Culture Shock.

On Thursday I arrived in the United States. It's bizarre to leave a place behind and arrive seemingly abruptly in a very different place. To make our transition together a little easier, I made up a list of differences that you might observe. Please try to adapt. ;)

I will speak to you in an assortment of languages. French. Ngambai. And Frenglish. English is no longer in my repertoire.

I will insist on shaking your hand an obscene amount of times throughout the day.

I will be offended if you do not shake my hand an obscene amount of times throughout the day.

I will serve you water when you come to visit me at my house

I will be offended when you don’t come to visit me at my house

I will be offended if you do not wish me bon appétit before I eat

I will insist on wrapping a large quantity of cloth around my head before leaving the house

I will be surprised when church lasts one hour instead of three

I will remark constantly at the softness of cushioned chairs

I will move tables, chairs, furniture..anything..to make sure I am not sitting in the sun

I will insist that you to move to the shade if you are sitting in the sun, (or if the smallest amount of sun is touching you)

I will be cold

I will consider you strange when you only shower once a day

I will shower (or bucket bathe) four times a day

I will laugh when you don’t know how to take a bucket bath

I will sit uncomfortably close to you

I will bargain aggressively for a good price at the store

If you are arriving on a flight, I will talk my way through security to meet you

I will carry things on my head

I will charge my cell phone constantly for fear that the power will go out

I will forget that the power is on

I will sit in the dark

I will store water in various locations in the house for fear that the water will be cut

I will be caught in city parks hunting pigeons..to eat

I will muse constantly on the irregularities of the English language

I will wash my clothes in a bucket on the front lawn

I will sit down on a completely full bench

I will not wait for a place to be made on the bench..but I will sit on top of you until everyone has moved uncomfortably close to one another

I will expect you to share your chair with me

I will transport as many people as can uncomfortably fit in my car

I will interrupt your conversation to point out the imperfections in your skin

I will interrupt your conversations to shake your hand

I will eat with my hands

I will serve meals in a communal dish

I will open bottles with my teeth (ok..this is a lie..actually I won’t and I refuse to try because I like my teeth)

I will talk my way out of a ticket from the police

I will keep a personal stash of toilet paper for fear that...tomorrow...there will be none

I will wear ensembles of head to toe patterned fabric

If you are wearing pants and a fitted shirt I will judge you for “wearing the sexy”

I will keep my bedroom at a comfortable 90 degrees

Warning: Fire Hazard.

Chad likes to keep me on my toes. It’s very nice of him not to let things get dull...especially now that thoughts of leaving Moundou and thoughts of home are confusing my typically stable emotional center.

Throughout the course of this year my room has seen its share of natural disasters. They started small. First there were the ants. One day I opened my door to find a line of ants, five ants deep, trailing from the door to the corner of my closet where they were building a nest. I fought them off with my broom.

Then there were the floods. When my water filter is empty, the water stops coming out of the tap. This is obvious. Unfortunately, when there is no water coming out of the tap, I sometimes forget to close it. Then I refill the thing, leave it in my room, and as it filters, water starts coming out of the tap. I’ve flooded my room three times this way. There was also the time that the whole tap broke and nine liters of water started pouring out of a whole the size of a quarter. This was the great flood.

This past week the spiders were born. There has been a spider (not Grandpa Chad) in the corner of my closet since I can remember. It keeps to its corner and causes me no problems. Last week it had babies. About a hundred. I saw the tiny black dots in its web out of the corner of my eye and was shocked and appalled when my cellphone flashlight confirmed them as offspring and not unfortunate mosquitoes. Being in a high corner of my closet, this time the broom wouldn’t cut it. So I tried to fight them off with my bottle of deet...which didn’t really work. I’ve decided to ignore them. I think Mom might be eating them anyway. Their numbers seem to be lessening.

Electrical Shock. Ok. This isn’t really a “natural” disaster, but I’ll count it anyway. Our generator has been acting up. And since the power’s been out in Moundou for the past three and a half months, this is a problem. We only run the generator one or two hours every night (if there is gas) ...just long enough to charge our phones. One night it started grilling all the electronics. That night my lightbulb and phone charger fell victim to the surge. And the next night I discovered that the charger, although fried, still puts out some juice. I was rummaging around my room in the dark trying to plug in my phone (because I’m used to the dark and it didn’t dawn on me that I could turn on the light since the generator was running) and mistook my old charger for my new charger. I plugged it in and was attempting to plug it into my phone when the thing shocked me. Not too bad, just enough to make my arm tingly for the rest of the night.

Sunday night was the fire. Let me begin by saying that the generator was repaired. I am not that stupid. After the phone charger incident I double checked with my host dad to be sure the generator was stable. He assured me that it was, and that night we both charged our computers sans problem. A few nights later my battery was dead again and the generator at school was broken. So I plugged in at home. Bad idea. About forty-five minutes later the generator made a terrible noise. My host dad ran for it and I ran for my room. When I opened the door, through the cloud of smoke, I saw flames shooting out of my computer charger. Not just smoke. Not just sparks. Flames. Fortunately when my host dad stopped the generator the fire went out. Obviously, my charger is no more. It’s melted and has a charred black hole in the box between the cables. Miraculously, my phone charger and phone, that were plugged in on the same power strip, survived. And even more miraculously, so did my computer. All I have to show for the fire is a seriously charred charger, a black spot on the floor of my room, and the lingering smell of burning electronics.

Aside from natural disasters, things are calming down and coming to a close. Last night I gave my Beginner II class their final exam. The last part is a writing section to test the students’ use of the past tense, “What did you do yesterday?” Usually I get a few very basic sentences like, “I went to work” or “I ate chicken” or “I pounded millet,” but one of my favorite students, Moon, outdid himself...and I entertained. Here is his (uncorrected) response:

Yesterday when I woke up I made the toilet and I took the breakfast. After the breakfast I left to the office. At half past one that was the pause. After having finished with the work I was at the land of basketball to distract me. At half past six I followed a broadcast titled question for a champion in the TVs. After this broadcast the sleep carried away me.

Disclaimer: If you didn’t follow this paragraph you might not understand me when I get home. My Frenglish has taken a turn in this direction.

Food.

I eat food. In fact, you could call me a professional food eater. My job description should read: The SALTer is expected to teach English classes, live with a local host family, learn culture, and eat food.

Ok. I’m exaggerating a little. And the food eating could technically be categorized under culture learning. But it’s just so important I think it deserves its own separate mention. Food is a huge part of culture. In Tchad it is sustenance, hospitality, welcome, community, and ceremony.

Sustenance. Most of us live to eat...while the rest of the world eats to live. I once made a comment to my friend Eunice about how much food Chadians eat. She told me, “we eat a lot when we have food so our bodies store it up for when we don’t.” And that is true. I live in a middle class, educated household and there are not worries about going hungry. But the majority of the Chadian population is not middle class and educated. The climate is harsh, the dry season is long, and famine has been, and is, a real thing. Tea and coffee are sugared with at least four cubes—energy for the hot day. Meat is precious—not a part of it is wasted. And if there is food, it is eaten. Eating an hour before at a friend’s house means eating your own part of your missed meal upon returning home. We eat now when there is plenty.

Hospitality. Food is shared with guests, visitors, or the stranger who happened to drop by. And there is enough. It is made to be shared. If you find yourself somewhere else at mealtime you stay to eat. It would be rude not to. No questions.

Welcome. In the event of visitors, from near or from far, a feast is prepared. Now. I say feast speaking from my own observation. The amount of food and the preparation of a mass quantity of food for visitors is simply seen as normal. But still. I call it a feast. Killing a pigeon for a guest means they are welcomed with open arms. White pigeons are reserved for very special people. The chicken gizzard is also a form of welcome. It is always given to the guests in the event that a chicken has been killed for them.

Community. Food is communal. Food is shared. If I am eating I will tell you to “avancer” that’s to say, come join me! In most cases, food is shared from one communal dish. Eating at choir practice means forming groups of eight around the platter of rice and sauce, squatting on the ground, and eating with our hands.

Ceremony. If someone is married, we eat. If someone dies, we eat. It’s someone’s birthday? We eat. There is a meeting? We eat. Regardless of the occasion, food is always involved.

All this to say, I’ve done my fair share of eating. And I’ve eaten a lot of things I’ve never eaten before. Some things I’ve enjoyed. Some things I haven’t. But I digress.

Sauce. Everything in Chad is served with sauce. We eat rice and sauce, boule and sauce, sometimes bread and sauce. The most popular and commonly served sauces have the consistency of snot (and usually they are green.) They take some getting used to.

Long Sauce. This one deserves its own category. It is the most preferred sauce but is rarely made. It is a special occasion sauce and it is said, if a woman can make long sauce, she is a good woman. The base of long sauce comes from a plant. When water is added to the leaves, they form a goo. The goo is collected and put into the sauce. It is this goo that gives long sauce its name. The sauce stretches so long that you need to cut it, or break it, before taking it from the dish. Long sauce is also a catch-all. Anything and everything can be added: fish, meat, legumes, oseille, anything, and everything. It is “cooked” by taking four or five burning coals, throwing them into the kettle, and putting the lid back on. Shake it around a bit, take out the coals, and it is done.

Goat. I’ve eaten and enjoyed many Chadian goats. The meat is delicious. The parts take some getting used to. Among the many indistinguishable parts, I know I’ve enjoyed liver, heart, intestines, and sauce made from the head.

Sheep. Is a lot like goat. The meat tastes a little different. The parts taste about the same. It is delicious served over couscous.

Gazelle. Is my favorite wild animal I’ve ever eaten. The meat is tender and juicy. And really—how many Americans get to eat gazelle?

Biche. This is similar to Gazelle, but smaller. It is also a wild animal from the bush. Gazelle is better.

Bite-sized birds. These birds are bird shaped. And they are literally bite-sized. I passed up my first opportunity to eat them. But the second time around I figured why not and when else? The feathers are removed, but that is all. They are cooked up, nicely seasoned, and popped in—one bite. And in fact, they are delicious. The head is the best part. I think the juices must soak into the brain. They are nice and crunchy and if you don’t think about the fact that you’re crunching up bones, you forget that you are. My three year old friend Bonté has her favorite parts. She picks through the bowl and eats the heads and feet.

Gizzards. As I mentioned before, guests are welcomed with gizzards. I’ve eaten more than my fair share. To be honest, the gizzard is not that bad. The flavor is good. The consistency is funny. Life got a lot easier once I stopped trying to cut mine up into small pieces. It’s better eaten in one bite. Cutting is a futile effort.

Crickets. There’s not much explanation for this one. Big, black, juicy crickets are fried up and eaten like potato chips. They’re nice and greasy and salty and crunchy. I actually kind of like them...although they do kind of have a crickety after taste.

I am an eater. And I’ve enjoyed the experience. Eating the food makes me more of an insider. Refusing the food makes me more of a stranger.

Blog. Blog. Blog.

I’m teetering on the edge..here between the end and the beginning. And here it seems the End is just as Big—just as momentous—as the Beginning. In two months I will say goodbye to Tchad. In two months I will say hello to a wide open, infinite possibility, rest of my life that’s waiting for me at home. I don’t have a plan. Well actually I do. (Win a game show and hike the Appalachian Trail. Seriously.) And I lately I find myself in a constant state of inner emotional conflict.

Me1 “Woohoo. I only have two more months! I’m going home sooo soon!

Me2 “Two months is not long enough. When I leave I might never come back. It’s too soon.

Me1 “Too soon!? It’s not soon enough. Hurry up and pass already. Let’s go. Family to hug. Friends to see.

Me2 “I have a wonderful family and friends here! How can I leave them definitively?

Me1 “no more sweating, normal bowels, cool weather, electricity, PANTS!”

Me2 “TCHAD.”

But the time will pass—as that’s what time does—and I will live the next two months and the adventures that await me within them. And then I’ll go home. And I’ll miss Tchad. And I’ll be happy. And I’ll be changed. And I’ll want to come back. And I won’t. And I’ll have a lot of stories to tell. And a lot of people to miss. There are always people to miss.

I’ve written about a lot of things over the course of this year but I feel like I’ve neglected the day to do day. The mundane. The real life. And that’s what I experience each day. The day to day is what is beautiful, difficult, challenging, and fulfilling. The day to day is what this year has been, and the day to day is what these next two months will bring.

The mundane.

I am teaching. I enjoy teaching. Sometimes I don’t enjoy teaching because I would have rather continued my nap. But this is nothing new. I arrive at school by bicycle after dodging the many obstacles along the route (see ‘An Ode to the Animals’) and sometimes the disrespectful young men that like to run into the road to touch my arm as I pass. On these days I arrive at school with a severe case of road rage. It is quickly calmed by the greetings and smiling faces of my colleagues and students. I am hot when I arrive at school. I find something small to fan myself with. We make small conversation about la chaleur (the heat) and how we are supporting it. Sometimes I get tired of hearing myself talk and I wonder if my students do too. Sometimes the blackboard falls off the wall. This is very dangerous. I am always covered in chalk.

In the evenings we learn from English For the Sahel. It’s actually a great book because it is relevant to life here. We learn things like ‘mother is pounding millet near the kitchen’ and ‘Aichatou and Rakia will take a donkey cart to the main road. They will take a bush taxi to the hospital’ In my morning class my students can’t afford to buy English For the Sahel. I have to get creative. We learned a lot of grammar the past few months. This is boring. So I acquired a copy of a Boxcar Children book and we started reading it. They like it because it’s real English..not language book English. Challenging, but good.

At home I relax. I try to be helpful. I’m usually hopelessly awkward at being helpful and wish that culture wasn’t something that takes a lifetime to learn. I laugh at my hopeless awkwardness and so does my family. It’s a good joke. I love my host family. My brothers are wonderful and always making sure I don’t forget the special Chadian handshake where you snap your fingers after shaking hands. They play American music on their cell phones and tell me to dance. I dance awkwardly or tell them I am tired. They laugh. Sometimes my sisters get frustrated with my incompetency in the kitchen. I am American and I learn by specific instruction. There is no specific instruction here. ‘Prepare the onions and garlic and put them in the pot’ is all I get. Unfortunately I don’t know what we are preparing or how much of said onions and garlic would be appropriate for the mystery dish. I think it’s just always the same and everyone knows that..except me. So I ask questions. But they are never answered. And I am awkward. And I am inwardly offended that the women have to be in the kitchen while the men sit around.

Mangoes are delicious. Chicken is delicious. Meat soup is delicious. Actually..all of the food prepared at my house is delicious in its own way. It’s food. I have even acquired a taste for stringy snot like sauces.

I named my bicycle Dale. He looks like a Dale. Dale is always broken. He’s sensitive. I take Dale to the bike guy at least once a week. I have seen Dale through four innertubes, one tire, six pedals, and countless other small repair jobs. Dale has an imported cushy seat (Thanks Mom and Dad) Dale would be easier to ride in pants. But I’m not looking for any extra attention along my route.

I sing in the choir at church. I love the choir. Sometimes the weird feet kicking choreography we do confuses me. Especially when we are singing in Ngambai. 100+ degree heat does not mean abandoning the long sleeve choir robes. This is too bad. I’ve had a heat rash since April 1st.

That is the mundane. And it is beautiful. It is filled with people—with relationships. And that’s the whole point of this year anyway. Relationships. And living together, side by side, bearing with one another, and hoping to better understand one another.

2 months----

And we danced in the rain.

Chad’s climate is made up of two seasons—the rainy and the dry. For the past six months I have lived through the first dry season of my life.

The beginning of the dry season is welcome. When the rains stopped last October things got a lot easier. Roads that were once lakes became roads once again, mud became dry ground, the mosquito population decreased, and my route to school changed from a roundabout route around the water to a straight shot to the school. January and February brought nice, cooler weather—a welcome break from the fierce Chadian sun. But January and February came to a close and March and April brought heat.

The hot season in Chad is an experience. March isn’t bad. The day is hot, but the night is cooler. The winds of harmattan keep the air moving enough. But the winds kick up the dust—the sand—and it covers everything. Water is scarce. And April brings the real heat.

When April arrived several weeks ago, it made itself known. The sun heated things up to over 40 degrees Celsius and the nights brought less and less respite from the heat. And to make sure I felt the heat...I mean really felt the heat...the power went out...for the month. The big generator that provides power to the city of Moundou was broken. Heat is one thing. Heat with no fans, no light, and no cold water to drink is another. And then there was my bedroom...

Nice buildings in Chad are made brick by brick, then covered in cement. My bedroom is a nice building. But take a cement box and put it in the sun on a 105 degree day...then sleep in it. At 101.8 degrees at night, according to my body temperature thermometer, my bedroom was running a fever. And I wanted no part of it.

Most Chadians sleep outside in the hot season. And so I joined them. We laid out our mats on the hot sand, under the stars, and prayed for rain.

Easter Monday was the day of the presidential election in Chad and so a jour ferié. Everything was closed and most people stayed at home observing their right not to vote (since there really was no opposition.) It was a good day. Rose came over and we enjoyed some chatting, some mangoes, and a nap in front of my fan thanks to the miraculous return of the electricity.

When we woke up from the nap the clouds on the horizon were blue, black, thick with rain. The wind picked up and the sand added a yellow, red, brown haze to the rolling thunderheads. Rose and I sat outside on the veranda. We felt the sand on our skin, in our hair, in our teeth, and we waited.

And then the rain came...drip. drop. a little. A LOT. And we danced in the rain. And the rain was thick and the wind was cold and we were alive.

My sisters sat on the veranda and laughed at the nasarra’s playing in the rain. But my fifteen year old brother Roland came running out of his room—in his short, tight, pink spandex underwear—he cartwheeled, ate a mango off the mango tree, dove into the mud, and drenched us with a bucket full of water.

The rain was wet. And the air was clear. Clearer than it had been in six months. And we could see. And breathe deep. Life was restored. Green. Washed clean by the rain. The dust and death of the heat was wiped out. Trampled down by life from the sky.

Christ is risen, bringing life to the earth. Happy Easter.

An Ode to the Animals.

Dear Grandpa Chad,
We’ve been through a lot together. And you’re a nice guy...as far as friendly house spiders go... Your hunting habits keep my room insect free and your gimpy leg reminds me of Finding Nemo...But if you keep splaying yourself out by my closet (or on my toilet paper) you’re gonna meet my shoe.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Goat,
Please look both ways before crossing the road. This will prevent any further instances of being caught between three speeding motos and my oncoming bicycle. My brakes don’t work and I don’t have the money to pay for you if I run you over.

Dear Mr. Cow,
I’m not quite sure which end of you is safer..the front..or the back..but since I have chosen the front, please do not buck me off my bicycle into the well.

Dear Mr. Cow’s Brothers,
Please stop chewing your cud in the spot where I park my bicycle. You’re in my way and I’ve got to get to class..my students are waiting.

Dear Christmas Goat,
I’m sorry we ate you. Although you were delicious. I just wish I hadn’t walked into the kitchen that morning to see the young boy clutching your severed head...and I wish equally I hadn’t eaten severed goat head sauce two days later.

Dear Very Pregnant Goat,
You look like you swallowed a tire.

Dear Momma Duck,
Please keep your ducklings in line and out of the road. I couldn’t bear to run one over with my bicycle. They’re very cute, but they remind me too much of my pet duckling Zaccheus that Kassy and I rescued from the suspension bridge last year. Kassy killed him with her laptop and I can’t bear another tragic duckling death. It’s just too soon.

Dear Camel Herd,
Please limit your road crossing to days when I am not taking a bus trip. Going from 60 to 0 in a middle row jump seat isn’t good for me when I’m folded over sleeping...or for the guy sitting in front of me that I head butted.

Dear Mr. Rooster,
I will not feel bad about eating you. In fact, I can’t wait. STOP CROWING OUTSIDE MY WINDOW...IN THE MIDDLE OF THE AFTERNOON...WHEN I’M TRYING TO TAKE A NAP!

To the Over Abundance of Flies,
I give up.

A Visitor from the States.

In January Dad bought a plane ticket...and last week he came to Tchad. It was a crazy colliding of worlds...something that I still haven’t completely wrapped my mind around. But he was here. There are pictures to prove it.

I went to N’djamena on Thursday. Dad arrived on Friday night around 9:30, and after some strategic talking and friend making at the airport, I made it to the back where he was and got him through customs with no problem. We took the bus to Moundou the next morning. Which was a pretty uneventful trip (especially in comparison to his bus trip back...but you can ask him about that one.) We arrived in Moundou around 3:30 in the afternoon and were greeted at the bus station by my brother Roland and sister Larissa. A moto for me, one for my Dad and a moto taxi for my dad’s two suitcases and we were home. Over the next few days we went to church, went to school, visited the market, visited the artisan shop (where I met a new friend and had a sitar made for my Dad in two days), walked around town, ate lots of food, and of had a lot of good time to talk...in the moonlight...because the power was cut the whole time he was here. It was a great visit. Dad stayed well, got to meet my family and friends here, and got to see Tchad. This year will be hard to explain...it’s not something that is easily put into words...so I’m grateful that someone has at least spent a few days here and seen it for themselves.

Tchad is more like a desert than one would expect. There are camels. There is sand. There is dust in the air...and it sticks to you when you sweat...so...all the time. Now we are in the midst of the hot, dry season. The water is cut a lot. Everything is dry. But there are the mango trees. Mango trees amaze me. They bear fruit in the midst of the drought. Right now they are heavy with mangoes...almost ripe. And they’re everywhere. I don’t have any philosophical meditations on the desert and the mango trees. No insights to share. Just an observation...and a window in the world I find myself in at this point and time. Last week http://sacredspace.ie’s homepage had a meditation on the desert. I enjoyed it so I’ll pass it along.

The scholar John L. McKenzie SJ describes how the roots of Christian (and Jewish and Muslim) faith grew in ‘the desert wastes of Syria and Arabia, which seem to stretch into infinity’. The Chosen People were in those wastes for forty years. Jesus himself recapitulated that experience of his people, by going into the wilderness for forty days. And Christians, following him, starting out on the forty days of Lent each year enter that desert experience too. But, in truth, our own day-to-day mundane lives often have something of that desert reality about them. What happens out there, in the real, or in the man-made deserts of today? Between the desert floor and the desert sky, life is stripped of all its artificial props, brought down to its essentials, in the effort to remain alive and avoid death. Vulnerable and exposed in that setting, we might also feel particularly threatened or tempted, as if surrounded by malignant forces in the swirling windswept sands. Such was the actual desert experience. But, more than this and above all, it was the place where the Chosen People experienced God: at Mount Sinai they were drawn into a Covenant relationship. They could never forget that. In the desert - our illusions taken away, leaving us exposed and vulnerable - we find, not nothingness, but the living God. God before us, God with us, the God of fidelity, and truth, and love. ‘Lord, you have found us in the wilderness, you have surrounded us, lifted us up, and kept us as the apple of your eye’. (cf Deuteronomy 32: 10)

I love you all.