The Dreaded PUMP, LIFT and CARRY

Oh dear, out of water and my reserves are empty, too.  I grab a bucket and walk slowly to the borehole behind the hospital.  It’s not a long walk, but I take my time.  I dread the pump, lift and carry.

THE PUMP

I wait patiently for women and children to pump water into their buckets.  At certain times, the line can be pretty long.  The water moves swiftly into the bucket, making a gushing sound as it hits the bottom.  Women chat casually, mostly gossip.  Children take turns pumping – often fighting over who will go next.  Sometimes children will pump water for me, but I don’t mind doing it myself.  I set my bucket down beneath the spigot and walk behind the pump.  I give it two or three big pumps then walk to my bucket again to rinse and dump out the water.  I set the bucket down a second time I begin the long pump.  It usually takes no more than a minute to fill a bucket, but sometimes the water table is low and it takes longer.  It’s a mini workout.  Well, the whole process is, really.

THE LIFT

I lift the bright orange 20 liter bucket up and onto my head as a liter of it splashes on to my face and down my back.  It feels good during hot season.  I prefer it over a bath.  But in cold season, I shiver and my fingers go numb before I even get home.  The women at the borehole sing me “sorry” and laugh at my goofy stance as I try to balance before I take my first step.  By the time I carry the bucket 100-meters back to my house, I will have lost another liter along the path.  I get teased mostly because I carry the same amount of water as an 11-year old child.  Most women carry about 50 liters of water on their heads.  My neck is not nearly that strong and I’m lucky to get 20 on my head without busting my face (which has happened on occasion).

THE CARRY

I steady the bad boy with two hands – one on each side of bucket and step forward.  Here goes.  I walk passed onlookers who stare for far too long and friends who really want to greet me with my hands full as a joke or with sincerity.  I don’t say much, I smile and say “see you later” and try not to breathe too heavily on the way to my house.  Heavy breathing is not attractive when you’re doing chores.

I open my front door with one hand while the bucket wobbles on my head. I hold my breath. On the rare occasion I’m not focusing on my duty, I have dropped and broken a bucket on my front porch, releasing 20 liters of water on to cement which dried in less than 3 minutes in the hot Malawi sun.  I carry the bucket through my living room and into the hallway where two 60 liter buckets are thirstily waiting for me to fill them.  I have missed the big bucket before, pouring water all over my hall floor.  No amount of mopping can soak that up.  I had to brush it out my back door, as I slipped around (someone left a bar of soap on the floor?) navigating around the buckets taking up way too much space in my hallway.

Dump into big bucket.  

Repeat. (x4 on an average day and x8 on laundry day – or when I drop a bucket carelessly)