This is story #12 in the series “Where Exactly is Home?”. The author recommends you read them in order.
Introduction:
“Where Exactly is Home?” follows the story of my parents, my two younger brothers and me, Susan, who emigrated from war-battered Britain, in the mid-late 1950’s, to Southern Rhodesia, Africa.
The effects of this move on our family were huge, as we struggled to adapt to such a different way of life. Only after further upheaval, and more long-distance travelling, did our family eventually settle in the city of Salisbury, Rhodesia.
However, we did not know then that we would not remain there for the rest of our lives, either.
When the family first went to Africa, I, Susan, was 9 years old. My two brothers, John and Peter, were almost 7 and 4, respectively.
Nowadays, as seniors, John and Peter live in England. I live in Canada. Throughout our lives, we have both benefitted from, and suffered because of, our somewhat unusual childhood.
I, for one, still sometimes ask myself which country represents home to me.
This is a series of stories under the title “Where Exactly is Home?” – I recommend you read them in order, starting with story #1.
12. Water, Water …… and Not a Drop to Drink!
I have never underestimated the need for water for humans, and other creatures, to exist. I learned this as a young child, partly from experience. Even though my childhood water problems were eventually solved, I have always appreciated having access to water. I have been amazed, however, as my husband I have travelled across the world, to find places where readily available fresh water is still almost a luxury. I was even more shocked to realize that even here, in this beautiful country of Canada, where we now live, in the 21st century, our government has not yet managed to give everyone access to clean drinking water. Water is vital to the health and well-being of all. So, I am always surprised when I hear a news item on CBC radio, reporting once more about the lack of clean water in the far north of Canada, where Indigenous people live. How can a country as wealthy as Canada, a country that is envied by so many others, continue to permit such a situation? It is unacceptable in these modern times, although, of course, I realize how difficult, and expensive, it might be to reach some of the remotest parts of this vast land. The lack of water sends me back to what it was like to live without drinking water.
Now in my seventies, I live in Ottawa, but many decades ago, my parents and we three children were living in the bush in Southern Rhodesia, Africa, where the supply of water was at best erratic, and at worst, non-existent. Having emigrated from England in 1956-57, our family was in the village of Darwendale, where my father had been sent to work.
Our family was installed in the middle one of three “railway” houses, long bungalows, each on an acre of land, set in an open area in the bush, far from the rest of the village. These houses belonged to Rhodesia Railways and were used to house the families of personnel employed at the tiny railway station. My father was the clerk, responsible for all the accounting. On the one side of us lived the stationmaster, his wife and two teenage boys, when the latter were home from boarding school, and on the other lived the platelayer, his wife and son, Laddy, aged about 8, with whom we children sometimes used to play. These men were the three employees required to keep this railway station fully functioning.
