Its not about building the well guys- really!

There have been three times in my service that I told someone that I was serious about going home. There will be more I know. Each of the times, I know deep in my heart that I won’t really go, but the urge to escape- either from fear or hopelessness was just so overwhelming that the thought of packing up my hut, dumping my bags in the Peace Corps office in Bamako and asking for a ticket home seemed like the best solution. I’m not talking about everyday homesickness- like on today’s 105 degree Bamako heat- imagining those lazy summer days by the pool at home- making a tuna sandwich on whole wheat bread with chips and a cooooooool glass of skim milk. I’m talking about the first day when I left my bag at the airport and couldn’t find my way through a strange place. I’m talking about the night I got lost in the middle of nowhere in the dark, completing loosing faith in my own independence. And then there was this weekend. I let all the stress of the week build up until I finally arrived at Caroline’s house, explained all of my fears, and worries, and came to the conclusion that the mess I made is too much to handle. My presence in the village is causing more problems then solving. And how unpromising the next year and a half really begqn to look.
I half blame my village, I half blame myself, I 100% blame colonization, decades of mindlessness foreign aid, and humanity in generally. I just wanted to help. They want water sanitation. We had a meeting. What are our strengths? What are our resources? Yada yada yada. We want to fix the wells. Well ok.
Now I’m not a water san volunteer, but I tried my best to get them the information they need. I tried to be optimistic. But working with a committee that can’t even agree on a meeting time was impossible. How many wells can we fix? That depends on you, I answer, if you’re willing to put in the work, the sky’s the limit.
And that’s where the trouble started. Yes, there is Peace Corps funding to help, but there is a limit (as I would find out a little too late). And the cost of fixing one well is a lot more than I originally heard. So the rumor got around village that Aminata was going to fix every well, all, as I would soon find, 120 of them before rainy season. People were so excited that they started throwing money at my committee members to fund food for a training session. I had no idea any of this was happening. But we had a great turnout apparentl; everyone invested their five cents upon the promise that Peace Corps would fix their wells.
After visiting the water sanitation expert, Adama, at the Peace Corps office, I realized that I was in over my head. Way over my head. The resources we need for a project like this, even if we were to fix a dozen wells, are a lot more complicated than I had found out before. He is coming to do a training session at my village, to teach the villagers how to do the work, on Thursday. But with my committee so far away from being able to pull off a successful project on their own, I highly doubt that any quality work will be done any time soon. We have a long way to go. A long way to pull ourselves out of the mindset that the NGO is going to do everything for us. “So how are we going to transport the well doors?” I asked. “Oh, we figured Peace Corps was going to take care of that.” “Where are we going to find skilled workers? How are we going to make a project plan?” “Aminata, you talk too much. When are we gonna get the money? We want to start the project.”
I’ve turned in to Miss Moneybags, the thing I’ve been trying to avoid my whole service. But the thing that is causing me the most problem is the fact that we cannot fix every well in the village. There is a financial and time constraint, and it just is not possible. The result? I’m loosing face and credit, and the villagers are all arguing about whose well will be fixed and whose will be left out. I explain to them in the meetings that this project is about getting people fresh drinking water. We need to do a thorough investigation to find out where it is needed the most. “Yes, yes, yes.” They agree. But then they’ll pull me aside in the market, “But my well will be fixed right Aminata? You’ll make sure that mine is fixed?” “But Aminata, I told everyone in my house that our well would be fixed. I cannot tell them it is not going to be anymore.” The well they chose to fix for the training session is mine (out of great graciousness for the empty promise that I somehow conveyed to them). So now I’ll have the nicest well in town, and my neighbor is begging me to promise that hers will be fixed, even though it’s a 10 meter walk to ours.
Guys, it’s bad. This whole thing has blown up. And as I said in the past, it’s not about building the well. And now, it’s not about building the well. It’s about money and status. And when I try to bring them back to the surface to say, guys, this is about clean drinking water- we need to do more than buy well building materials. We need to organized sensitization activities and water treatment plans… they brush it off. “That’s the easy part Aminata. We need to talk about money.”
Basically, I’ve gotten myself in a mess. I totally regret saying I could help with water sanitation when my expertise and passion is health education. Now these stupid well repairs are taking up all of my time and mental energy. Sure, I could leave the whole project in there hands, but they aren’t ready for that yet. They aren’t ready. And I admit that I don’t know about water sanitation, but I’ll do my best to help. “Next time we get a Peace Corps volunteer, let’s get a water person” they all agree, “someone who can build us pumps and wells.”
So my work right now is worth what you can put on a project check. My presence in the village is to haul in the money and construction trucks. Grown men are begging me, giving me sob stories about their dying mother or missed paycheck. I’ve ruined my whole image- my whole purpose- to help people help themselves. I’ve built them up that great help is coming, and let them down. I’ve let them push me and push me for all I’m worth. And now they’ve come to the conclusion, I’m really not worth much. “Oh don’t be too hard on her. She doesn’t understand Bambara. She doesn’t understand water sanitation. She doesn’t understand. When the Peace Corps guy comes, we’ll ask him. And next time, we’ll get someone who knows.”
Even if it takes my whole service, they want to fix every well in the village, they’ve told me. But why. Really, why? Is that really necessary? There will be enough sources of clean water if we fix a dozen, and then we can think about some other things that are equally as important, but maybe not as expensive. Maybe free. I feel like I am fastening the band-aid of foreign aid, instead of digging through the wound and trying to find the source of the problem. A well might be more of a status symbol, and this project is pulling at the gap between the rich and the poor.
Honestly, I am writing this after days and days of stressing over it. Thinking too much, hiding from people in my village, trying to save my name but feeling ashamed that I cannot pull through for the village or for my own standards of my service. I really, really, don’t want to spend my next two years on this project. My heart’s not into it. But I feel like to make my community happy, I’m going to have to. I am tired of talking about this, really. I can’t explain it all now, but I will tell you that the option of running away from it all and coming home is out. Yes, I’ve learned a lesson, and there will be many hard days to come. Some how, I’ll deal with it. But I’m scared to death about it. If only I kept my mouth shut and defined my boundaries. Then I’d be spending my days with our mothers and children like I’m supposed to. I need some help, some prayers. Hot season has begun. And in our sweat and lightheadedness, we’ve got a big mess to clean up in Dombila. And our little white girl can’t give us everything we want her too. Eh, Allah!