The fields in dry season.
The school during dry season.
The heat.
The pump during wet season.
The school during dry season.
The fields in dry season.
The pump during wet season.
The brightness and heat of the sun hits me as I walk out of the classroom, instantly forcing my face into a squint and causing sweat to run down my chin. In each hand I hold three oatmeal cans; improvised beakers for my science laboratory. I walk to the water pump in the middle of the school grounds, faltering and slipping on the soft sand. Where there was once grass, there is now only sand. It has not rained in months and the animals have eaten every single spot of green that is within their reach. It is dead silent outside, the kind of silence that can only be brought on by a hot season in West Africa or a heavy winter snow in New England. School is over and the students have all gone home to tend to their chores; the boys herding the cattle and other animals, the girls preparing food for dinner. I climb up on the concrete platform of the pump and place the cans below the spout, then begin cranking the hot, metal handle until a trickle of water flows out. I stop and wash a few cans while the water still runs, then crank the handle again to get more water flowing. I repeat this dance until all the cans have been rinsed. The metallic clanging of the pumps inner workings sound deafening in the silence, echoing off the surrounding classroom block walls.
As I stoop to pick up the rinsed cans, a wind picks up. The hot air tussles my hair and fills my shirt, offering no relief from the relentless heat. Other volunteers call these gusts “oven winds.” The wind moves on from me and rustles through the large Moringa trees that stand in a row near the pump. As I step down from the platform, a large branch from one of the trees snaps and falls to the ground in a shower of leaves and sand. I stare at the fallen branch in surprise, waiting for the afternoon silence to return. As I take my leave, I notice the school head teacher, Pateh Jallow, walking out from the classroom blocks. He carries books under his arm and walks with the determination of a man with much on his mind. He interrupts his pace to stare at the fallen branch, as I did. “Ooh,” he says with a smile appearing on his face, “the goats will be very happy today.”
As I stoop to pick up the rinsed cans, a wind picks up. The hot air tussles my hair and fills my shirt, offering no relief from the relentless heat. Other volunteers call these gusts “oven winds.” The wind moves on from me and rustles through the large Moringa trees that stand in a row near the pump. As I step down from the platform, a large branch from one of the trees snaps and falls to the ground in a shower of leaves and sand. I stare at the fallen branch in surprise, waiting for the afternoon silence to return. As I take my leave, I notice the school head teacher, Pateh Jallow, walking out from the classroom blocks. He carries books under his arm and walks with the determination of a man with much on his mind. He interrupts his pace to stare at the fallen branch, as I did. “Ooh,” he says with a smile appearing on his face, “the goats will be very happy today.”
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