Morning
The men liked to go early. It was cooler then. Before the heat settled over the valley, the first pumps began to run.
Some sounded from the left. Others from the right. Sometimes one. Sometimes several.
They were diesel engines. Hard machines. Nothing delicate about them.
And yet, in that silence, they were beautiful.
The valley gave the engines an echo.
The echo gave them charm.
I grew up with that sound, so for a long time I did not really hear it. It was part of life. Like the palms. Like the heat. Like the dust.
In the morning, it travelled well. The valley carried it. One engine could start far away, then another would answer from somewhere else, and the sound came back softer, almost friendly.
It never bothered me. On the contrary. I found it pleasant. Strange maybe. But true.
Most of the pumps pulled water from wells. When we went to the plantations or walked nearby, we could see it running out clear and cold.
We drank directly from it. Water from the well, yes. Water from the oued, no. We knew the difference.
In the middle of the heat, that fresh water was a pleasure. We put our hands under it. We played with it. We watched it move toward the land.
Today
A Sound I May Never Find Again
I could probably find an old diesel pump somewhere. But that would not be enough.
I would need the same valley. The same distance. The same silence. The same echo.
Today many pumps are electric or solar. The old sound has faded.
I did not know then that one ordinary machine would become one of the sounds I would miss most.