Drinking water

Back at the well of assumptions the small grubby children smile and chat to me in Malagasy. The smallest leaps up to pump my water, she must be about 4 years old. Water slowly trickles from the well. The older girls push my bucket aside for a moment and, after scrubbing their hands by rubbing them against the concrete they drink the swampy water. The same water I was reluctant to wash even my dirty socks in. I realise that I'd been harbouring a final assumption, that the locals somehow miraculously acquired clear, filtered, non-smelly drinking water. The children wipe their hands and faces, fill my bucket and run off joking and smiling.