July 20, 2003

Two Dozen Jerrycan Caps

Dear Friends,

Francis, a friend of mine from the neighborhood, told me that a person has to have "power" to get water at the well. I guess I have power.

On Friday, the water in our compound was turned off. No big deal: the compound has a 200-gallon reserve tank. Unfortunately, our compound manager, Muwonge, didn't tell us until Saturday night. Sunday morning there was no water.

Unfortunately, I can't lift 50 pounds of water. Fortunately, Vicente,a big strong kid from school, was visiting/working at our house that weekend. Unfortunately, I was the only one who knew where the well was and my hair was in dire need of a wash.

Vicente and I set off for the well together. No piece of my clothing matching any other. Add dirty hair, unwashed face and a 13-year-old black child who feels he must walk two paces behind to do my bidding—I looked bad. I wanted to get the job done quietly and quickly. What was I thinking?

The tap close to my house was out of service. That meant we had to go to the well. The well is free, but it was crowded when we'd gone another day at a slow time. This was Sunday morning. Everyone is bathing and preparing the most elaborate meal of the week—Sunday lunch.

As we went down the hill to the well, I could see ten people waiting outside. That meant a lot more inside. As we approached, a gentlemanly older man leaped up and greeted me. He walked the next twenty yards with us to the well area then told everybody else to move aside because I had a jerrycan to fill.

I told him we would wait like everybody else, but he insisted. I said please, we want to wait, they were here first. He was having none of it. Ssebo, babadde okulinda. (“Sir, they have been waiting.”) Nedda, nyabo. Olina emu. Omulenzi, jangu. Oletta. (“No, Madam. You have one. Boy, come here. You bring.")

I realized it was like refusing food at a funeral. Everyone knows you need and want some; get over your American self and accept our hospitality or you will hurt our feelings.

So we stood there, and our smart-looking, rather new jerrycan was passed in front of forty others and filled for us. I looked around at the under-ten crowd with their jerrycans. Some of their cans were missing caps so they had bananas for stoppers. Others had leaks. I know this because I've seen trails of water they leave on our dusty road.

They looked at me and wished they had power like that beautiful white lady (groan). They wished their skin wasn't this shameful dark color. They wished they had smooth hair and wonderful clothes like me. Maybe they wondered why I was so important and powerful. I did.

Usually I like to stay and practice my rudimentary Luganda, but it wasn't fun that day. We just went home. An hour later, it rained, and I washed my hair under the downspout to save water and put out dishpans to catch the rainwater. Going back to the well wasn't appealing at all.

I was glad when the water came back on, but I couldn't go back to not seeing the barrier between me and my neighbors. I've tried to be modest and low-key, but I and my desirable circumstances are as conspicuous as Jennifer Lopez in Gainesville, Georgia.

So what to do? What would it take for the children (and the adults) to see the value in themselves? Yuck, sounds like Whitney Houston.

Maybe this isn't so bad. If just seeing me is such a spectacular event, it will be easy to arrange more spectacular events for them. They were hospitable and gracious to me. I'll go back without the jerrycan, just to talk and be gracious to them—and I'm going to take two dozen jerrycan caps with me.

Peace in Christ's name,

Ruth

Prayers for encouragement and health for all of us would be a big help. It's malaria season, and a lot of people suffer. Imagine bad flu, then multiply by four and add mouth sores. Extremely unpleasant, expensive to treat, and occasionally dangerous, especially for kids.

The 2003 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 44