This morning when I packed my backpack to get ready to take the dalla-dalla to work I had trouble fitting everything in. Two empty 1.5 litre water bottles took up most of the space. As municipal tap water in Arusha is not safe for drinking (we boil and filter it), Danielle and I often fill our water bottles at ISM where there is a supply of treated drinking water. I started to grumble to myself about the inconvenience of carrying water bottles around, but then I stopped to think.
Last week I read an excellent short novel titled The Cellist of Sarajevo, by Canadian author Steven Galloway. Based on true events that took place during the siege of Sarajevo in the mid 1990’s, it is the story of a cellist who witnessed a bombing from his apartment window, then decided to play his cello at the spot where the bomb fell for 22 days – one day for each of the people killed by the bomb. The Cellist of Sarajevo also tells the story of the day-to-day lives of several people living in Sarajevo during the siege. One is the father of a young family who risks his life every few days to fetch his family’s water supply, because like any person who ventures out into the street he may be shot at any instant by a sniper. I have never had to risk my life to fetch water.
I thought about a friend who lives in another part of Arusha who had no running water at his house for five days. And another friend here who rarely has running water on weekends. Occasionally the taps at our house are dry – but only for an hour or two. We are so fortunate.
I thought of last Friday’s drive out to Maasai Joy, one of the schools where we teach Umoja Ensemble. As Danielle, Tiana and I looked out over the parched landscape (and tried not to inhale the dust filling Tiana’s car,) Tiana worried aloud about the dryness – worse this year than ever before – and whether this could be the start of a new desert in northern Tanzania. And when the rains come, will the soil just wash away because the land is so dry that the water will not be able to seep in?
I thought of the women and girls in the Rwandan village where I was in July 2010, carrying water in jugs on their heads for many kilometres several times a day, and of the celebration that must have taken place when well-builders dug deep enough to strike water under the earth. I thought of how when it rains in Arusha everything is suddenly green, flowers burst into bloom, and people rejoice.
On the way to work I looked out of the dalla-dalla window as we passed a huge tank truck painted florescent blue with the words “maji safi” (clean water) in bold white letters on the side, like a declaration. It made me smile. And as I filled my water bottles at the tap at ISM, I gave thanks for the availability of clean water.
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