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----