Water

Water. 60% of the human body. Drink 5 liters a day and you can resist malaria. Dig down 15 feet by the side of your mud hut and you have a contaminated water source. Dig down 90 feet at your hospital and have pure water. A mango tree stays green in a dry, Tchadian wasteland by sending deep roots into that water reservoir producing the world's best fruit in the middle of literal hell on earth in sub-saharan African in March nourishing otherwise left-to-fend-for-themselves kids as long as they can throw stones at, climb precariously to pick without falling and breaking their jaw and femur, or pluck off the mangos using a bamboo rod with a hooked stick tied on the end.

Plip, plop. Can it be? Yes, rain. It never rains in March in Béré...except right before 16 foreigners arrive to camp out in your yard for 10 days having been assured by you that they don't have to worry about getting rained on...which they don't, having passed over a week surviving heat, dirt, packs of kids and limited food supplies. A hose, attached to the house, carries water half way to their building site allowing them to fill buckets and containers, put them in push carts and haul them off to mix with cement and sand to make mortar to place between home-fired mud bricks and start building a new church. After having all been diagnosed with Malaria in the last few days of their stay in Béré, all are overjoyed to have the water fall from the sky again--even if only for 10 minutes--the last night most of them will ever spend in a place like this.

(Is it any wonder God describes his presence as rain as I feel the influence of this group's dedication to prayer by a palpable lifting of the spiritual darkness in Béré...followed by a wakening from my sleep feeling a evil presence and sense of fear the night they leave...and at the exact time their plane leaves N'Djam�na...weird? Yes. True? Oui.)

During the three major operations performed during the group's visit sterile water mixed with salt flows through a tube and into a vein in the patients arm allowing him to be put to sleep for the surgery and survive it. The water then flows through his blood, is filtered in his kidneys and comes back out mixed with waste products in his urine. That same sterile salt water is poured into the wounds before closing, diluting the bacteria and preventing infections. The bloody, vomit covered OR floor is then doused with water and squeegyed down the drain. The instruments are washed with water and then sterilized with heated water under pressure in an autoclave.

I approach the river between Béré and Lai. I have 5 other foreigners inside the truck with me and 15 foreigners along with 3 locals outside in the back. They are covered from head to foot in red dust and diesel exhaust. We've just come from the bush church in Kalm� and are looking forward to refreshing ourselves with a swim in the water. As white bodies immerge in swimming suits to descend down the small cliffs to the tiny beaches along the river, we draw quite a crowd of gawkers...mostly children. I'm one of the first to crash down the sandy bank, rip off my shirt and plunge into the cool, flowing river. I feel it envelop me, cleanse me, cool me, free me, energize me. I pop to the surface and swim against the strong current the short distance to the shallow sandbar that is most of the river. I lay on the bottom with just my head sticking up fighting the swiftness of the water streaming past.

The others soon join me with a football and two frisbees which quickly brings a swarm of naked boys who find it obligatory to place and hand over the privates when standing but are otherwise free to be one with nature. The sandbar drops sharply to about 10 feet allowing spectacular diving catches of appropriately thrown footballs. Soon kids are swarming, splashing, diving, thrashing, clambering, jumping, yelling, catching, tossing awkwardly, smiling, laughing. Two older boys arrive and ask to be given the frisbees. I say we'll see.

Suddenly, in the frenzy, I notice the football still being tossed but no frisbees to be seen. I stop and yell. The yellow frisbee is quickly produced by one of the older boys. No one claims the red one but they say it was probably buried under the sand to be dug up later when we've left. We talk a lot. I suspect the older boys. We're all in the middle of the river standing in 1-3 feet of water. Most are naked so they've no place to hide it.

I see that the soccer ball of one of the older boys is drifting downstream off the sandbar into the current. He's yelling for one of the small boys near by to get it. No one moves. I make my move. I splash through the shallow water and dive off the sandbar. Swimming powerfully through the crisp flow of water I grasp the deflated soccer ball and swim slowly back upstream to the sandbar. He says thanks and reaches out for it. I say thanks and say I'll keep it until he finds the red frisbee. Then begins a stand off of over 1/2 hour. Everyone wants me to give up. I'm surrounded by locals who say they just want their ball and they have no idea who stole it. I say we'll just take their ball and leave. When they find the frisbee they can come to B�r� and get their soccer ball back. They don't realize how stubborn I am.

They threaten to stop our car from leaving. I say go ahead and try...I'll take you to court and I know all the government officials (not exactly true...but a nice bluff). Suddenly, I see one of the older boys in the 3 foot area of the sandbar. A young boy 5 feet away holds up the red frisbee while the older boy shouts out look he's found it. I say thanks and take the frisbee. Then, without giving back the soccer ball I swim across the channel to the rest of the group.

The tall boy who owns the soccer ball calls out for it. I know now for sure it's they who have stolen it. I ask him to come get it. He smiles sheepishly and refuses. They beg for awhile and then walk off. The little boys surrounding us confirm that they are the thieves and tell me not to give the soccer ball back. I give it to the one who tells me that and still wet from the swim jump back in to drive back to dry, dusty Béré where just beneath the surface rests enough water to irrigate the entire area and keep it green and productive year round...instead, we appear to be in a desert...by definition and area without much water...

James