Water humbles and teaches
Maite Uranga
Life in Africa
Not knowing how to get the most basic element of survival is an incredibly humbling experience. For the first few days at my site my host sisters went to the well and filled up my clay pot, in which I keep all my water, on a daily basis. Every time I saw them doing this a pang of guilt set in because not only were these 15- and 16-year-olds running the house, they were also making sure I had enough water. However, the fear of public humiliation far outweighed this guilt.
Women of every age use a perfect posture, a slight twist of the shoulders and a sway of the hips that makes this chore exquisitely beautiful as they glide through the sand. I could not even imagine my body capable of such a thing. Instead, I pictured the amount of onlookers that the white woman getting water would attract and my full wash tub plummeting from my head in an embarrassed mess. And I knew full well if something like this happened it would be continually recounted for the next two years in my village.
So I sat back for a few days and let water appear in my clay pot while I carefully orchestrated my plan of attack and weighed different strategies. I could go really early when most people were still sleeping. Potentially pay some girl to go to the well for me at about 10 cents a day. Use a small bucket. Give up the use of water entirely (for a few minutes I actually contemplated this). Figure out how to pump water out of the well and across the three hundred yards to my house. Use vast amounts of bottled water over the next two years. Call Mulligan and ask if they delivered to Mauritania.
One day I simply swallowed a lot of pride and picked up my small bucket and through a series of French, hand gestures and Pulaar communicated that I needed help going to the well. We started off as two, but anywhere I go children follow. So when they saw a white woman walking to the well they knew something exciting was in process.
My sister and I arrived at the well with my bucket, her tub and my entourage. It was busy. The women in an attempt to be polite greeted me like they would anyone else. Behind the formalities I saw the amusement in their eyes. We sat in the sand waiting our turn as I surveyed the scene. Somehow the crowd discovered that I had never used a well. The polite women broke out into peals of laughter and the children stared in disbelief. I then explained to them the water infrastructure of the United States using elementary language and acting skills. I received looks of amazement. They knew that people in American cities used running water, but they assumed rural America used the traditional rope and bucket.
I stepped onto the stage at the edge of the well and looked down. My sister pulled up the first bucket with fluid motion. I dropped the rubber bucket down and started pulling up and the ease at which it rose surprised me. Then people started laughing. The bucket was not even half-way full. I started again, this time making sure that the bucket overflowed with water. I admit that I am not in amazing shape. I do exercise regularly, but my back, arms, legs and every other major muscle group are definitely not in good shape. Lifting several liters of water up multiple meters is a workout that no American gym has yet designed a machine to simulate.
Three buckets later I was exhausted and still had to carry my water the 300 yards uphill through sand to my clay pot. My sister tried to help put it on my head. I refused saying "tomber" which means fall in French and rain in Pulaar. Again more laughter. I could not bring myself to try as I imagined my spine compressing and neck snapping under the weight of the water. From the time they can walk Mauritanians put anything and everything on their heads. My pampered American body could not possibly have the strength or balance. Moreover, I just would not look as beautiful as they do. So I picked up my bucket with my hand and set off.
Carrying water is very difficult. It sloshes around and once started rarely stops. My water started sloshing on about my third step and I knew it was going to be a long 300 yards. Six stops, wet feet, several goats, laughter, pain and 20 minutes later I collapsed onto my mat after successfully filling my clay pot for the first time.
Maite Uranga graduated from Notre Dame in 2000 as an anthropology and government major. She is currently a Peace Corps volunteer in the Islamic Republic of Mauritania. Her column appears every other Tuesday.
The views expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of The Observer.
All Viewpoint Stories for Tuesday, October 30, 2001
