(An account of a short-term missionary’s adventures installing wells in Africa. Fifth of eight parts.)
Bumping down a local dirt road one afternoon as a volunteer for Marion Medical Mission (https://www.mmmwater.org) I asked Boyd Chirwa, my installation supervisor, how much a working man had to make to support his family in rural Malawi. “10 thousand Kwacha a day,” he said, referencing the local currency equivalent of 6 bucks in the states. He asked how much it took in America.
“15 thousand Kwacha…” I began, figuring US minimum hourly wage at $8 or so.
He interrupted, “Wow! That’s a lot!”
“That’s per hour, Boyd, or 120 thousand Kwacha earned in an eight-hour day. That’s the lowest wage paid, though, the average daily wage in the US is about 360 thousand Kwacha.”
Ponder that - these happy Malawians make it on $6 a day. Americans take in $172 and we sourly consider ourselves in abject poverty.
Let’s talk about happy Malawians. Almost without fail, as we approached a well site, we heard a rhythmic sound which grew louder as we got closer. Singing! It was the most mesmerizing and lustrous harmony, punctuated by high and well-bodied solo voices responding in refrain. My adjectival palette fails in this effort to capture the beautiful notes as they echoed off the hills, almost touchable in their near-perfect form.
Clear water was soon to flow from the well, something no one present had regularly seen in a lifetime of spent scooping rancid runoff for cooking, washing and drinking. “No more,” as one old ‘Gogo’ (grandmother) told me, “Will our babies die.” The moment of sheer joy approached as the workers swarmed the well-head, in minutes expertly inserting the central PVC pipe, the foot valve, the heavy-gauge metal pump and the handle, then screwing it all tightly in place.
We spoke to the crowd.
Unless you’ve experienced being on the ‘receiving end’ of a spontaneous burst of ululation by a large crowd of joyful Malawians, it’s hard to convey the startled jump which ensues. In my case, that happened after I simply said (via interpreter), “I’m Jeff and I’ve come from America.”
Most of us who watch the news have seen agitated Palestinians in the streets emit a ululating cacophony. This high-pitched wail - usually issued by women - involves a sharp staccato in the vein of attacking Apaches or confederate rebels. It’s just not supposed to be associated with happy occasions, like the delivery of a new source of water to people who have retrieved it daily from fetid ditches since the time of Moses. But there it was - with smiles and laughter amid hands waving high - squeals of moms who could now give their families clean and cold water.
I continued, “Christians in America heard of your village’s need for fresh water and raised money to buy the cement, pipes and pump for this well. Jesus is real, and this well is proof that he loves you. Written on the well is “Glory to God” in English and in your language. When you walk down that hill to get water every morning, give glory to God and thank him for His gift to your village. It is your well, built by the African hands of your fellow villagers, and if you take care of it will last for many years.”
Though listening, they weren’t looking at me. Their eyes were fixed on the well’s spigot as the workers positioned it just so, then picked the oldest and most respected woman in the village to pump it for the first time. Though usually slight and slow, she was made of steel, having spent a lifetime carting buckets of water often for miles over rough terrain. She smiled broadly as she stepped up, often toothless but flawlessly beautiful and expressive of her gratitude and sense of honor.
She brought the handle up, then down, then up again. Out gushed sparkling water, as the children lunged into it splashing, laughing and shouting. At first the moms scolded them away, afraid they’d waste this precious resource, then joined in the party themselves. The men, never obligated to carry water, shared in the joy nonetheless – their wives were happy.
“Enjoy your well!” We’d shout as we gathered our tools and headed back to the truck and to our next well site, usually miles away. Wash, rinse, repeat. Glory to God.
Next week: Blessed are the poor.
Jeff Weill is a senior status judge living in Jackson.
