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----