There's a hole in my bucket

Collecting water at the well is a right, it is also a right of passage for women many places around the world. From a young age girls, in Malawi, are taught how to clean buckets, pump the water, and carry it on their head.  Before the Peace Corps I thought this act alone was a human rights violation.  And it can be if access to clean water is denied or if the journey to the well is a journey that puts women at physical danger or takes girls out of school.  Here in Malawi there are many good water sources and many dangerously contaminated sources, furthermore a community acquiring a well can be a very political issue. 

The collection of water itself is a regular daily chore and it has been happening for a long time.  I have come to see it is a social activity for the ladies…gal pals plan to collect together and then sit and chat around the well, much like office chats around the water cooler in corporate America or over coffee at giant chain (or quaint independent/hipster) coffee shop.  It can be a game for little girls “playing house” to practice with a small cup of water or a small jar.  Personally, I like to consider it a workout and fill two buckets to build my arm strength.  This is partly because the first week in the village I attempted to carry it on my head and it spilled everywhere.  I could hear the judgment in the laughter of the women and in their “pepani” (“sorry” in the local vernacular).  Recently I have grown in courage and have begun carrying it on my head, until…

The cleaning of the bucket, the pumping of the water and the execution of balancing the bucket on my head were all going according to plan.  I could tell my confidence was building as well as the strength of my head, shoulders, and neck.  I took a few steps and heard some cracking.  Followed by a few drops of water, which is not too unusual, as water usually pours over the top.  And then more cracking and more water.  Before I could do anything to change my fate, the bucket had cracked in a spiral formation and all of the cold water in the bucket washed over me.  The bucket was no longer on my head, my head was in the bucket.  All the women around the well laughed.  This time not at me but with me.  This time every “pepani” was genuine and without judgment but with commonality, this time I was relating to them because it has happened to many of them.  Before I had time to change my wet clothes a woman had already brought me a bucket of water.  

This scenario was humiliating and humbling but I have a new kinship with the women at the well.