It's in the Water

The first time I was handed a plastic bag full of water I peered into the liquid, trying to find the elusive goldfish I had apparently won. Or perhaps my Catholic Relief Services driver and I were about to begin a spontaneous water balloon fight. I could only hope. “You bite the corner,” my driver told me, “and you drink it.” Yes, of course. I composed myself as if this were the obvious course of action, bit the smallest hole ever known to man, and squeezed the living daylights out of that bag. Refreshing, indeed.

For bathing and hand-washing purposes, the water here in Sierra Leone is fine. Any water that should go into the body (drinking, tooth-brushing, etc.) needs to be filtered. The filtered options then are bottled water or bagged water, most of which are treated locally. They sell iodine and chlorine tablets in the market, but those means are less effective. Boiled water is safe, and I usually fill up a plastic bottle after breakfast to drink later in the day. I haven’t seen an ice cube in three weeks. And no, I don’t mean the rapper.

I’ve grown accustomed to the lack of running water. It strikes me strange now if I encounter water flowing from a faucet (what are these “pipes” you speak of?). The water pump worked here in the priest’s house for the first weekend, but the machine aptly broke soon thereafter. Now the shower-head just laughs at me. The Lord giveth, and Lord taketh away. At least He eased me into these conditions. But I will affirm that there is something—manly—about a bucket shower. I make no positive claims of its efficiency or enjoyability (not a real word), but there is an inherently primal dimension to simply sloshing water on yourself. I feel like I am tapping into how my forefathers and ancestors survived before pipes and positive pressure and shower heads with 15 different settings.

The word sobriety in the New Testament often means vigilance, the capacity to moderate our desires, to use things wisely without becoming enslaved to them. I’ve had to sober up quite a bit here in Africa, particularly towards my lack of appreciation for the clean water systems I’ve enjoyed all my life. I will no doubt see the world in quite a bizarre way when I arrive home, like Tom Hanks at the end of Cast Away as he contemplates the ice cubes in his drink. And in case you’re wondering: no, I haven’t started having a monologue with a volleyball to stay sane.

Yet.

-Bob
written 06/14/11