A few days in the life of a wannabe community development practitioner…

Day 1:

There’s an excitement in the air as the community huddles around the pump, newly made by a local welder in the city. A few of the older men inspect it closely, mutter a few words, nod their approval. A command is given, and the pile of pipe disappears quickly to the valley below. Two young boys sharing a load; everyone’s in. An older man experienced in pipework begins threading the larger pipes, orange ratchet against brown weathered skin. The machine chatters happily through the valley as I smile at Phil; the project is finally underway. This is exciting. We learn the vocab as the pump supply line is slowly repaired: insulasi – thread tape; soc – coupling; nee – elbow. The work goes quicker than we expect; supply line complete, the pump is assembled and installed. It’s late, so we call it a day. We’re tired, haven’t eaten since breakfast, but we’re happy. If we keep up this pace tomorrow, we’ll have water to the blue tank on the hill by lunchtime. We head home as the sun sets, dip into a valley, where a young man sits wearing a santa hat. I chuckle to myself. Merry Christmas everyone. Yes sir. A beautiful sun sets over Sumba, and I reflect on the creation narrative as we bump our way over broken roads. And God saw what he had made, and indeed, it was very good.

Day 2:

The community is already working by the time we arrive. I tell Ferdy how impressed I am by the community spirit and work ethic. 5 lengths of pipe to go before testing, and it’s only 10am. Then a snag: the orange ratchet is playing up, not threading properly. We offer to assist, work out what’s wrong. The pipe’s thin; we need to go slow and gentle. Three hours later, marginal progress, and I look around. Almost everyone’s disappeared, and somehow I’m on the tools. This is not good practice at all. Not good practice at all.. I’m frustrated, tired, hungry, disappointed with myself. I retreat, sit under a tree, smash a muesli bar, and wonder how it went wrong. I’m doubting my ability to empower, I’m doubting the community’s commitment, and I doubt we’ll get the pump running today. Then a turn: sweet black coffee arrives; the community rallies, the pump is ready. Barely an hour has elapsed. The old man is given the honour of starting the pump. He pushes the waste valve with his foot. Once, twice, fourteen times, he tells us. It’s like he’s doing CPR on the pump, but I’m sceptical this thing has a heart. Things like this rarely work the first time. He slowly opens the delivery line and stops pumping with his foot. The hydram continues cycling. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. I let out a WHOOP! and high-five Phil. It’s 5 o’clock, the sun is beginning to set, but there’s a renewed energy. A few small sections of pipe to go, and the thing is complete. Ten, fifteen hands work together. A few words are yelled: insulasi, snee, tarik! The pipe is joined, by morning we should see water in the blue tank up top. I feel the pipe before we enter the darkness home. It has a heart-beat. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. The life of a community.

Day 3:

Phil’s left. We arrive in the village, no-ones around. We’re told they’re up at the spring, where the pump is fed from.  A pipe has long needed repairing, and they’re keen to fix it while they have the tools. I’m impressed by their ownership; their desire to look after it, make it right. It seems a simple task, but four hours later I’m standing with them, knee-deep in water, mud to the shins, trying to re-thread a pipe. We repair it, it breaks a length further down. More mud, more grunting, cussing, frustration. It’s finally repaired, but no water flow. An airlock somewhere. We try to siphon it. Try again. Again. It’s three o’clock, still no water. The community decides to remove a section of pipe and divert water from a nearby channel. We fire up the pump again and wait. One hour. Two hours. My wife tries to call. Haven’t spoken with her in days. I miss her. I need her encouragement. The line crackles and spits. I can’t hear her. We hang up. We wait another hour. Still no water at the blue tank on the hill, so we head home in the dark. I’m wondering how we went from everything working to nothing working in 24 hours. I reflect on my reaction. I have no patience, little tenacity. The community didn’t seem fazed. I wonder if poverty makes you get used to setbacks. I have a restless sleep.

Day 4.

We arrive and check the tank. No water. This doesn’t make sense. It should have got here by now. We open the pipe near the top of the hill; perhaps the pipe’s blocked. I get stung by a wasp. Arg. There’s water dribbling out; we measure it. 1.5 litres per minute. 11 o’clock. We tweak the pump. 2.5 litres per minute. Time check: 12.30. Make a few more adjustments, fix a leak. 5 litres per minute. Well beyond what we need. It’s 3 o’clock. We reconnect the pipe and wait. 1 hour. A young boy rolls up, terrible ulcers on his legs. I offer to take a look at it while we wait. We ask what happened: he’s allergic to dog meat. I’m not at all convinced. We head up the hill to talk with his parents. His friends run up the hill, Dexy walks slowly. Painfully. We ask how long it’s been like this: 2 years. Dexy’s 5, maybe 6. Almost half his life he’s had this. I gently wash his legs, and take a closer look. There’s greyish skin, it’s bubbling. Open red patches, knee to ankle. The skin is hot and any pressure shoots pain up his legs. I ask why he’s not been taken to a doctor yet. Can’t afford it. It’s a week’s wages for transport and the consultation fee; that’s not including meds. A week’s wages for people who don’t earn money. Subsistence farmers. I feel something of the mother’s hopelessness; my heart is filled with love for this kid, and I’m holding back tears as I empty my first aid kit on his legs. I give instructions on basic wound cleansing, tell them to take him to a doctor if nothing changes in a week, leave the $50 it’d probably take to heal this boy. We head back, check the tank. No water. We decide to take the valve back for adjustments, remove the pump. The drive line breaks as we do; there’s water everywhere. It’s 5 o’clock. I’m hungry. I’m tired. I’m wet. I’m discouraged. Everything’s breaking around me, and Dexy. Little Dexy. How many other kids are out there? There’s pleading, and praying, arguing, angry and sad chats with God on the road home. Then it’s dinner, a long, difficult meeting, a quick chat with my wife. 10.30. Tomorrow we’re up at five: a 3 hour motorbike trip across the island to another airport; my ticket was cancelled yesterday.

Day 5:

I read the story about Jesus feeding 5,000 people with a few loaves and fish. Loaves and fishes. Loaves and fishes. That’s all I’ve got.  A few loaves and fishes. I give them to Jesus again, ask him to do a miracle, and re-commit to the task at hand. Tomorrow it’s Kupang, Sabu, wells, home gardens, KPM model, partnership meetings. Loaves and fishes Clint. Loaves and fishes…