The morning of Friday, June 13th started off like any day in my tiny village of Kadiaradugu. It was a bit overcast and cool when all the masons gathered in the center of the village to start work at around 8 am. It marked the first day of work repairing the main well in the village, which supplies water to over 50 people, or 1/5 of the village and sits in the dugutigi’s (chief of the village) concession (large family housing group). Work started by setting up the pulley system that would be used to lower the masons in the well. Everyone was excited to begin work, as most of the masons were eagerly awaiting their first descent into a well. By the time the pulley system was in place, it was 9 am and the hot Malian sun was beating down so hard on us that I joked that we should make a gwa (grass roof) to cover the well area while we worked. I was a bit tired and my crankiness was pointed out by my friend, Hadi, so I went to my hut to make some coffee. When I reemerged with my French press full of Ethiopian coffee it became the talk of the concession. I poured some into a small metal cup and let the dugutigi try it. He exclaimed “there’s no sugar!” and immediately handed it back to me. Knowing Tahiru, my homologue, likes coffee I gave the rest to him. I then let a few other brave souls try it, and all gave the same response – a pursed lip look coupled with an exclamation of “there’s no sugar in it!” Tahiru, however, intercepted the cup each time on the way back to me, drinking down every last sip. He had been observant during my PHAST (Participatory Hygiene and Sanitation Transformation Series) formation of my inability to function in the morning without it, and although he was already extremely perky today, he exclaimed “it’s medicine to make me happy!” He was goofy like that and I couldn’t help but laugh.
We started work again with a demonstration of how to handle the pulley system, lowering each mason into the well one by one, starting with Hadi. He’d worked in the diamond mines in Cote D’Ivoire, which are much deeper and narrower, so it was no big deal for him. He was lowered and raised without incident. Next came Dau, who had also been in wells before. He was a bit nervous, but with his determined face, you wouldn’t be able to tell unless you really knew him. When he came up, Tahiru went down. This was the time he’d been waiting for since I first described in my crude Bambara (local language) how the pulley system works. As my main work partner, we had stumbled through our PHAST together, planning each session by flashlight in the evenings. By the end of the PHAST we had determined the most logical steps to take to improve the sanitation of the village. He’d helped me write the proposal, and it was his concession that was to become the model concession for the village. Although he was afraid to get in the well, he knew that everyone else in the village was too, and partly because he feared we wouldn’t make the quota of 5 masons (we surpassed it with 6), he decided to step up to the plate, putting his fears aside and enter the well. He’s a big guy so it took all the masons with all their might to lower him into the well and raise him again. When he got his feet back on solid ground, he gave me that big dimply grin, with the missing front tooth and sparkling eyes that I’d come to know so well, and said “I wasn’t scared!”, but you could tell the adrenaline was pumping through his veins. After him the other three masons were lowered one by one, so that each person would know each position on the rope and as the watchman.
After all the masons had mastered the art of lowering and raising into the well, and been quizzed on what they learned the previous day, we were ready to get the water out of the well, and lower someone in to measure how much repair was needed. Like last time, we decided to start with the pump Tahiru uses for irrigation in the fields. It didn’t work last time, but we had a meter less to go this time, because we’d torn apart the top of the well. We also had the ability to lower someone in the well to work with the motor. So it went, and the motor was lowered in. It didn’t work at first, so Tahiru was lowered in with it. He soon got it to work, and there was a mad rush of women to fill up their buckets. I was watching a child, Bakary, at the moment, but caught out of the corner of my eye that they were pulling Tahiru out, so I got up and walked over to the well just in enough time to see his head and shoulders lift above ground level. Next thing I knew his head slumped to one side, and he released his grip on the rope that held his life and the seat that he was sitting on flew into the air. Mass chaos broke out. The women and children lost control, screaming, pulling their hair, flailing their bodies on the ground, and making noises I didn’t know were human. I remained calm because I knew there was no way anything could happen to him, it was Tahiru after all, my rock. The one who had taken me under his wing, helped me understand his culture, and believed that I knew what I was talking about when everyone else laughed in my face. He was the one who I talked with late into the night every night about everything under the sun; one of the few who could understand my Bambara, and showed patience and insistence when he couldn’t. He physically and emotionally built me a home in a village so far from, and so unlike my own. As the dugutigi’s son and natural born leader, people came to him for advice. He had a family, three young kids, two wives, a mother and father, and numerous brothers and sisters. In my eyes, he was going to be the next dugutigi. He was the village leader. So, nothing could possibly happen to him. We were going to pull him out and I’d do CPR, he’d be okay.
I tried to calm some of the women and children but realized it was no use. I yelled over the chaos at the men that they had to pull up the pump, so they did. I then told them someone had to go down to get him, so Hadi got ready. They all took their positions on the rope and lowered him down. I ran to my house to get my First Aid guide to get a refresher on CPR. I got my phone and called the only people I knew who might be able to help. Peace Corps said they’d call the Sikasso hospital and fire department, and I called the Peace Corps mason, who said someone had to go in after him. By the time I got back, they were fashioning a new wooden seat to put Tahiru on so they could both come up, leaving only a few people on the rope that held Hadi’s life. Shortly after they threw the seat down, Hadi came back out of the well filthy and soaked, with a look of despair and defeat on his face. We looked at each other like that for a minute while the rest of the world melted away. It was then I knew he wasn’t coming out alive. I walked away from the well, and fell to the ground where I lost myself in the chaos of the village. I screamed and cried, pleaded and sobbed. I insisted that I get in since I knew how to swim, and blamed myself for coming to the village. Hadi and Tahiru’s brother, Nuhu, kept their cool and took turns holding my hands and comforting me while I surrendered to the chaos. The next few hours are blurry, but I watched as his other brothers, and the other villagers came home from the fields one by one and were told the news. They all had the same reaction – to try to get away from the other men to get down in the well to retrieve him. They were all held down, and each time, I sobbed again. I felt extreme pangs of guilt about being sent to this village, and helping start this project. Hadi, seeing my despair, took me to the dugutigi, Tahiru’s dad, who held my hands and told me to look into his eyes. Looking into this wise old man’s eyes, I couldn’t help but feel calm right to my core. He said to me “Dry your tears. Don’t cry. God took my son today, you did not. This is God’s will. Even if you never came here, he would have died today another way.”
At this time, I asked where the mason I’d hired from Bamako to help me with this project was. I was led to the concession that he was in. When I came upon where he was, I found him lying on the ground in a concession outside the main part of the village. He grabbed at my ankles, and sobbed “what happened? How did this happen?” I took his hands and told him that it wasn’t him; there was nothing he could have done. I told him exactly what the dugutigi told me, that it was God’s will. This calmed him down for a bit, but as the lead mason on the job, he felt just as responsible as I did. It was then that I found out his body had been pulled from the well. I lost it all over again, and struggled against them to get back to the village to commence CPR, even though I knew it was too late, but again I was restrained.
As time crawled on, the news spread and people started showing up by the hundreds. The whole concession was overflowing, and people spilled out into my area of the village, blocking my concession door. Although the Sikasso ambulance and fire department never came, the doctor from the nearest CSCOM did, and he approached me as I returned to the village. He looked at me and told me that he had checked out the body and that there was nothing that could be done.
As I wandered around the village trying to figure out where I fit in, I felt alienated and longed to find Tahiru to ask how things would proceed. He was the only one I ever asked, and I trusted him to give me the answers I needed. Without him to turn to, I found myself a stranger in my own village with no answers.
I continued wandering and ran into Hadi. He asked me where I was going, and I stated I’d like to see Tahiru. He said okay, and took me to the room he was in. Before I entered he asked me if I’d be scared, and I told him no. As I entered the dark room, I saw him on the far side, covered with a blanket. Hadi removed the blanket so I could see his face. I asked if I could touch him and he said yes. I took his hand in my own and told him how fortunate I had been to come to his village and get to know him. I told him that I understood that God needed him right now, and apologized for letting this happen.
Tahiru, you were an honest mentor and teacher, an eager student, a driven and encouraging homologue, a loving and hard working father, husband, son and brother. Your enthusiasm, leadership and ever present smile will be dearly missed for all who had the blessing of experiencing your presence.
We started work again with a demonstration of how to handle the pulley system, lowering each mason into the well one by one, starting with Hadi. He’d worked in the diamond mines in Cote D’Ivoire, which are much deeper and narrower, so it was no big deal for him. He was lowered and raised without incident. Next came Dau, who had also been in wells before. He was a bit nervous, but with his determined face, you wouldn’t be able to tell unless you really knew him. When he came up, Tahiru went down. This was the time he’d been waiting for since I first described in my crude Bambara (local language) how the pulley system works. As my main work partner, we had stumbled through our PHAST together, planning each session by flashlight in the evenings. By the end of the PHAST we had determined the most logical steps to take to improve the sanitation of the village. He’d helped me write the proposal, and it was his concession that was to become the model concession for the village. Although he was afraid to get in the well, he knew that everyone else in the village was too, and partly because he feared we wouldn’t make the quota of 5 masons (we surpassed it with 6), he decided to step up to the plate, putting his fears aside and enter the well. He’s a big guy so it took all the masons with all their might to lower him into the well and raise him again. When he got his feet back on solid ground, he gave me that big dimply grin, with the missing front tooth and sparkling eyes that I’d come to know so well, and said “I wasn’t scared!”, but you could tell the adrenaline was pumping through his veins. After him the other three masons were lowered one by one, so that each person would know each position on the rope and as the watchman.
After all the masons had mastered the art of lowering and raising into the well, and been quizzed on what they learned the previous day, we were ready to get the water out of the well, and lower someone in to measure how much repair was needed. Like last time, we decided to start with the pump Tahiru uses for irrigation in the fields. It didn’t work last time, but we had a meter less to go this time, because we’d torn apart the top of the well. We also had the ability to lower someone in the well to work with the motor. So it went, and the motor was lowered in. It didn’t work at first, so Tahiru was lowered in with it. He soon got it to work, and there was a mad rush of women to fill up their buckets. I was watching a child, Bakary, at the moment, but caught out of the corner of my eye that they were pulling Tahiru out, so I got up and walked over to the well just in enough time to see his head and shoulders lift above ground level. Next thing I knew his head slumped to one side, and he released his grip on the rope that held his life and the seat that he was sitting on flew into the air. Mass chaos broke out. The women and children lost control, screaming, pulling their hair, flailing their bodies on the ground, and making noises I didn’t know were human. I remained calm because I knew there was no way anything could happen to him, it was Tahiru after all, my rock. The one who had taken me under his wing, helped me understand his culture, and believed that I knew what I was talking about when everyone else laughed in my face. He was the one who I talked with late into the night every night about everything under the sun; one of the few who could understand my Bambara, and showed patience and insistence when he couldn’t. He physically and emotionally built me a home in a village so far from, and so unlike my own. As the dugutigi’s son and natural born leader, people came to him for advice. He had a family, three young kids, two wives, a mother and father, and numerous brothers and sisters. In my eyes, he was going to be the next dugutigi. He was the village leader. So, nothing could possibly happen to him. We were going to pull him out and I’d do CPR, he’d be okay.
I tried to calm some of the women and children but realized it was no use. I yelled over the chaos at the men that they had to pull up the pump, so they did. I then told them someone had to go down to get him, so Hadi got ready. They all took their positions on the rope and lowered him down. I ran to my house to get my First Aid guide to get a refresher on CPR. I got my phone and called the only people I knew who might be able to help. Peace Corps said they’d call the Sikasso hospital and fire department, and I called the Peace Corps mason, who said someone had to go in after him. By the time I got back, they were fashioning a new wooden seat to put Tahiru on so they could both come up, leaving only a few people on the rope that held Hadi’s life. Shortly after they threw the seat down, Hadi came back out of the well filthy and soaked, with a look of despair and defeat on his face. We looked at each other like that for a minute while the rest of the world melted away. It was then I knew he wasn’t coming out alive. I walked away from the well, and fell to the ground where I lost myself in the chaos of the village. I screamed and cried, pleaded and sobbed. I insisted that I get in since I knew how to swim, and blamed myself for coming to the village. Hadi and Tahiru’s brother, Nuhu, kept their cool and took turns holding my hands and comforting me while I surrendered to the chaos. The next few hours are blurry, but I watched as his other brothers, and the other villagers came home from the fields one by one and were told the news. They all had the same reaction – to try to get away from the other men to get down in the well to retrieve him. They were all held down, and each time, I sobbed again. I felt extreme pangs of guilt about being sent to this village, and helping start this project. Hadi, seeing my despair, took me to the dugutigi, Tahiru’s dad, who held my hands and told me to look into his eyes. Looking into this wise old man’s eyes, I couldn’t help but feel calm right to my core. He said to me “Dry your tears. Don’t cry. God took my son today, you did not. This is God’s will. Even if you never came here, he would have died today another way.”
At this time, I asked where the mason I’d hired from Bamako to help me with this project was. I was led to the concession that he was in. When I came upon where he was, I found him lying on the ground in a concession outside the main part of the village. He grabbed at my ankles, and sobbed “what happened? How did this happen?” I took his hands and told him that it wasn’t him; there was nothing he could have done. I told him exactly what the dugutigi told me, that it was God’s will. This calmed him down for a bit, but as the lead mason on the job, he felt just as responsible as I did. It was then that I found out his body had been pulled from the well. I lost it all over again, and struggled against them to get back to the village to commence CPR, even though I knew it was too late, but again I was restrained.
As time crawled on, the news spread and people started showing up by the hundreds. The whole concession was overflowing, and people spilled out into my area of the village, blocking my concession door. Although the Sikasso ambulance and fire department never came, the doctor from the nearest CSCOM did, and he approached me as I returned to the village. He looked at me and told me that he had checked out the body and that there was nothing that could be done.
As I wandered around the village trying to figure out where I fit in, I felt alienated and longed to find Tahiru to ask how things would proceed. He was the only one I ever asked, and I trusted him to give me the answers I needed. Without him to turn to, I found myself a stranger in my own village with no answers.
I continued wandering and ran into Hadi. He asked me where I was going, and I stated I’d like to see Tahiru. He said okay, and took me to the room he was in. Before I entered he asked me if I’d be scared, and I told him no. As I entered the dark room, I saw him on the far side, covered with a blanket. Hadi removed the blanket so I could see his face. I asked if I could touch him and he said yes. I took his hand in my own and told him how fortunate I had been to come to his village and get to know him. I told him that I understood that God needed him right now, and apologized for letting this happen.
Tahiru, you were an honest mentor and teacher, an eager student, a driven and encouraging homologue, a loving and hard working father, husband, son and brother. Your enthusiasm, leadership and ever present smile will be dearly missed for all who had the blessing of experiencing your presence.
I want to thank the Peace Corps staff and everyone who has helped me through this tragedy, especially the PCMOs, Alkalifa, Kris Hoffer, Alyssa Karp, Christine Sow, and the Sikassokaw.
I just want to thank you
For all of the things you’ve done
I’ve been thinking about you
I just want to send my love
I send my best to you
That’s my message of love
For all the things you did
I can never thank you enough
Feel like I’m falling
Falling off the face of the earth
I just want to tell you
You sure mean a lot to me
It may sound simple
But you are the world to me
It’s such a precious thing
The time we shared together
I must apologize
For the troubled times
Feel like I’m falling
Falling off the face of the earth
~Neil Young
Thanks to the never ending hard work and dedication by two women most dear to my heart, Donna Dunn, and Mel Danaher, there has been a Memorial Fund set up in Tahiru’s name. This Fund will help fund the very water and sanitation projects that came out of the PHAST formation that Tahiru spent so much time dedicated to. As soon as a website is created I’ll post the link. For now, tax-deductible donations can be sent to the following address:
Church of Christ
330 Dorset Street
South Burlington, Vermont 05403
You must put Tahiru Memorial Sanitation Fund on memo line.
Dear Chelsea
ReplyDeletewhile looking for photos of Mali as I am traveling there to see my son Dave PCV with my husband and daughter in December! I came across your blog and to my surprise, there was Dave on your blog!
I just finished reading your poem and the tragic loss of your homologue and village leader Tahiru.
I am so sorry for your loss and for all you have endured.
Your time in the PC and what you have done and will continue to do is amazing and so impressive!
Diane [Dave's mom]