| Home : SHARING : Boquillas Solar Pump We would like to thank everyone who donated money to make this project happen. Your contributions paid for the whole venture and even left a little to begin the next. You are much appreciated. We would also like to give special mention to Martha King and Kelly Fenstermaker for the time and energy spent on bake sales, publicity, collection of fabric, and much more. Thank-you. BOQUILLAS, MEXICO SOLAR PUMP AND WIND GENERATOR PROJECT
GENERATING POWER Nine o'clock in the morning and we're floating down the river just past Rio Grande Village. It's a beautiful day. So vibrant, so peaceful. Any fatigue we had been feeling is washed away by the shimmer of river life.
People started hearing about this endeavor and asked how they could help. Every community has its particular hurdle(s) to jump, and there's only one place to start… somewhere. Boquillas has a good well, but the pump is 110 volts ac and thus needs a generator to power it. The price of gas may be high in the US right now, but it's nothing compared to what it is in Mexico. Besides, Boquillas doesn't exactly have a gas station nearby. So, with money raised by people offering help, a solar pump and panels were purchased. And that's where we came in. They needed someone to go over and install the system. "No problem. We'd love to." Thinking of a project my husband has been working on, we added, "Could they use a wind generator? We can build a simple machine for next to nothing." That was on Sunday. Monday we went to the city to buy the supplies for a full setup. Tuesday we came home. Wednesday we put together a wind generator and tower base. Thursday we went to Ojinaga to get our visas. And now, here we are, kicking back in the canoes, watching the sun smile at his own reflection.
Almost reluctantly, we steer the boats towards the shore, where a hot spring gurgles out of the ground. We offload the wind generator, tower, batteries, and tools, along with sacks and sacks of fabric and two sewing machines. The boatmen then start paddling back upstream and as they disappear from view, a truck arrives to take our cargo and us into town. Our driver is the captain of the Diablos fire-fighting team, and he is a man that I instantly like and respect, without knowing why. We engage in the shy, friendly small talk of strangers meeting under good circumstances. None of us know what to expect of each other, but we are hopeful. We drive through mesquite groves, crossing various dry creeks that feed into the river, up into the central part of town. There are about 37 families that have stayed in Boquillas, each housed in mostly adobe buildings. There's a cantina, a small store, and a Bed & Breakfast called Buzzard's Roost. This is a beautiful, clean and harmonious town. All around I see evidence of daily life carrying on, as it's prone to do. Laundry hangs on lines; children play in the dirt; chickens meander through the streets, stopping occasionally to peck at some unseen treat; dogs pant in the shade. It's just like home. There are small outhouses, set apart from the houses, and off in the distance goats graze the hills.
We then continue on to the well, which is situated beside a large, dirty yellow colored building. It is about 20 feet square, and about 40 feet tall. The top 10 feet of the tower is a cistern, which can hold approximately 30,000 gallons of water. There is a ladder inside which takes you to the top and to a spectacular view of the area. As soon as the truck's engine is cut, people start appearing. There must be about twenty men ready and eager to begin this day's work. We split into two teams. The first and largest team handles the well. Many of these men work for the Diablos, as is clear from how skillfully and fast they work together, often without any words needed. They start by pulling the old pump, which is attached to the end of four 21-foot lengths of pipe. This is no mean feat, yet it is accomplished in little time, using no more than hands, pipe wrenches, a truck rack for extra height, and a lot of laughter. The latter reaches a crescendo when the first piece of pipe is removed, drenching those holding it at the base.
The new pump is connected to the pipe and solar panels, and, in order to test it before dropping it down the well, it is turned on. Nothing. Electricity is definitely coming from the panels and into the pump, but still nada. Meanwhile, the second team digs a hole for the wind generator tower, and after leveling the base in the hole, it is concreted in. The concrete has to dry overnight, but the following day sees the tower and guy wires rise into the air. And on the pinnacle of this mast rides a homemade wind generator, which starts proudly spinning in the breeze that has so generously picked up.
It is with genuine pleasure that the group moves into the shade of the tower or trucks and cracks open a beer. At this point, we are no longer strangers, we have spent the day working and sweating alongside each other and a different bond has been formed. We are invited to eat the various meals with different families, which allows this new bond to deepen. We are treated with warmth and kindness, and pretty soon we are all completely at ease with each other. We enhance our Spanish with the aid of hand and body language, and we are thus happy to be the meal's entertainment. The only complaint I have is that we are fed too well… after fresh catfish, tortillas and beans, I have trouble moving. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I know I am surprised by what I find, both on the work site and in each of the homes we visit. This is a proud, happy, independent people. They are grateful for the generosity of others, but are far more excited about the prospect of learning something new and being able to use that knowledge on their own. With each new encounter, each experience, I am blown away. I am so happy I got to meet this community. "Time to go, if we're going to get to Muzquiz before dark," says an old friend of ours. He lives on the other side of the mountains from Boquillas and, when he heard what we were doing, he came over to offer any help he could and to drive us to Muzquiz.
For those of you who are put off visiting these communities because of the difficulties of getting back to the United States, please reconsider. The journey is the cherry on top of the cake. Sure, the road to Muzquiz is slow (about four and a half hours by truck, a little longer by bus, which leaves on Tuesdays), but it is breathtaking. The Del Carmens and Maderas loom all around; lofty mountain passes lift you above a fertile and diverse wilderness; and as you approach Muzquiz, springs and waterfalls sing their song. We take the bus from Muzquiz to Acuna. A three and a half hour journey in a bus that puts Greyhound to shame. Our dear friend is in Del Rio to meet us and we spend the final part of the trip bubbling about the details of our expedition. We arrive home tired, but truly content. If you want to help in any way, we can always use it. This project is not under any association, company, non-profit or any organization of any kind. We are a few friends that believe the world can change through examples and hard work. Any volunteers, donations, surplus fabrics, motors, inverters, wire, pipe, etc. can certainly be put to good use. Please contact either: - Cynta de Narvaez 432 371 2226 or splashpro@hotmail.com |
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It seems strange that less than a week ago we had little to no knowledge of this whole deal. We'd been working on our house, as usual, when a very dear friend - in fact the lady who married us - came to visit. She talked of a project she's involved in south of the river. When the border closed, many of the towns and communities were cut off from an income they had previously relied on, that generated by tourists. Although this situation may one day change, for now it is the way it is, and she has found a way to offer help while still respecting the laws and those who must enforce them. A young woman from Marathon crosses over to the other side, buys all the arts and crafts the people there have made, drives to Acuna or Piedras Negras via Muzquiz, and imports the goods into this country. It's not exactly what you'd call a short or easy route, but it works, and it has the approval of officials whose hands are otherwise tied.
All of us - myself, my husband, and the two boatmen who so kindly donated their time, energy and oars - consider keeping going, floating on to our hearts' content, but it's an idle dream that dissipates when we see the takeout point and remember the work to be done.
The truck pulls up to an unused adobe house, where we place all the fabric and the sewing machines, for the women to sort through at their own convenience.
The solar panels are then hauled onto the top of the water tower. My husband wires them all up and briefly explains that a mount will be needed to hold the panels securely and that can be adjusting throughout the year according to how high or low the sun is. Almost before he has climbed back down to the ground, a group of men have transformed an old bed frame into a precise and effective mount.
There's a lot of scratching heads, pulling and pushing of different components, passing around of the single sheet of pictures that is the pump's instruction manual. One of these pictures indicates that the pump's sensor must be submerged in water before it will work, so a 55-gallon drum of water is fetched from the river. No joy. The sensor is too tall. Even splashing it doesn't seem to help. Only one option, sink the pump in the well and pray. When a trickle, then flow, of water comes out of the pipe, the cries are as much out of relief as celebration. That pipe is heavy and the sun is growing increasingly intense. Two men, who are on top of the water tower setting the panels in the mount, shout that the water is pouring into the cistern.
We run through the basic safety considerations and then get out the multi-meter tester. We show them how to test volts and amps, both of which are fluctuating with the wind. My husband and I are both grinning. It is a great feeling, to see something you have made (and can fix!) yourself, out of mostly scrap materials, producing electricity.
As we drive away, bouncing over the rocky, dirt road, all I can think about is when can we come back. But saying good-bye to Boquillas is not the end of our trip. We still have the ride home.