I sleep well in Babacar Minté’s small round hut, though I am woken at midnight when he comes in to drop off his rifle after a nighttime hunting excursion in the woods. Since I am in his bed, he gets to choose a wife to sleep with, I suppose.

After a couple Nescafés I wander outside and notice a commotion down by the “forage.” Forage is the French term used for a deep bore well, operated with a hand pump mechanism. They have been game changers in West Africa, where, though there are considerable groundwater resources, many wells, even well dug ones with concrete linings, are likely to dry up during dry the season. Forages are usually installed by some kind of international NGO, or government foreign aid organization in conjunction with the Guinean (or Senegalese, etc) government. They are comprised of two tubes running down a hole about 8 inches in diameter: one through which air is forced down, and another through which water is then forced up, via a pump lever of some kind on the surface. Forage water tends to be good, clean water, because it is pumped from so deep, the only defect occasionally being an irony taste.

The importance of the forage in Doungee cannot be overstated. Since it was installed, around the year 2000, this village of perhaps 350 or 400 people has come to rely on it entirely. They have let their old wells fall into disrepair and cave in, and these have not replaced. Now the forage is the only source of water in the village. I am told that the groundwater here is deeper than it used to be, and so digging a good well is much more difficult than it once was.

Today, I come to find, is cleaning day for the forage. This is an effort involving something like 60 people. First, they pump a bunch of water and fill about two dozen buckets and set them in a line about 25 meters long starting at the edge of the concrete foundation of the forage, running up a little hill. Then a man, an important man who is in possession of the village’s only tool for the job-- a specially shaped wrench-- unscrews the bolts attaching the forage pump to the concrete foundation. Then the pump is walked up the hill towards to the top bucket in the line, as people fill in to cradle the many meters of plastic tubing that follow behind.

When the end of the tubing, and the metal mesh attachment at the very base of the entire contraption reach the surface, the people at the bore hole yell to the people toting the pump head to stop. Then the entire line of tubing, cradled in people’s arms, is positioned over the row of buckets, and washed by hand. People use bits of sponge and plastic loofa to scrub the tubing clean. It is quite an operation, requiring significant coordination. I learn that this job is necessary because the pump device on the surface requires regular lubrication. This lube, however, eventually seeps down the bore hole, along the tube, and into the subterranean cavity where the water is pumped from. The whole system must be washed from time to time to keep excessive lubrication from entering the water supply. The tubes, I observe, do indeed glisten with a dark oily shine of synthetic grease.

My first thought is if they couldn’t use shea butter, or a some other kind of neutral, natural lube. But I don’t know anything. My second, third, fourth, and fifth thoughts are all related to how crazy it is that this many people rely on this single, seemingly precarious source of water, which is currently splayed across a field in the village, looking quite flimsy and vulnerable. The piping could get damaged during this cleaning. How hard would it be to fix? Something else could happen? But it doesn’t, and after a few false starts, the tube is smoothly lowered back into the bore hole. Getting the suction effect started again takes almost 20 minutes. I stand there in awe, as various techniques are employed to get this pump, the sole source of water for everyone present, and several hundred more, to engage. These techniques include pouring water down the air hole and plugging one end while blowing on the other. Then, at once, it works. The pump engages, and water— clean, cool, sublime water— gushes from this simple and yet miraculous device onto the concrete foundation of the forage.

The middle of the day I spend reading, eating oranges and mangos, and hanging out under a shade tree with a few people, watching my host Babacar skin palm fronds to create thin, pliable strands that can be used as cordage. The vibe in the village during the day is very relaxed. This is the dry season West Africa.

In the afternoon I want to see the women’s garden. Jaxanké villages are known for their women’s gardens. It’s something of a counterpart to the deeply engrained culture of rice farming. I remember distinctly the first time I saw the women’s garden in Dar Salaam. It was a seminal moment in the early part of my Peace Corps Service, to come upon this scene of vibrant green garden beds, which contrasted so distinctly with the yellows and browns of the dry season. I was immediately blown away by the work ethic of Jaxanké women, and since have enjoyed seeing similar gardens in many different villages.

So today I take a stroll down to the creek at the bottom of the valley. I go on my own. I can see on Google Maps where the gardens are located and want to take a scenic route through the bush and along the creek. It is peaceful and beautiful. When I get to the creek, I see that it is basically dry; only isolated pools of water remain. I follow the mostly dry creek north until I hear the sound of women chatting and climb up onto a little hillock above the creek bed. As I reach this minor promontory a checkered landscape of deep green vegetable beds come into view. The whole garden area is beautiful, and impressive in the neatness with which the beds are cut, and its expansiveness. Beds of onion, cabbage, okra, tomato, eggplant, and lettuce blanket the flats next to the creek. It is amazing how much gardening is happening here considering how difficult it is to draw water and get it to the vegetables. This whole area is watered from a single pool of brown, standing water. Women wade knee deep into this pool, draw water with a wash basin, hoist it onto their heads, and then walk carefully up a steep bank. Then, depending upon where their vegetable bed is located, they may have to walk a considerable distance through the narrow aisles between plots.

I am told, by every woman I speak to, that it is not normally like this, that the creek is almost never this dry, and most years water is not such an issue. Whether this is unprecedented, or simply a periodically occurring dry year, I cannot say from these interactions. This is why I am going to grad school.

What I do know is that the women here are shooting themselves in the foot by not having any trees in their gardens. Unfortunately this has been the case in every women’s garden I’ve seen in Senegal and Guinea. The land is cleared wholesale, beds are cut, and the whole area bakes in the sun. The beds dry out much faster than they would if they had some good old fashioned dappled shade. It seems to be believed that shade would decrease yields, but it is clear that the limiting resource here is soil moisture, not sunlight.

I walk back up the hill towards Doungee with two women, chatting about relatives, and how they wish they had a water pump. Because I took a meandering route on my way to the garden, I didn’t register how far it is from Doungee. I realize that even getting to there is an investment. It is a real hike, like 1.5 miles, I would guess, and a couple hundred feet on the way back up. Both of the women I am walking with have wash basins on their heads. They walk steadily, but slowly. I tell one of the women I’m walking with that I’d like to carry her wash basin, which is loaded with onions and some other stuff but I don’t know what. She chuckles but agrees and lifts it up above her head. I grab the little cloth that she has on her head and place it on mine, forming a little padded circle. Then she places the basin on my head. I nearly buckle under the load, and I have two use both hands to stabilize and balance the heavy plastic container. It’s probably 40 pounds.

I have a few thoughts as I slowly walk up the hill with the washbasin on my head, laughing but also straining. The first is that this is a really good way to carry certain heavy things. If you have to get a wash basin from one place to another a backpack is not going to help. This is the way to do it. The next thing that occurs to me is that there is quite a lot of technique involved here. I struggle up the hill with a hand on each side of my wash basin. The lady next to me somehow has hers balanced, and walks with her hands to her side. Eventually I am able to walk with just one hand engaged, but never even attempt removing my hands and balancing the load. Finally, as my back starts to get tired, I appreciate that, even with the best technique, carrying a load like this several miles every day requires enormous strength. This is obvious. The women here never cease to amaze me.

Back in Doungee I wander around a bit at dusk and run into more people I have not greeted or met yet. The greetings are in some ways banal, and repetitive, even though I really do cherish each new human interaction. But that’s only for me, from my perspective. For the people I am greeting, it looks different. They’ve never welcomed an American to their home. There has never been Peace Corps out here. I asked Babacar if a toubab has ever been to Doungee, and was told that he saw one surveying the road once, about 20 years ago. That’s the same answer I got from several people. But this surveyor never came into the village Doungee itself, never sat and looked at the stars chatting, almost certainly didn’t speak a word of Jaxanké. I feel enormously lucky to have been placed in the village I was in Senegal which affords me the opportunity and connections to experience a place like Doungee, and to have been made the “toxoma” of a widely known and respected man. I realize how unique my position is in this regard and savor the fact that I get to do this.