You must leave the main road and onto the deformed streets to better feel the heartbeat of the village. Behind the adobe walls, you can hear the pestle that crushes the millet in the mortar bowl dug out of a tree trunk. We must strike hard to get the flour used to prepare the daily porridge. From place to place we hear voices, chatter, and children crying. And then there is the unmistakable sound, in the midst of it all, of water that flows into a container and hand pump that is used.
There is not a minute of the day when the pumps are not constantly screeching and whining. Early in the morning, even before the first light of day, we wait line with many plastic containers or pots made of baked clay. Some come from remote villages with a small rickety wagon pulled by an old cantankerous donkey.
Speaking of donkeys. They say there is a special paradise for them, as they are bound to a life of service. We hear them berating from far off with their cries that seem like tears. Every hour with more or less accuracy, the muezzin from the minaret of the whitewashed mosque, calls to prayer. Men and some women have their little prayer rugs and turn to the shrine to invoke the one that heats the sun that is too harsh for the people and nature.
We continue our walk in the village. We meet many children who seem to have forgotten to go to school. We discuss briefly without forgetting to exchange news about family, health, crops and the oxen. Then appeased by such solicitude, we continue the path between the walls of the courtyards. We arrive at the place where the biggest village pump is located. There is a long line of colorful cans that welcomes us. The pump, what luxury, is activated by a small electric motor powered by photovoltaic panels. It is a gift form a large well-known oil company. We thank him as it helps a lot.
The dark shroud is thickening. The night will engulf the village without electricity. From everywhere the small lamps with their orange flames begin to appear. Pigs, exhausted from a hard day of garbage rummaging, go home. They are accompanied by sheep and goats that have wandered all day in search of some plants that become rare in this season. A dusty truck, coughing and spitting, going down the main road, rushes toward civilization of the nearby town. The stars pierce the sky; the red moon like the dust disappears behind the huge baobab in the village whose branches seem to watch over Bouassa. It’s time to go, tomorrow is another day and we will need to start fetching water.
THE SOLUTION:
ONE WELL PER VILLAGE
We believe people, not water, can change everything! When you sponsor Well Drilling Project in Burkina Faso, Africa you’ll unlock the potential of an entire community.