St James, Nyamuroro and the failed borehole

The rocky track to descend the escarpment into the valley twists and turns downwards through dense green jungle speckled with yellow and white and red flashes of colourful blooms. Artwell’s pickup groans and creaks as he navigates the tortuous descent, arriving at the crossing of the river.

The rounded boulders of black basalt have been tossed across the riverbed by the flood the previous week, but the low-level crossing was still accessible.

It was obvious now why the more direct route was not useable after the rains, and why we were forced to take this long detour to Nyamaroro. Even so, we made a number of river crossings but none were extremely challenging.

The road, however, was long and hard with every variation of pothole imaginable. We discovered later that the radiator had been damaged from the bucketing and will need repair.

Having left Gokwe at midday, we arrived at the small church of St James soon after 3.30. I unwound myself from the seat, trying to get blood back into my buttocks and life into my limbs: every muscle was complaining. I remain in awe of those who need to do these journey’s regularly. And will never again complain about our UK roads and “the pothole on my road!” All a matter of perspective.

The new borehole at St James was drilled a month ago in December by Rockwell Drilling. It was one of the deepest, and one of the hardest so far. The geology is very difficult with the variation in rock types, including interception of the coal measures. Unfortunately, the rest water level is near 75m below surface. During our test pumping the borehole rapidly dewatered and the pumping was stopped after 15 minutes. It failed to recharge sufficiently during the pumping and we terminated the testing.

I wanted to visit to firstly determine whether the water level might have risen the intervening month since construction, as  this could indicate an improved flow in the fissures, perhaps “opening the throat” of the fractures. I brought my water dipper with me for this purpose. We dipped it. The dipped beeped at 74.3m below surface. Still no recover. Our hearts sank.

When I refer to a building here as a church, it in no ways resembles a typical UK parish church with a porch, a chancel, nave, perhaps a tower with steeple and some stain glass.; Definitely not. Think rather of a large long room, without a ceiling so the metal or wooden struts are seen supporting thin corrugated sheets, with occasional sunlight piercing through holes. A few wooden benches might line a wall, seats for the elderly. But otherwise, well swept clean, and brightly painted in pink or blue or green or whatever paint was available at a good price.

The churchwardens would meet us and proudly take us round the building. And they should be proud because these small buildings would have been constructed by hand, with individual bricks paid for by members of the church.

St James is just one such church of many. They have a determination to bring hope and life and water to the community, as part of the good news of love and peace. It was clear that there was deep disappointment in their faces at the news we had to give regarding the borehole.

However, as we discussed other options, it transpired that the elderly mother of the churchwarden, who was watching from the edge of the group (not understanding a word of our English), had a borehole on her plot. Apparently this borehole, only some 35m deep, could fill a 5,000 l tank within an hour, and never dried out! Now, I hear stories like this regularly and take them lightly. But I raised the prospect of getting her borehole properly tested and if it was adequate, we could fit a solar pumping system there and lay the necessary pipework to deliver it to the church. This was treated with great acclaim. A way forward!

I will include this into the Contract for the Solar installations and our hope is that this variation is viable. We left St James at around 4pm, after a prayer for safe travelling (much required I felt!), and hoped to get back to Gokwe before sunset.

In the tropics of Africa, sunset essentially means the arrival of darkness. Unlike in Europe or North America, where one can enjoy long languid twilights, in the tropics there are only minutes between the sun set and pitch darkness. And driving roads here in darkness is an act of suicide.

Darlington took the wheel of the Isuzu for the return journey, and the poor vehicle was made to dance and buck over the bumps and rocks and river crossings, back up the escarpment, climbing the track and onto the main Gokwe road to see the sun setting over the Zambezi Valley. A glorious sight.

We headed to the Tall Trees Lodge for the night, a bite to eat and collapse, in the company of mosquitos, who also clearly need something to nibble on, and power cuts. But safe.

Thanks for reading.

Sandy Elsworth    26 January 2025.