Disaster at the well

After a few minutes of contemplation this afternoon, I decided that I lived long enough in enough of a collective society that my neighbor wouldn’t mind if I used her bucket to get water from the well. 

I was lowering it for my first pass when out of the corner of my eye I noticed the end of the blue striped rope slip over the edge of the metal lip of the well. It appeared to fall in slow motion and then landed with a quiet plop on the surface of the water at least 60 feet below where I was standing.

I had thought of the potential of this happening many times (just as I often contemplate the likelihood of many African mishaps, such as my cellphone falling into my latrine) while fetching water from the well.

What I would do afterward, I had not thought of.

“Shit,” was my first thought after it happened. Followed by, “I can’t be the first crazy Yovo to which this has happened.”

Lucky for me, the four year old knew what to do.

“I’ll be right back,” she said as she disappeared into the front part of my concession. She came back a few minutes later with a grappling hook that seems to be reserved exclusively for this purpose. 

My neighbor who had been watching this entire episode transpire quickly tied the hook to the end of another rope and fetched out the bucket.

“You don’t get water like this in the United States, do you?”