help. I slowly proceeded like Princess Diana practicing good posture, watching the slow, easy gait of the “mother” in the lead, wondering if my ass looked “African” enough to be doing this properly. On the return, we were abruptly pushed off the narrow path from behind by a cow and two little boys chasing it home, later by some other miscellaneous livestock passing through. The water stayed aloft down the hill, but once inside the compound it insisted on gushing over the front lip as I took a step up into her hut area, then righted itself as I limboed under the clothes line to the finish. Not too bad, maybe I’d only lost a liter or so. I had saved enough face to still be welcome for dinner.
Telling stories around the fire
Electricity has come to this village, but not much of it. When we returned to the village near sunset, the village had gathered to break the day’s fast together. We sat on chairs that were offered to guests, watching the scene from midstream. Around us a pack of children squealed and ran. Some women prepared a fire for cooking, some nursed babies, some sat. The men mostly sat. It became clear that the real focus of attention was a small TV placed on a tabouret, its electric cord stretching to within a hut where a small fluorescent bulb burned bluish in the darkness. Save for these two things, the village became dark and cool as the sun retreated. Tout le monde gathered in the courtyard area for a viewing of “Married With Children” dubbed into French, only besser-ing the volume when the call to prayer issued from the tiny mosque nearby and men knelt on their prayer mats in front of the sit com.
posted by Kat | 7:20 AM
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