So I thought the story ended as she and everyone else who was at the watering hole jumped in the back of the Living Water pickup to catch lift back up to the village. I stayed behind to wait for there return. During my time there I realized the watering hole was truly the central and source of life for these villages. An older man and young boy arrived to wash some clothes and retrieve water (in that order). Two young men, dressed in “city” clothes with bright white tennis shoes and dapper button down shirts stopped by for a drink. One was very careful not to get his shoes muddy as he straddle the waters edge and sipped the brown water. I was shocked when the other one rose, walked not ten feet upstream, unzipped his pants and urinated in the brush at the streams edge. A rugged man pushing a bicycle loaded with bags of something heavy paused on the road by the hole. The young boy ran to him and gave him a small jug of water he bottled in the soapy water of his companions laundry activities. Community.As we made our way back into Kigali I thought about her story. The acceptance of her water story. Her complaint was not the distance traveled, the unbearable weight on her head as she balanced the jerry can or even process of treating the water upon arrival back at her house. She didn’t want it easier, but she did want it clean. Clean water for the sake of her children’s health. I challenge you to think of Jackiline’s water story the next time your staring at a mountainous wall of bottled water at the supermarket.