Sentimental journalistic failureby Hannah Wiest
I’m a journalist by trade; I’ve been trained to observe keenly and interview gracefully. But right now, as I speak with Jorge Ceren Ramos, the community leader for Campenaro Numero Dos in El Salvador, I am failing at the trade I spent so much time and money to learn.
I am sorry professors Smith and Gladney. But if you were standing here in my shoes, caked in mud and grease from a week of drilling water wells in this beautiful, devastated land, I think you may fail too. And if you allowed your skeptical journalists’ hearts to be cracked by the warmth and generosity of these beautiful people, I know you’d fail.
I did. And I’m glad.
With some effort, I ask faltering questions like, “So, ah, can you tell me what life was like before, well, ah, before, you know…” and “So, ah, how does the water make you feel? You know, the old water. Are you sick?”
With a little more effort, I see Jorge’s mouth moving, speaking a language I desperately wish I understood. And I have the sense to listen to the translation and write it down in my little reporter’s notebook.
“Life is so hard because we are drinking contaminated water,” Jorge says fervently. “Most of the children suffer with diarrhea. The nearest well with clean water is a 30-minute walk -- and the water jugs are heavy.”
“I bet,” I answer, hoping my nodding will convey that I sympathize with him for the plight of his people.
But how can I sympathize?
When I get a case of the runs, I grab some Imodium and go on with life. When Dani, the curly-haired boy I tossed a Frisbee with days ago, gets diarrhea, he is liable to become one of the 5,000 children who die worldwide each day due to the chronic illness.
When I am thirsty (Yo tengo sed), I fill a glass at my sink, usually tossing part of the water back down the drain.
As I feel myself struggling to relate, I look around for inspiration, some way to understand, but none strikes. Instead I feel overwhelmed and tired. I feel that the sun is hot and know that the hour is late. I hear my teammates bidding adios to Jorge’s people. It is time to go.
At the time when I, as journalist, should be connecting to what Jorge is saying, I am disconnecting. I nod as he shows me photos of men made lame and women made widows in the civil war that ended just over a decade ago. I ask a follow-up question. I write down his words of gratitude. But all the while, I can feel my heart crawling behind that wall that goodbyes build inside of us.
I throw up my defenses to protect myself from getting tethered to this piece of land and its captivating people. It’s something I’ve always done -- when traveling, serving in missions, or simply saying goodbye to a friend. It’s why I often avoid last hugs and last glances. It’s probably why I can play the role of objective journalist so well, understanding just enough to tell a compelling story without getting all sentimental.
But this time is different.
I do not have a flash of journalistic genius. No keen insights or penetrating questions come to mind. I am failing as team reporter. Then again, maybe that is what I needed to do all along…
“Hannah!” a small voice cries behind me. I keep writing. I keep disconnecting.
“Hannah!” the voice cries again. I tilt my ear toward the sound but keep writing.
Can’t she see I’m busy, God?
Can’t you see this is what you need to understand, God retorts, as two arms wrap around my waist from behind, clasping brown hands tight over the button of my filthy jeans.
My mind goes blank. The force of the hug causes my pen to streak across the paper.
Stop writing, fool. You are here now; she is here now; she is the story. I place my hand over her hands. We sway a little. And somewhere in the back and forth of that moment, my skeptical journalist heart breaks.
Two small brown hands will always bring me back to this moment. Two small brown hands have tethered me to El Salvador. And I’m okay with that -- as long as you forgive this sentimental journalistic failure.
Drilling water wells is muddy, greasy work...
That's why we wore our rubber boots.
Dave and Sarah ride in traditional El Salvador style to our work site, a small village called Campenaro Numero Dos about 25 minutes from Acajutla.
Drilling on our first well in Campenaro Numero Dos. This was noisy, dusty air-hammer drilling.
At our first well, we hit water the first day! I was drilling when we hit mud in the morning, and Dave was at the helm when the water really began to flow. We drilled to a depth of 90 feet. Here Enrique, the Salvadoran head driller, ducks from the spray of water that came after checking the recharge rate.
Brandon Baca, our Living Water International team leader from Huston, displays just how muddy this drilling business can be. Nice shirt, Brandon!
Brandon and Jorge Ceren Ramos, the village leader for Campenaro Numero Dos, set the foundation for the well.
Barb, me and Sarah: Hard-working gals slopping mud at our second drill site, an even poorer village called San Juan.
I'm moving cuttings from the drill bit down the mud trench to keep the borehole clean.
Mud drilling at our second well site in San Juan. I enjoyed how interactive mud drilling was. It seemed like everyone had a job to do. Even so, we were not able to hit water here. Two teams had already tried before us and we also left the villagers without clean water. Please pray a team hits water soon!
The well at Campenaro Numero Dos is ready for the pump to be installed.
That is one big wrench! I'm screwing pipes together as we lower them into the well.
Barb working the wrench action.
Nelson, the Salvadoran assistant driller, works with Ali (left), Sarah (behind Ali) and Dave (right) to lower pipes into the well.
Our completed well at Campenaro Numero Dos. Now the villagers won't have to walk 2 kilometers carrying heavy water jugs every day. A well costs about $5,000 to build. This one was funded by the Larson family from Texas.
