Getting Water From the Roots

The average human body is 65% water.

71% Earth’s surface area is covered in water.

No running water in the village means the average Gidiama life is WATER.

We are blessed to have a tap on our property. All other families use wells or boreholes to obtain water. However, the accessibility to a tap does not guarantee the safe delivery of water. Daytime hours never bring water. Usually in the quiet of night, I hear Shedrack, my Kenyan brother, at my window softly calling, “Ellie, Maji.” I’ll shake my limbs into function and unlock the doors to deliver our 20 liter jugs into his wanting hands. We sit under a star-studded mango tree murmuring over the trickling tap.

One jug in each hand, we take turns trudging back to the house to empty the jugs into the waiting 250L drums. With a deep knee bend and the summoning of bicep power, the drum filling deed is accomplished once. Now, about 11 jugs to go (depending on how dry each drum is). The jug gluggg-gluggg-glugggs into the drum. It’s mesmerizing.

We continue in the sloshing, glugggging, bubbling, trickling sounds of the night.

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As of late, the tap has been unresponsive in all hours of the day and night. We have been relying on the rains to supply us with the resource. The rains seem to know when I’m literally diving into the drums to reach the final pitchers of water. They have been quick to follow our lack with a downpour.

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The seasons continue; the rains are beginning to taper; harvesting rain water can not be relied upon. The nearby tap hasn’t been delivering- I think it’s an issue with the pipe. The wells are good, just far, but we must go.

We spend afternoons at the well with the other mommas; it’s a biblical feeling. We sit around and chat. One gal will pump for some time and fill up the available jugs and containers that are near. Once she tires, the next woman will take her place. The woman pumping, does not only fill her family’s jugs, but continues on to the surrounding ones too. Some things here are an ever present reminder of where our heritage comes from, the Israelites. It feels good to try to understand my roots.

Class on the Doodoo Class

Doodoo. N. [pl. doodoos.] a wide variety of indigenous insects, microorganisms and bothersome creepy crawlers. Moment to moment companions of village life.

Can be classified into 3 pools: 1. those that don’t raise Danielle’s blood pressure

                                                      2. those that illicit a panicked “Ellie??” from Danielle’s mouth
                                                      3. those that raise both Ellie and Danielle’s hairs, but Ellie kills anyway
These classes have been meticulously noted over 3 months of study. There is daily field work to support such divisions in the Doodoo kingdom. Although extensive mental cataloging has taken place, the breadth of their members is too extensive to exhume here. However, the general rules can help us imagine all forms of the doodoo that fit into such classes.

Class 1, Aptly named Irritants. Enjoys coexisting alongside the missionary. Whether sitting, standing or sleeping these crawlers look at the long skirt as an exploratory invitation. Tickling as they go, the small(ish) explores go where no man has gone before. The missionary, no longer phased, often ends the expedition in a crunch between skirt fabric or does a stanky-legg bit, before the skates get too high.

The airborne irritants take heightened interest in day old food, outhouses, lights, the inside of the mosquito net and the missionary’s toes. By the sheer exposure, there is hope of discerning between the sex of the male and female fruit flies. The infested fruits and breads must already know. Constant happy feet ward off the larger airborne irritants. Reading and sleeping become very active pass-times.

The most interesting irritant is the Kamikaze. Dropping, not flying, from broad daylight. The missionary finds mzungu (white person) hair to be a grave disadvantage. The skydive attempts go momentarily unnoticed. Then, prove to be difficult to find. The missionary concludes ignorance can be bliss, until the tickling begins.

 

Class 2, Escape Artists. Usually appearing at night, Class 2 lurks in corners, latrine holes, books, folded clothing, until disturbed. Surly from being disturbed, Class 2 enjoys making a mockery out of an unsuspecting missionary. In an attempt to spare these crunchy lives, the missionary called to the front lines hops around the room like Gollum, broom in hand, herding the Escape Artists. The Escape Artist is always the master of ceremonies and Kenyans in the room can’t help but enjoy the show.

When fried, some of the Escape Artists (I hear) are quite the delicacy. The missionary promises to channel her inner Simba from the Lion King, at least once, if she encounters fried Class 2.

 

Class 3, Gird Your Loins. A small, yet mighty category. The saying “Everything’s Bigger in Texas” may be true, but everything is biggest in Africa. Class 3 is usually so large it appears to have bones, but is unsettlingly fleshy when killed.

Doodoo’s that illicit Gird Your Loins are always killed.

The missionary tried to cremate one in the kitchen fire. Quick to learn: a multi-legged, squirmy thing, of that size can only produce the MOST pungent rancor (which does not dissipate); and is an easy way to get alone time in the house.

The most teeth gritting Class 3 is commonly known as Tarantula. Approximately 3.5 inches in diameter, thankfully, he did not move one of the eight eyeballs as shoe-hit-hairy mass-hit wall. The missionary reports a victorious terror at the ease of this kill.

 

Doodoo Tamer. N. Eleanor Rice Mackintosh.