A Well and a Bucket

Sudan Studies, Number 6 (June 1989)

Despite a year in the north already under my belt, my 'Sudan skills' were still very poor in some areas. A case in point was my laborious technique for drawing water out of the well in the grounds of Merowe mosque. Faced with the 'bakra', a contraption made out of welded iron spars which resembled a large skeletal cotton reel fixed over the mouth of the well, I would attach the handle of my bucket to the rope and feed it centimetre by centimetre into the black hole.

The mosque well was a focal point for small children who were sent to get water. These children would usually transfer their water into my bucket, totally ignoring my protestations; sometimes I would reach the well alone and the children would catch me in the middle of my clumsy pantomime. On these occasions the young water carriers could sit back and enjoy the spectacle and I could practise my Arabic on them, while coaxing my prize out of the abyss.

An embarrassing incident at the well forced me to learn the Arabic word, 'jardal' which means bucket. I had for several weeks been aware of the gulf in style which existed between my timid approach to the art of drawing water and the bold, all or nothing method of the local infants. the boys and girls of Merowe would throw the bucket and rope into the gaping maw of the well, letting the take-up reel spin freely as the rope was paid out. At the last moment a childish hand was applied to the axle in the manner of a brake, slowing the hurtling bucket to a stop just before it crashed into the water.

Inevitably, the day came when I felt irresponsible enough to try this flamboyant technique for myself. My bucket was already in free-fall when a small boy appeared on the scene in time to catch the finalé. Judging that the bucket was near its destination, I grabbed the metal axle intending to stop its movement. I was unprepared for the searing heat of the metal bar which was exposed to sunlight all day long and leapt back from the well head as if I'd received a jolt of electricity.

I could feel the critical eyes of the boy drilling into my back as I went up to the slack rope and began rewinding. It was with little surprise and supreme embarrassment that I reached the end of the rope to find nothing more than the bucket's handle attached there. The boy rather pointlessly tried to comfort me with the words, "ta'al bukra" (come back tomorrow).

My mortification was only complete when the shopkeeper, who later taught me the word 'jardal', followed me down the row of shops to listen in on my transaction with another merchant, so anxious was he that I got my pronunciation correct when I bought my replacement.

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