When I first began my sojourn in the barrancas of the Sierra Madre, I had no intention of trying to “modernize” the villages in any way, other than be providing some small medical assistance to those who were visibly in need. It seemed to me presumptuous—and it still does—for an American to assume that radical changes from the “primitive village-life” in the direction of “modern civilization” should necessarily be changes for the better. This is especially so because, for all our modern know-how, we still don’t know how to live in harmony with our neighbors, with our families, or with ourselves—at least if our delinquency, divorce, mental illness, drug addiction and suicide statistics are correct. I came to learn from the villagers, not to show them how to live!

As I became immersed in the village life, however, I began to run into dilemmas in restraining my endeavors to “some small medical assistance.” In Ajoya, for example, a large amount of the illness and death, especially of children, arises because the people bring their drinking water from the same river near which they go to defecate. True, I could dole out medicine for hundreds of cases of dysentery, and I have done so; most of the children get well … until the next time. True, I could encourage people to boil all their drinking water, and I have done so … with the result that one family in thirty has begun to boil their water. But clearly the only significant way to combat the severe problem of diarrhea in Ajoya would be to radically modify the time-honored and picturesque tradition of bringing water from the river. A system of pure drinking water in Ajoya could do more toward diminishing sickness in that village than I could do with all my little pills in a lifetime.

When my friend Fidel Millán, Ajoya’s fat and parasitic bartender, came to me one day last Spring to tell me that a “Comité para la Introducción del Agua Potable” (Committee for the Introduction of Potable Water) had been formed, and was asking my assistance, I was delighted. I never dreamed what I was getting into.

While pure drinking water would be a benefit to every family in the village, rich or poor, it was “los ricos” who were the most eager to establish it, not so much because the water would be pure, but because it would be piped in. The water needs of “los ricos” are greater: they must irrigate their fruit trees, water their livestock, and put down the dust in their spacious courtyards. To supplement the water that their wives and children haul up from the river, they must hire carriers at 50 centavos (4¢) per load.

A group of the wealthy landholders, led by Jesús Manjarréz and José Celis, had therefore formed the above-mentioned committee, and contacted a federal agency established to improve water systems in towns all over México. The government agreed to send engineers to put in a deep well, complete with pumping station and water lines, if the village would raise the first 15,000 pesos and provide the necessary local materials and unskilled labor required.

15,000 pesos (about $1,200.00) may not seem like much in a village with over 700 inhabitants, especially when you consider that in Ajoya, the ten wealthiest persons own, among them, somewhere in the neighborhood of 5000 head of cattle. Any fifteen of those bovine, when fattened, could easily bring in the required 15,000 pesos to get the pure water project underway. (A good cow is worth between 1000 and 1500 pesos.) Apart from the cattle, there is also to be considered the profit these same persons make on the harvests from their enormous bottomland terrains, or from the corn that they buy from the poorer villagers, and resell six months later at 1500 profit. It is these same wealthy persons who are most eager to have water piped into their homes and who formed and belong to the Committee for the Introduction of Good Water. Yet in spite of all this, what a discouraging battle it has been to try to raise those 15,000 pesos! I could have gone back to the U.S.A., got a job rooting out gooseberries, and have earned the blinking money in half the time and with half the sweat that I have expended trying to raise the funds in Ajoya.

The whole story of the Ajoya Water Project is far too long, and too painful, for me to relate. I can touch only on the highlights. My major efforts have been in two areas: first, to convince the rich to contribute in proportion to their capacity; and second, to convince the campesinos to cooperate.

I discovered that my idea, that each householder contribute according to his or her capacity, was revolutionary in Ajoya. The members of the Committee had initially decided to raise the 15,000 pesos by demanding 150 pesos from each of the 100 or so householders in Ajoya. They completely ignored the fact that although there may be a small percentage of the householders in Ajoya, (themselves included) who are well accustomed to spend two or three hundred pesos in a single night’s borrachera (drinking spree), also there is another, much larger percentage of Ajoya’s householders who are lucky if they see 150 pesos in the course of a year. The Committee’s proposed payment of 150 pesos from rich and poor alike was therefore not only unreasonable, but impossible: even the most skillful fingers cannot pick a pocket that is empty! But the ricos were bound to try. The Comité even instated Fidel Millán, the fat bar-keeper, as its presidente (really as its con-man) because Fidel with his lazy good humor maintains an amiable middle-of-the-road position between los ricos and the campesinos and could be sent from house to house to collect the money. Yet after three months, Fidel had collected only 832 pesos (USD$87.00).

The poor campesinos were skeptical of the program from the start, not because they didn’t want good water, but because they were suspicious of getting stung again by their enemies, the rich. As blind Ramón pointed out, “Three years ago ellos came around collecting money for improvements on the school building, so we tightened our belts and chipped in. That was the last we ever heard of our money. There still haven’t been any improvements made, not one! And nobody seems to know where the money went. No sir, I’m not going to contribute one centavo more for the Agua Potable or anything else…”

Old Ramón’s reaction was typical for the campesinos. Nevertheless, as I made my way from family to family, explaining the importance of pure drinking water to the health and even the lives of themselves and their children, pointing out how the incidence of diarrhea goes up every time it rains and the river rises, the campesinos began to override their distrust and agree to cooperate, to the extent that they were able. Many stipulated that they would help only if I myself would keep tab on the money and follow the project through. If it was left to los ricos, they wanted nothing to do with it.

But it was clear that even with all the campesinos cooperating, the majority of the money still would have to come from the minority of the people, the rich. I sat down with Fidel, and we made a list of all the members of the community who should be able to contribute at least 1000 pesos without hurting. The list numbered twelve for certain, eighteen as a maximum. Then I made a proposal: if there were nine persons in the village who would contribute 1000 pesos toward the Agua Potable, I would match them with 1000 pesos (from funds donated for the village health project) to complete 10,000 pesos. The remaining 5000 pesos we would try to raise from the poorer members of the village.

At first I thought it was really going to work. Although the first village meeting I tried to organize proved a total flop (everyone said he would come and then almost no one showed up) I made the rounds to every house in Ajoya, and succeeded in getting pledges from about half the families, amounting to over 3000 pesos. For the 1000 peso pledges from los ricos, Jesús Vega and Raúl Padilla were the first I visited. Each agreed that, “If nine other persons contribute 1000 pesos, I’ll do the same.” I was delighted. But the rest of los ricos gave me a song and dance about how hard pressed they were, how many of their cattle had died, how many debts they had to pay, etc. I talked myself blue trying to convince them, but to no avail. Jesús Padilla, for example, who had been perfectly content to have the poorest campesino pay 150 pesos (the same amount as himself) was suddenly upset that he should be asked to contribute as much as Jesús Vega, who is twice as wealthy as he is. Marcelo Manjarréz, who three years ago handed over 14,000 pesos to a troupe of gypsies for a portable movie show, complete with generator (which he could never make work) regretted that he could not possibly afford more for the purified water than the 150 pesos originally agreed upon. After three visits, I talked him up to 200. The rest of los ricos all listened to me sympathetically, said they sincerely wished they were able to help out more, but regretted that they were unable to afford it.

Early in July, at the commencement of the rainy season, the Nuevo Centro de Población in Ajoya held a meeting at which I was given a chance to talk on the Agua Potable. I re-emphasized the urgency, from a health standpoint, of having good drinking water, and suggested that we reconvene at the close of the rainy season; when, with the harvests ripening and the cattle fattened, people should be in the best position to contribute generously to the project. I encouraged each householder not to worry about whether he was giving more than somebody else, but to give the maximum he was able toward the project, which might save the lives of his own and the other children of the village. My little speech was greeted with hearty applause, and we set the last days in October as the time for the next meeting.