Thanksgiving pie.

A Thanksgiving without pie is simply no thanksgiving at all...even when you are half way around the world. While I didn’t get to eat pumpkin pie, or watch David Letterman guess which pies his mother made this year, or dress up like a Pilgrim or Indian for Thanksgiving dinner, or reenact the slaughtering of the Thanksgiving turkey with my Aunt and cousins, I did have pie. Delicious pie.

The original plan was to cook a Thanksgiving meal. That fell through the cracks when Pastor Sem and his wife Eunice told us they would be traveling the week of Thanksgiving...they are the only people we know in Moundou who own an oven. Plan B: get creative. On Monday, Rose and I found ourselves with some unexpected free time in the morning and got to talking about Thanksgiving. After some brainstorming, and a trip to Cybersat for some googling, we decided to try our hand at papaya pie, sans* oven.

Our first task: trip to the market. We visited the grande marché early Tuesday morning. Unfortunately it was a little too early in the morning and most of the vendors were just opening up shop. In spite of the hour we checked farine*, sucre*, beurre*, and noix de muscade* off our list. Wednesday afternoon after class we stopped in at the petit marché down the road from my house. Here we picked up l’huile*, and visited the poultry section...aka...the shack full of chickens, for des oeufs*. We also searched in vain for brown sugar...and when Rose returned to the grand marché they had just sold the last of it...so we made do with yellow sugar instead. Cannelle* came from Naomi in Ndjamena via Levy mail (Levy is our MCC country rep who came to Moundou for a visit) and the ever important papayas came from the trees in my yard.

The only problem with celebrating a foreign holiday is simply that...it’s foreign. No day off. With little free time during the day, Rose and I decided to veiller* to cook the pies. For Thanksgiving pie you do what you gotta do.

We started cooking around 21:00. Around 21:30 the power went out...and didn’t come back on. We cooked by headlamp. ** Peel papayas. Mix with sugar and spice. Simmer. Mix with egg. ** Sift flour. Mix with butter, oil, salt, lemon, water. ** Press crust into frying pan (the only round metal thing we could find.) Pour in filling.** Bake for 1 hr...or 2½hrs with a make-shift metal pot oven over charcoal with a frying pan pie suspended on rocks inside. ** Delicious. ** At 3:00am we had successfully made two papaya pies...one of which we ate for breakfast the next morning. The other, we shared with our English students in the afternoon.

Campfire pies...Thanksgiving miracle number 1. If there is a number 1 there has to be a number 2. Our second Thanksgiving miracle came Thursday afternoon. Luck would have it that Levy was in town and planning a visit to two villages with my host Dad and his organization BAOBAB (BAOBAB is one of MCC’s partner organizations who works with food security in rural villages) and asked Rose and I to come along. What could be more appropriate than talking about food security on Thanksgiving...a holiday with its roots in sharing resources and food. We greeted one another, chatted food security, visited the fields to evaluate the growth of manioc, tomatoes, peppers, etc. and then shared a meal together. And the first thing on the menu?? Wass in Ngambai or melon in French...whichever language you use, it’s the closest thing to pumpkin you can find in Chad. Pumpkin...Thanksgiving miracle number 2. We shared our pumpkin, sugar cane, chicken and boule from a communal dish...across cultures...with an abundance of gratefulness for the food and company we have to share. This year in Chad, Thanksgiving was well kept.

Farine: flour

Sucre: sugar

Beurre: butter

Noix de muscade: nutmeg

L’huile: oil

Des œufs: eggs

Veiller: to stay up

The Illusion of Control.

I am out of control. Well, not really…don’t get worried. But I have been thinking a lot about control…and the control and structure that we build around our lives. Surprises and uncertainties have no place in our boxes. We know the cause and effect of all things, we have a solution for all problems, and we have tamed the world around us and built our own controllable world within it…wouldn’t want anything messing with our five year plan. Our lives are our own and we will sustain them.

Now…I’m not saying that all control is bad. Just a little jest about our propensity to become our own gods. Our western world “control freak” disorder has led us into this illusion of total control. It’s like the reckless teenager whose youth gives him a sense of invincibility. The invincibility that, in the western world, we never seem to grow out of.

Contrast. I have lost the illusion. Being dropped in the middle of a completely new and different cultural milieu helps, but Chad really isn’t a place where one maintains an illusion of control. For instance, I’ll be surprised if I make it through this year without getting run over by a moto. Sometimes I think they drive straight at me on purpose…like one has said to the other, “let’s play chicken with the Nassara* on the velo*…see what she does.”

I’ve also heard that Moundou is the third worst city in Africa for malaria. My host mom says that malaria is the welcome for all strangers who come to Moundou. I told her it’s not a very good welcome. She laughed. Now, I haven’t fallen* sick with the fateful palu* yet…and I am taking prophylactics…but really, it’s only a matter of time. Sickness in general is something to be concerned about here. Lots of microscopic creepy crawlies that want to get inside you (and I don’t suggest hosting them in your liver.)

Death happens often. “La place mortuaire” was one of the first French phrases I learned. A few weeks ago my host mom had to choose between two funerals that were happening at the same time. If I had to guess the amount of family members or close friends that someone in my host family has lost since I’ve been here…it would be upwards of fifteen. I’ve been here three months.

All this to say...safety and danger, sickness and health, life and death…here…are much more acute. And I find myself in the realization that I am not my own sustainer…and I cannot hope to be. I am out of control. With this new realization, this heightened sensitivity to a need for a sustainer, I have found myself seeking my God and my sustainer with a more genuine depth of need. I realize that each day, moment, each sortie* it is God that grants me safety, health, and life…because on my own, I would not survive.

…Which gives me pause…

Does this mean I have less need of a sustainer in my US life? No. It only means that I am more blind. The depth of need, the intensity of vulnerability is consistent. Which is why our illusion of total control is so dangerous…our need is not as apparent. But who has sustained us? Who has thought well to situate us in a place where we have the knowledge or means to cure disease, or to organize a safe and healthy public sphere? And who protects us in our planes, trains, and automobiles? Our God, creator, sustainer, and life-giver. Chad has taken away my blinders. I see more clearly the need to be grateful in all instances and more conscious that I am not my own god. It is this realization that I hope to carry prayerfully throughout my time here in Chad and my life when I return. Be thankful to God for the life he gives us, and seek his blessing, healing and protection in all circumstances.

Nassara: white person

velo: bicycle

fallen (sick): in French, you fall sick…or tomber malade

palu(disme): malaria

sortie: going out

Daily Life.

Life in Tchad starts at 6:00am. Well…actually earlier for most people but 6:00 is when I get up. Waking up has never been my strong suit…and I still entertain the idea of staying in bed for fifteen more minutes…but it is a little easier here. At 6, the sun is up, the roosters are crowing, dishes are being washed, fires started, and my host mom is shouting instructions across the courtyard. It’s enough to remind me that I need to get up…can’t be lazy while everyone else works.

Once I drag myself out of bed, lave ma figure, and throw on a pagne I search for things to do. Everyone seems to have their tasks and I am still finding my niche in the morning chores. It is my job to set the table for breakfast, sometimes I help sweep the courtyard, and one time I almost got make the eggs…but my sister did it for me when I didn’t know where to find a bowl, frying pan, or whether to cook them over the fire, the coals, or the little gas stove. I’m still learning…hopefully cooking the eggs will be my job soon.

I eat breakfast around 7:00 with my host parents. Guests, older siblings who are visiting, and sometimes my little brother Roland will join us, but it is not typical for a Chadian family to eat together. The children share their part and the adults share theirs. Breakfast consists of a thermos of hot water to be mixed with your choice of: Nescafe, tea, Nido (milk powder), Matinal (chocolate milk powder), or all of the above. I take my Nescafe sans sucre which my host parents always like to point out to all of their friends. My non-sugared instant coffee is very peculiar to Chadians who usually put at least five sugar cubes in everything. Food in the morning usually consists of Chadian baguettes, jam, laughing cow cheese and eggs. Sometimes we have avacado salad, beignets, or some kind of fish or meat soup.

My mornings, lately, have been pretty uneventful. After breakfast I usually sweep out my room and tidy up a bit. Dirt/sand gets everywhere in Chad so tasks like sweeping and cleaning shoes are very important. For the first month we had Ngambai lessons in the morning. Now that they are finished and English classes are in full swing, I spend the mornings at home preparing for class. My lack of teaching experience, and my effort to supplement the book’s endless grammar exercises with a few lessons and activities of my own make lesson planning very time consuming. But this is only the first term…ça va aller. If I’m not preparing, I hang out with whoever happens to be around, I help in the kitchen if needed, do my laundry, and sometimes entertain my two year old friend Bonté while her mom’s at work.

Lunch happens anytime between 13:00-15:00 and usually consists of la boule and la sauce. Boule is the traditional and preferred Chadian dish. Everyone always begins any conversation about boule by telling me that, “la boule te donne la force!!” or, boule gives you strength!! Boule is a cooked mixture of flour and water…but not flour like we would think of flour. There are many types of boule: rice boule, millet boule, corn boule, and manioch boule made from their respective types of flour. It is cooked in a large kettle over a fire and stirred with a large wooden spoon. Once it is ready it is placed in greased calabashes which are placed upside down on a plate. The boule takes the calabash’s dome shape and can be cut in slices or eaten communally with your hands. Eating with your hands from a communal dish is the traditional, and preferred way of eating in Chad. While I have eaten this way on occasion, I eat much slower than anyone here and my host mom worries that I won’t get enough to eat. There are many different types of sauce that are served with boule. My favorite sauce is made from peanuts and mushrooms…my least favorite sauce is gumbo which is made from ocra and has the consistency of snot. While it’s still not my favorite, I think I am growing to like it a little.

Once lunch is over, there is usually only about an hour before I have to go to school. I spend this hour resting, looking over my lesson, or doing last minute prep. Around 15:30 I jump on my bike and head to school. English classes are in the afternoons from 16:00-18:00. I am teaching two different levels this term: Beginner 2 and Intermediate Low 1. They meet twice a week for class and once a week for combined lab. Each of my classes has about ten students of all different ages but mostly in the 18-35 age range with a few exceptions. When the power is on class usually lasts the full two hours. When the power is out we have to end early because it is too dark in the classroom to see anything. It’s better for me when the power is out because I get to bike home before it is completely dark.

When I get back after class I say hello to the family, use one of the sentences in Ngambai that I know well…ma kaou kila bbol lem kei…to tell them that I’m going to put my bag in my room, and then I join them in the courtyard or salon. Dinner happens right after I get home from class. We typically eat rice with some kind of meat or fish soup to go on top, pasta, or fish.

After dinner is la culte familial…or bible study. At my house we have a family bible study everyday except Sunday. It used to be at 6:00am but now that classes have started it got moved to the evenings so the kids have more time in the morning. Like everything else in Chad, our family bible study is very formal. We have a set schedule for who will preside, do the reading, and give the message. We start off by singing two or three songs, reading a scripture, my host parents interpret the passage, we have a time for prayer requests, and then someone prays. The time ends with a song while each person walks around the circle to shake everyone elses hand.

After prayer it is usually 20:30 and I am already exhausted. I take my shower, take my doxy, do some reading, blog writing, or paper grading, and go to bed by 22:00.




Some new things…

*I spent the past two weeks in Ougadougou, Burkina Faso on MCC retreat.

*I got my long term Chad visa!!!

*I got a “sonnerie” or bell for my bike…maybe now I won’t run into people anymore

*I had a bout with a liver amoeba…or at least that’s what we decided it was. I had a strange, sharp pain in my right side for a few days and it really hurt to breathe…which is kind of important. Luckily I was in N’Djamena and Naomi (who is a nurse) diagnosed me with her “medicine in developing countries” book and gave me a pill that took care of my little friend. But he put up quite a fight and caused quite a bit of pain the day he was dying.