Because the Rains Had Come . . .
by Rachel Morse (Zimbabwe 93-95)

    After graduating college, I joined the Peace Corps to serve as a
secondary school science teacher in rural Zimbabwe.  During my two
years in southern Africa I came to appreciate the value of a good water
bucket and the importance of the liquid it containednot only for waters
necessity, but also for the way it shaped our relationships.  The need
for water, which united my local community, always threatened to divide it.
    During my pre-service training I visited the community where I would be
assigned.  Sadza contained five dusty streets of shops and district
offices.  A tour of the local highlights included the clinic, the
shops, the post office, the dam and the irrigation plots, and the bore
hole well.  Most people in Sadza were very proud of the irrigation
project.  It gave them some independence from the rains. People who
rented plots within the irrigation fence could start planting earlier
and continue harvesting later in the season because of the steady water
supply.
        However, not everyone could afford to rent a space.  When the rains
were late, the non-irrigators would look towards the green maize stalks
with stormy eyes.  Wasnt it a community project?  Werent they also
members of the community?  At times like these the irrigators thoughts
turned to hiring a guard.  The chain link fence that divided lush from
barren also seemed to divided the haves from the have-nots.
I didnt rent an irrigation plot, but I had three water buckets and that
was a lot for a single woman living alone.  I used the smallest bucket
to carry water from the open well in the school yard to my housea
distance of about 70 feet.  This water was okay for cleaning, bathing
and washing clothes, but not safe for drinking.
        My next largest bucket was deep blue and two and a half feet tall. This
was my bucket for the bore hole well 3/4 of a mile away.  I kept the
bucket very clean because it held my drinking and cooking water.
        The bore hole was a gathering place for women and children.  It was on
walks to and from the bore hole that I met the other women in the
community and spent time talking to my fellow teacher friends.  During
the warmer parts of the day, the young girls who had been hired by
families to work the household cores would escape to the bore hole for
a cool drink and a chat with friends.  They filled large canisters and
carried them back on wheel barrows.  In the evening the teachers,
mothers and once again the house girls would return to the well to fill
more buckets.  Women who had labored long hours in the field or homes
could rest as they waited.  Much gossip and some news was exchanged at
the well.  Once I got used to carrying the bucket on my head,
understood more Shona, and felt more comfortable moving around in the
community, I enjoyed the trips to the bore hole.
          My third bucket was a testament to how often I frequented the bore
hole.  It was twice the size of my drinking water bucket and nearly
impossible for me to carry long distances.  It came with a large
snap-on lid.  I used this bucket to store drinking water whenever I
chose to make another trip to the bore hole before my deep blue bucket
was empty.  I always felt better when this largest bucket was full.
          One time, district development workers dynamited the schools open well
in an attempt to reach the aquifer layer and to construct a bore hole
right in the school yard.  However, the rock layer was too hard and
thick.  In a way it was a blessing.  The bore hole gave us the excuse
and the opportunity to reach out to each other.  If the dynamite had
succeeded, some teachers would have never left the school yard.  The
gap between the educated salaried government workers and the
subsistence farmers would have grown even wider.
      My last year in Zimbabwe the rains were late.  The water in the open
well started to disappear by evening, recharging overnight.  Soon water
was available only in the morning.  Dawn turned into a race.  Single
teachers tried to get there first so that they would have water to take
a bath before school.  The house girls that had been hired by teachers
with families rushed to get all the water they needed for morning
chores, including heating bath water for their teachers, before
everyone else took all the water.  No one was happy and mornings would
often result in conflict if two people got there at the same time.  The
chain broke in the frenzy for water and we lost the bucket.  The
principals wife provided a new bucket, but the chain was now shorter,
further reducing the availability of water.  There was much
disagreement in the staff room about what to do.
            Finally, it was decided that only water for teachers baths could be
fetched in the morning.  Once the teachers went to school, the house
girls and wives could fetch water for the household chores.  Late that
night the principals wife went to the well and removed her bucket.  The
next morning surprised teachers scrambled to find a suitable well
bucket.  Many unwashed or late teachers showed up at morning assembly. 
Before the students finished the national anthem the principals wife
returned to the well with her bucket and filled large canisters with
water.  She was followed by the other wives and house girls.  The well
was dry by mid morning and we were a school divided.
          There was much argument and anger in the air.  Eventually almost
everyone obtained a suitable vegetable oil tin or bucket to use on the
well.  These were guarded carefully, never loaned to others and always
removed from the chain.  The constant tying and untying of the buckets
on the chain caused more wear and tear breaking the chain shorter and
shorter.
          We no longer enjoyed our walks to the bore hole because we were
carrying our largest buckets in order to have enough water for the
mornings.  The strain of loading and carrying those buckets silenced
conversations.
          Those without irrigation plots anxiously measured their stored grain
from last year wondering if they had enough for this year too, should
the crops fail.
          Finally, when the tension seemed about to peak, it rained.  At first,
these rains werent enough to recharge the water table at the school,
but they were a promise of what was to come.  It didnt matter that the
well still went dry in the afternoon because every spare container in
every household was filled with rain water.  There was enough to go
around.
            People were friendly again.  A sense of humor returned to the staff.
Teachers and house girls made easy conversations.  Gossip and news were
once more exchanged at the bore hole.  All this because the rains had come.

(Rachel Morse is from Louisville, Kentucky. She graduated from Indiana
University with a B.S. in Biology in 1993 and served as a secondary
school teacher.)