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.

Time measured in a Doxy bottle.

Time is a funny thing. It passes. Quickly. Slowly. Bit by bit. I’ve been watching my time in Tchad pass through the lens of my Doxycycline bottle. Doxy by Doxy the days go by. It’s actually been a nice, tangible measure of my time. Two bottles. Half a year in one. The other half in the other. I’ve been watching, and anticipating the day that I would finish bottle one and move on to bottle two. Not that I’m waiting for my time here to pass, but half a year is like turning a corner, finishing a chapter, and turning the page.

It turns out that half of a year of Doxycycline was more momentous than I expected. And in fact, I will never have the satisfaction of finishing the single lonely pill that is left in bottle one...and bottle two will never be touched. But I digress.

I got sick on Wednesday. Well not really sick sick. But I came home after my evening class with a headache. Nothing too concerning. Just annoying. Thursday morning I woke up with a headache. It was a little worse...so I took some advil and went to school...and the pain continued. By Thursday evening my head was pounding. Thursday night I didn’t sleep much. And Friday I found myself at the local clinic for a malaria test. I was convinced that my pounding head...unlike any headache I’ve felt in my life...had to be cerebral malaria. And then the malaria test came back negative. But sometimes tests are wrong...so I was started on a malaria treatment. And then I got worse. Painkillers really didn’t do much for my pounding head and I started vomiting anything I ate. By Saturday the powers that be decided it was time to take me to N’djamena. So a vehicle was rented and Sunday morning Rose and I left Moundou. Unfortunately, the doctor in N’djamena couldn’t give me a diagnosis either. But he said...sometimes Doxy can cause headaches...and he’d look into it.

So I waited. And I actually started feeling a little better. Turns out, Doxy can cause headaches. And in rare cases Doxycycline can cause intracranial hypertension...or increased pressure in the head. Symptoms: headaches, nausea, vomiting. We’ll never be 100% sure but it’s the only thing that seems to fit. Intracranial hypertension can also cause vision loss. So I am blessed and grateful it did not get to this point. So I stopped poisoning myself, continued to get better, and returned to Moundou. My head’s not normal yet (not that it ever was!) and I am now on day 17 of my headache. It is MUCH better, but pray that we have solved the problem and that there is no chapter two to this story.

In spite of my unfinished Doxy bottle, half a year has passed. Half a year sounds like a long time. And it is actually a little over half of my time here. Sometimes I feel like I have lived in Chad much longer than that. And sometimes I feel like I just got here. But like I said, time is a funny thing. In the past 23 years of my life, my body and my mind have grown accustomed to measuring time by the change of the seasons...and for the first three months in Chad I was busy trying to convince said body and mind that we’d made it out of August. Rose and I always joke about what month we think it is now...in January we had almost made it to October (because the weather cooled down a bit) but now it’s hot again. So I’m not sure if we’re back in August or if we’ve jumped ahead to May. Regardless of my seasonal confusion, time is passing. And it is bittersweet. I miss my life, family, friends that I’ve left behind and I look forward to the day I will see them again. But at the same time, I feel a bit rushed...trying to soak up every minute, every experience, every interaction because I know my time here in Chad is limited...and growing short.

I hate the questions...when are you coming back...and...why don’t you stay two or three years. They’re becoming more and more frequent topics of conversation. One year in a place is long...and yet so short at the same time. I want to explain that I would love to come back someday...if I find an extra 2000 dollars lying around. Or that I would love to stay...if it weren’t for my friends and family that I miss and would like to see again sooner than that. I just don’t quite know how to answer these questions...or what really to think about them...sometimes they make me feel very selfish...

All this to say, I have less than five months here. To live. To learn. To love. To teach. To experience. I have present and I will think about future later. Pray for the rest of my time here. Pray for my health. And pray for stability and peace in this part of the world.

Love you all.

Dust Settles.

Things can change quick. Day to night. Health to sickness. Hot to Cold. Wet to Dry. Plans change. Peace changes to lack of it. Discontent changes to anger. And anger to violence.

This morning I find myself sitting in the yard with a change of plans. Yesterday began like any other Monday. Wake up. Set the table. Cut the bread. Prepare the eggs. Eat. Lesson Plan. Get dressed. Bike to school. Saluer my colleagues. Print exercises. **yelling and shouting in the street** **students running in a cloud of dust** **get inside** **shut the doors and lock the windows** **rocks, fists, and rage hit the building** Dust settles. Close the school. Leave the bikes. Rides with friends on motos. Get home.

What began as a typical, busy, school week is now a week with three days off. All schools in Moundou have been shut down until Thursday because of the student riots that happened yesterday.

In the French school system all students must pass the baccalaureate exam...or more simply, the bac...before the end of their schooling. Without it...you can’t do anything. Yesterday at “Lycee Abdou Douala,” the biggest high school in Moundou, the list of students to take the bac this year was posted. Many students did not find their name.

It’s hard to get a straight story. Everyone has their own version of the events...and why a list of names can turn into a violent “manifestation.” But somehow it’s a combination of corruption and politics and miscommunication. Students who had already paid the fee were being told to pay again...an exorbitant amount...that they don’t have...and so the riots began.

I heard stories of students jumping out of windows, jumping over walls, fleeing from the sudden outbreak of violence. I witnessed a friend and co-worker instinctively and worriedly shut and lock doors and windows, and I read the concern on a University student’s face as she hid inside the office with Rose and I. I’m told that this year the “manifestation” is not too bad...that the last time this happened, people died.

Here I find myself in the company of people who have lived through war....people who have an instinctive reaction to violence. Time after time the subject of war comes up in English class. “Write a dialogue” ends with “where will you go when the war starts?” “I will go to Cameroon.” And “write about a childhood memory” recounts the time that a student hid in the bush with his family for a year because it was not safe to be in town. And yet life goes on. Today really feels no different than yesterday or the day before. Life happens and continues to happen. The dust settles.

But the dust can rise again. And one person’s anger can set it off. Mob mentality can prevail. And anger can change to violence. And the inequality and inaccessibility of resources...or in this case, opportunity...will teach children that one only gets what one can take. And so people will continue to take. And we will take until we are taken from. And violence will break out again.

OR--

“Do not resist an evil person. If someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also. And if someone wants to sue you and take your tunic, let him have your cloak as well.” We can seek peace in the face of violence...give when we are taken from.

“Do not store up for yourself treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy, and where thieves break in and steal. But store up for yourselves treasures in heaven, where moth and rust do not destroy, and where thieves do not break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” We can put a check on our amassing of resources and greed...our contribution to unequal opportunity...even if sometimes the repercussions happen halfway around the world.

And we can pray for peace.

Things can change quick. Night to Day. Sickness to Health. Cold to Hot. Dry to Wet. Plans change. Dust settles. Discontent changes to thankfulness. And anger to joy.

A Birthday Party.

On December 31, 2010, I celebrated my 23^rd birthday. Twenty-three still sounds too old to me. Not that the age itself is old in the grand scheme of things...but that I am twenty-three. I feel like I’ve finally made it to the age where I am a 20-something. Not 20, 21, 22...but a 20-something...like this is the point where you kind of stop counting...it’s all the same until 30, then 40. The years are moving quickly but I don’t think I’ve been paying enough attention to check them off as they go by. I think I measure in broad time chunks rather than years...and my chunks haven’t quite made it to 23 yet. Maybe I’ll just feel young forever...I don’t think I would really mind that...

I hadn’t really planned on making a big deal about my birthday. I thought maybe I’d mention it the day before or the day of...maybe have a coca to celebrate...but it had come up a few months ago and my host family remembered. That’s the thing about having a birthday in the midst of the holidays...people remember, they’re free, and in the celebrating mood...so celebrating just kind of happens. The first mention of my birthday came from my host mom. About a week before she asked me, “so what are you going to cook for your birthday?” To which I responded... “je ne sais pas!” A few days later she informed me, “you are going to make Chebudjen” To which I responded, “what’s that?” And she told me, “you will see.” A few days later she asked me, “You are going to invite people aren’t you?” To which I responded, “I should invite people?” Then she told me who to invite.

The guest list: Pastor Sem (my boss) and his wife Eunice, Dr. Regis (a family relative and my student) and his wife, Benedicte (my older married host sister) and family, Rose’s host parents, two friends from the choir, and of course...the guy that my host family seems to want me to marry...a young Uncle of the family...Uncle Ben... as I call him.

The 31^st arrived, Rose came over early in the morning, and we kicked off the day with some birthday pancakes. It’s always fun to cook American food for my host family for two reasons...it’s something new, from my culture, for them to try...and it helps to show that I am not completely incompetent in the kitchen...I just don’t know how to make Chadian food! So we made some pancakes. Half plain, half with the dried blueberries Rose had received in a package. They were delicious...other than the fact that they tasted a lot like Nido (the powdered milk we used in the batter.)

After breakfast we started cooking. My host sister busted out the BIG kettle and got to work preparing three chickens, a massive assortment of vegetables and potatoes, and enough rice to feed an army. I helped as much I could. Cooking for me means a lot of sitting around...I cut up vegetables and helped with small things but I am very incompetent at cooking Chadian style. That’s the thing...Chadian girls grow up in the kitchen...everything there is very second nature, and everyone cooks the same foods the same way. So, it’s hard to realize that, for me, everything is completely different....from the types of food right down to the method of preparation. I would love to help, but I need to be shown how. In time. So we cooked the repas.

The party was supposed to begin at 14:00. So naturally everyone showed up at 15:00. I welcomed everyone, passed around some cocas, fantas, and tops, and to my surprise...opened presents! Now, I don’t think birthday celebrations and birthday presents are really a cultural thing...but TV changes everything...and western images of presents, cakes, and candles have made it here to the heart of Africa. I received four new dresses (and ironically the dress from Uncle Ben came wrapped in “congratulations on your marriage” wrapping paper), some jewelry, and some beautiful decorative wooden spoons.

The day was very special. That’s really all I can say. It’s a hard thing to describe...but being so far away from friends, family, and “normal” life makes small things even more meaningful. Each text message, card, e-mail or wall post is a treasure...so a whole birthday party, from people I’ve known for less than five months, is almost overwhelming. I was and am still very grateful to find myself here among people who make me feel loved each day.

Thank you to everyone who wished me a happy birthday from the states via card, facebook, text, e-mail...you are all very special to me and I love you so much!

*Just a note*

I do have one Christmas/birthday wish. I would love a visitor from the states. You know who you are, Dad! But the plane ticket is expensive. So we can all pray that he finds the means, or comes to his senses and decides it’s worth it to visit his only daughter the whole way over here in Tchad!

December.

So it’s been about a month since I’ve written a blog entry...sorry about that. I’m still alive...doing well...but a lot has happened since thanksgiving. So I guess I’ll try to recount the events of the past month as best I can...

Le Paludisme.

It finally happened. After almost four months malaria free, the little mosquito transmitted, blood infesting parasites decided to bid me welcome to Moundou. Now...to those of us from the US of A, malaria sounds very serious. Not to worry. I’m fine. In fact, most of my friends here could not believe I had never had malaria before, and did not know there was no malaria in the states. I did, however, have quite the eventful first malaria experience. I got sick on a Monday. Fever, fatigue. I tried to wish it away, took some drugs, and taught my class that evening. Unfortunately, you cannot ignore malaria, and the next day I found myself at the local clinic for a blood test. The test came back positive, I was given a prescription for medication, and spent the next few days at home. The medicine I was prescribed is supposed to work in 24 hours, but 24 hours later I was still running a fever of 102. By Thursday I had added the runs, and a rash to the list of symptoms. Friday I went back to the clinic. This time the doctor wanted two things: a typhoid fever test, and a stool sample. Blood tests are fine, but giving a poop sample was something I had hoped to avoid in my life. But you do what you have to do. I made my way to the lab at which point the lab tech told me to go get “feuille de mangue” and to use for my stool sample...at which point I laughed, thinking he was joking. Now for those of you who don’t speak French “un feuille de mangue” translates to a mango leaf....and he was not joking. He proceeded to hand me a mango leaf and explain how one gives a sample, folds the leaf, and holds it together with by piercing the sides with two small sticks found somewhere on the ground. So I surrendered to my mango leaf fate...unfortunately mango leaves don’t work very well when all that’s coming out of you is liquid (sorry for the graphic details) ...and left the clinic. And after all that, they didn’t really find anything. By Saturday, I was on the road to recovery. So that was malaria for me...a five day fever, the runs, a rash, and a mango leaf. Quite a story though.

Final Exams and a Visit from the President.

This past month also brought the end of our first teaching term....which of course means final exams. Having been a student for my entire life, up until now, it is odd to be on the other side of things...giving and grading exams rather than studying and taking exams. Now, final exams would have been pretty uneventful save teaching my students (who have probably never seen an American style test in their life) how to take a test with multiple choice and fill in the blank questions....then the president decided to come to town. When the president comes to town everything shuts down, you really shouldn’t open your business, and shouldn’t be out walking around...unless you’re on the street to welcome him. That being said...he came in the middle of exam week...and to make things more difficult, half my students work for the media. He was supposed to come in the morning...but morning turned into afternoon...and around 4:20 Rose and I found ourselves on the street waving to the president as he passed by greeting the crowds through the sunroof of his vehicle. So...I arrived at school half an hour late, found a few students waiting for the exam, and no power, or generator, to print the thing (which I would have done in the morning if the building had been open.) So the exam was pushed back to the next day. Scheduling Chadian style. I still have a few students who haven’t taken it.

Christmas.

Saturday, the 18^th, Rose and I took a bus to N’Djamena to spend some days with the Enns (an MCC family) before Christmas. It’s always wonderful to see the Enns and spend a few days in a “North American bubble” in the middle of Chad. We took advantage of their oven, cooked festive foods as best we could, sang Christmas carols, and met Bekah and Joshua...their children who are visiting for the holiday. On the 23^rd we returned to Moundou to experience a real Chadian Christmas. It was an interesting Christmas. Not bad. Just really different. Rather than being at home with family everyone was out and about...celebrating with singing and dancing and friends. As far as my celebration went...I ate goat. Went to church...several times. Watched “Muppet Christmas Carol” with Rose on my computer. Gave a handmade card and candy stuffed in an Ethiopian Airlines complementary sock (makeshift stocking) to my host family. Received a Christmas text message from my grandmother. And had a wonderful Christmas phone call from my family.

I love you and miss you all. MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! JOYEUX NOEL!!! Christ est né!

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.

Some Pictures

In an effort to avoid the typical American tourist image I haven't had the chance to take too many pictures. I do have a few though...and I might as well share what I got.

My mosquito netted bed












The other side of my room...with the ever important water filter!










Eglise Evangelique au Tchad numero 8!










Speaking in church












My new mode of transportation












Getting my hair did












Looking African in my new outfit
















Sitting with my host Mom and two year old Bonte in the house

Sinks

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about sinks. I really miss sinks. They are very practical…they are nice to wash your hands in, or your face, or to brush your teeth, and water is always neatly collected in the basin and drain. I’m perfectly happy, not lacking in anything, and do not need sinks to be happy…but I will definitely appreciate them more when I get back to the states.

It’s amazing how quickly and completely the human mind is capable of adapting to a new concept of normalcy for everyday life. It’s normal to wear a skirt and cover my head when I leave the house. There is nothing strange about dirt roads and the necessity to seek out the most compact, firm looking mud when navigating said dirt (mud) road after it has rained…and I seem to be developing a sixth sense to know when a moto or bicycle is coming fast behind me to pass through on the same narrow strip of passable road that I am walking on. I have learned to bike following the rules of the road Chadian style: if you are bigger and faster, you have the right of way. I bike around the women carrying peanuts or tomatoes on their heads to market, I bike around the boys pushing large wheel barrow type things down the road, I bike around the slow bikes….save for these reasons, I stay as close to the edge of the road as possible. I yield to let the motos pass and we all move aside to let a vehicle or truck pass through. If there are two cars at once going opposite directions sometimes we even stop. I have replaced traffic lanes, stop sign and stop lights with one general rule: if something bigger and faster is coming at me…move…..fast. Yet, this now seems very normal. It is normal to shake everyone’s hand when I enter a room. It is normal to leave for an event when it is time to be there. It is normal for the power to be out more often than it is on. It is normal to sweat.

I find myself thinking about things in the “developed” world almost as if they were dreams…and never reality. From time to time pictures of things like interstates and sidewalks pop into my head. I consider them like a child considers an imaginary world…they seem very foreign now because I have a new normal. While I may miss sinks, it’s only because I still encounter them on occasion here. There is a sink at Rose’s house. Until I used it I didn’t think about sinks. Similarly, I hadn’t thought about how my appearance might have changed to fit my new normal…until I saw my picture on my MCC prayer card. I looked at it, then showed it to Rose. We were both shocked at how clean I looked…not that I’m not clean here…maybe polished is a better word. I’m already so removed from the normalcy of my US life it is interesting to consider what I will feel like in ten months when I am heading back to the states.

All this to say, Chad is quickly becoming my home. There are things here that could be helped…like the lack of sewers, and lack of any type of public sanitation, but there are also things that are simply a new normal. I might miss sinks when I am reminded of them…but I don’t need them. I think we in the “developed” world look at a place like Chad and see a disaster. It’s not a disaster. It’s just a place with some problems, some differences, and a lot of incredible people living their lives in the normalcy that they know….and now, the normalcy that I know.

Some new things…

*I acted as a human food processor and helped my sisters pound meat, some kind of grain/flour, and vegetables together in a life-sized mortar pestle type thing

*I started teaching English Classes. I am teaching two classes: Beginner 2 and Intermediate Low 1. It’s exhausting…but going well so far.

*I had an outfit made…and I think it’s pretty legit :)

*I successfully biked home, in a skirt, after a three-hour-long rainstorm…I wasn’t even that muddy when I got there

Love you all.

La Chorale

Rose and I joined the church choir. It kind of happened by accident…not that I didn’t want to…I’d been planning on joining sooner rather than later. But I was sitting in the yard one day and heard my mom and sister talking about going to church later that evening. I’ve figured out over the past few weeks that I usually will not be told about things that are happening…until right before they happen. The week before I had missed out on attending a Saturday evening church service with my family because I was in my room for a few minutes and they didn’t want to disturb me…needless to say I’ve learned to ask. So, when I heard my mom and sister talking about going to church I made a point to find out what was going on….Mama informed me…

«C’est la préparation pour la Culte…et Annie va a la chorale. Est-ce que tu veux aller a la chorale avec Annie? »

La Chorale!! Yes of course I want to go to choir practice with Annie! So naturally I called up Rose, told her that we were going to choir practice, and at seize heure Rose and I hopped on the back of Motos with my host mom and sister Annie to go to choir.

Unfortunately, we didn’t get to sing right away. We had to be visitors first…but in the process of visiting we got all the details from Annie about the choir and she presented Rose and I, told them we wanted to sing, and told them that in order to sing we needed les notes musique (I had made a comment to her about how none of the hymnals have music in them.) The next Tuesday we showed up at rehearsal, were quickly welcomed, and provided with a hymnal with actual written music in it…not just words…the first one I’d seen since I’ve been in Chad. The following Sunday we sang in church.

Some things about la Chorale…

1. Traditional Chadian singing does not have harmony. There is one melody and everyone kind of sings around it…or whatever they want…especially the older women. The choir we joined is made up of mainly young adults and sings in four parts. We are never on key. At least the “belt it out” strategy covers up my mispronounced French words.

2. One of our choir directors looks a whole lot like Barak Obama. One day we’ll have to tell him. It would probably be a huge compliment since everyone in Chad is obsessed with Barak…as evidenced by the fact that there are always at least three or four girls at church every Sunday wearing Obama Girl tee-shirts

3. The songs we practice at choir practice are not the only songs we will be singing at church on Sunday. I found this out while standing in front of the church, blindsided by a song that I had never heard before that we were leading the congregation in singing…and dancing. First things first: we already stick out…enough said. Second: it is difficult in any circumstance to mouth the words and pretend to sing a song you don’t know. Third: it’s even harder in a foreign language. Fourth: Add dancing to the mix and it is a recipe for disaster. Somehow I kept my cool and I don’t think anyone really noticed that I had no idea what I was doing

4. I immediately regretted the decision to join the choir when I realized that long sleeved choir robes are hot. Church is hot to begin with…pack enough people into a building in Chad and it is going to be stifling. On the plus side, the choir has its own supply of small plastic fans for each member…but I don’t think plastic fans will suffice in March and April when it’s 120 degrees and we’re wearing hot robes. Maybe we’ll have to take “heat days” from choir.

5. The robes may be hot…but they’re legit…and have a sweet looking graduation style cap to match, complete with tassle.

Life.

Hello all!

I had written a nice long blog entry about my life here in Chad...and then the internet cut when I was posting it. Thats how it goes I guess :) Instead I will post a few random updates...

I have freckles. It seems that the hot Chadian sun is causing my skin to freak out. All of a sudden I have LOTS of freckles on my arms. I mean I've had some in the past but not like this. They keep multiplying.

Some things that are supposed to make life easier make it harder...we got bikes today. They are hard to pedal and I ended up really muddy and sweaty. Haha...I will learn, and maybe get my bike adjusted a bit!

We joined the church choir. That's right BRH...I replaced you :)

I'm hoping to get some pics up soon. Love you all and miss you!

Learning to sit…

Two weeks have gone by since I have been living here in Moundou with my host family. It truly has been an incredible experience so far, but I am quickly discovering how much of a task based, fast paced North American I am. Life here moves at a different pace. For those of you who have studied African culture or have visited here yourself, you probably have an idea of what I am talking about. In fact I had an idea about what I am talking about…but it is different now that I am truly living it.

After we arrived in Moundou on Wednesday, Pastor Sem, the supervisor of CENTRAM told us that we would have Thursday to settle in, Friday he would come to take us to see the school, and Saturday we would begin language lessons. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday came and went with no word from Sem. We found out later that someone from the church had died and everyone was busy with the funeral. Death here is common. Since I have been here two people that my host family knew well have passed away.

The rain and infrequency of electricity are also factors to contend with. We are in the midst of the rainy season…which, much to my surprise, has allowed for a few cool mornings. I even wore long sleeves two mornings this week! The rain also makes leaving the house very difficult. There is one paved road in Moundou. The rest are dirt/sand and sometimes impassable because of the water and mud. Two days of language lessons have been cancelled because of the rain.

I can’t remember the last time we had electricity. Haha. Actually I can…it was Thursday, the day after I got here, but that was two weeks ago. The whole of Moundou has been in the dark since then…save for the use of small generators and an hour here and there when the lights come on and tease us. Luckily my family uses a generator for a few hours every night. It’s a nice luxury to have. From what I understand, my host mom works as some kind of secretary. She has left for work all week only to return a little bit later having been sent home. For her, there is no work to do without the power.

There is no doubt that these factors contribute to the pace of life here…but they do not make it. People make the pace of life. Over the past two weeks I have been learning how to sit with people. I sit with people on the veranda, I sit with people in the yard, I sit with people in the kitchen. This is something, as North Americans, we are not very good at. We always need a task. And sitting with people for the sake of sitting with people is rare. We always make it awkward. I amazed at the number of people who have come to visit my family since I have been here. They are various friends and family who usually show up unannounced for no particular reason but to visit. We share water, tea, peanuts, and conversation. I am learning to love this slower pace of life and all that comes with it. Being with people shouldn’t require tasks or distractions. People are valuable and interesting enough on their own.

This past week Rose and I started language lessons. We are learning Ngambai…the local language here in Moundou. Right now, it’s very slow going…especially since we are working from French to Ngambai. Learning an African tonal language is hard enough, but learning said language by way of another foreign and still difficult language is another thing entirely. I’m loving it though. It’s a good challenge! I am anxiously awaiting the start of English classes which begin the first week of October. I think I will enjoy teaching…and having a tangible task to focus on! :)

That’s all for now. Thanks to all who are praying. I miss and love you all!

Peace.

Send me mail at:
Amy Roberson
c/o Pastor Sem Beasnael
Universite Evangelique (ISETAER)
BP 59
Moundou, Chad AFRICA

Life in Chad!

No worries…I made it! First of all, I'm so sorry I haven't been able to update. This is the first chance I've had to use the internet...but that should get better now that I am more established here!

After a several months of anticipation I have finally made it to Moundou! While it has only been a little over two weeks since I left for orientation, so much has happened. I guess I’ll begin at the beginning…

On August 12th I said my final goodbyes, finished the interesting and difficult process of packing for a year in one suitcase, and got in the car for the short trip to Akron, PA for a week of orientation. I was only missing one thing…my visa. The trouble began when I first mailed my application and passport to the Chadian embassy in DC back in mid July, only to have it returned to me a week later marked as “undeliverable as addressed” After some investigation, I found a new address on the embassy’s website. Apparently they had moved last September and neglected to update the information. I remailed the application that same day, crisis averted…or so I thought. It was an interesting and scary thing to leave home for a year and not know if I would actually be able to leave. Lacking the one thing that was required before leaving the country, I was in limbo. I tried contacting the embassy multiple times to no avail, and finally on the 16th, three days before I was scheduled to leave, I called one more time. “Chad” said the voice on the other end of the line. Finally someone answered! And what was the problem? The embassy would not accept the type of check I sent…so nothing had been processed. With only three days left before my flight there was only one thing I could do. I sent my dad to the embassy in DC the next day, he picked up my passport with a newly inserted Chadian visa and hand-delivered it to me in Akron!!! Following so much uncertainty and nervousness I must admit I was a little emotional. I might have even teared up a bit. I know, crazy right? I was just excited that I would actually get to go :)

After a week of orientation with around 60 other SALTers heading to countries all around the world, around 30 IVEPers coming from countries all around the world for a year-long service term in the US or Canada, and 7 YAMENers coming from several different countries and heading out on service assignments elsewhere, I was a little sad when it came time to leave my newly made friends. (MCC really likes their acronyms if you haven’t noticed!)

We left for the airport at 2:00am on the 19th. Rose, Arienne and I were the first three to leave Akron to catch our flights in Philly. We flew from Philly to DC to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia with a tech stop in Rome (unfortunately we didn’t even get off the plane). Once in Addis, Rose and I bid farewell to Arienne who is spending the year in Burkina Faso, walked around for a bit, then passed through security to board our plane to N’jdamena. It would be an understatement to say we stuck out. Our flight was full of mostly men, dressed in suits or the typical Islamic dress, and our efforts to fit in by wearing skirts and headscarves probably made us stand out even more.

We arrived safely in N’djamena and made it through the airport without a problem. Pastor Sem (who we will be working with at CENTRAM), Levy (the MCC country rep), and Doug and Naomi Enns (MCC service workers in N’djamena) met us in the airport. We spent the next four days in N’djamena with the Enns recovering from jet-lag, learning about Chadian culture, adjusting to the heat, and adjusting to the infrequency of electricity :)

N’djamena is an interesting city. It is the capital city of Chad but has very little infrastructure…less than any city I’ve visited anywhere in the world. Next time I head north I will try to take some pictures...which could apparently get me in trouble with the police! Pictures aren’t supposed to be taken in the capital, but I’ll make sure the coast is clear before I attempt to take any!

Pastor Sem picked us up Wednesday afternoon for the trip to Moundou. It is not too far—about five hours, but the heat, bumpy roads and lack of any restrooms along the way made it seem far. Once we arrived in Moundou we stopped first at Pastor Sem’s house for dinner, headed next to my host home…and ate another dinner, then I said goodbye to Rose as she headed to her host home for a third dinner!

Since Wednesday I have been settling in here in Moundou. It is much cooler than N’djamena, and less desert like. I LOVE my host family. They are wonderful, welcoming, and patient with me and my broken French.

Sorry for the novel…but a lot has happened since I left home. I love you all and I will leave you with a few fun things that I have done/seen…

*communicated only in French
*ate three chicken gizzards (Giving the gizzard is the Chadian way of welcoming guests)
*ate pigeon
*swept a dirt courtyard
*saw a man riding a moto (motorcycle) with a live sheep strapped on
*rode on the back of my host mom’s moto…in a long skirt…without showing my knees
*sifted sand out of flour
*was followed by children chanting “Nassarra” everytime I left my house (Nassara is a Ngambaye word for white person)
*figured out how to change google and blogspot out of arabic so that I could actually sign in to my blog!
*LIVED IN CHAD FOR TEN DAYS!!