Going to the Well
by Qani Belul (Mali 91-92)

      Here at my house in Japan as I haul buckets to water my trees and
flowers and garden I often think back to former times as a Peace Corps
volunteer in Mali, West Africa, to the hundreds of hours spent watering
the many young trees Id planted within my compound there.
    Early each morning, then later every evening, when the sun wasnt so
intense, Id put on a pair of shorts and, barefoot and shirtless, take
my two buckets across the dirt road to my neighbors compound where
along with half a dozen neighbor children Id take turns pulling water
from the well. I can still distinctly remember the feel of the rough,
worn rope in my hands, hear the splash of the black rubber bag as it
hit the water below and the familiar gurgle as it gulped the liquid and
slowly sank.
    With a little practice to learn the correct technique, drawing water
became quite enjoyable: Wait until the bag is completely submerged,
until the rope goes taut as if youve got a bite, then pull. Hand over
hand, yank the bag up and out, being careful not to fray the rope by
scraping it along the wells concrete lip. About two and a quarter
bagfuls to a bucket, a bucket to a tree, a couple dozen buckets each
day, 750 a month, 9000 a year. . . .
    Watering my trees made up no small part of my daily routine and was, in
my mind, as pleasant and important a task as any of the others I
performed as a Peace Corps volunteer in Mali.