The Heist

There is water coming out of that thing finally!
No matter what, I was going to have a good day.

“You’re not going to blog about this, are you?” I’ve been asked this question several times over the past few days, so naturally I’m going to blog about this. I think they were worried because I generally blog about things that are funny, and people don’t think that what happened could be funny, but they’re wrong. I’ve laughed about it much more than I’ve cried about it, since I haven’t actually cried about it.  I have woken up at 3am in a cold fury about it, though, full disclosure. Then again, it is not abnormal for me to be awake at 3am thinking about things that keep me from going back to sleep.

So what happened was this (and I’ll start at the middle and go outwards because that is how life works): I’d just been to the store to buy enough junk food and sodas for a six year old’s birthday party, assuming that six year old is allowed to drink sugar-free caffeinated beverages (I am). On my way back to the office (where I’d left my computer and other stuff while I was at the store), I had heard some text messages come in from my dad. I’d been texting before about a project break-through I’d been waiting for. It had been a great day so far, and I was in a very good mood in spite of the fact that I’d just been driving in N’Djamena and nothing makes me more sweary and crabby than dodging motorcyclists with death wishes.  Before running back into the office, I decided to reply to my dad’s message. As I was in the middle of writing about another excellent aspect of my now seemingly-possible projet, a man jumped in the passenger’s side of my car.  As we have lots of beggars in our area, I was expecting a heart-felt plea for money or food or phone credit, but then I saw his face, and realized it wasn’t that. Some instinct grabbed away my phone from his clutching grasp and then my wallet. He grabbed at the wallet too and we engaged in a battle of tug-of-war with me yelling for the guard at the top of my lungs.  Also, there was some incoherent yelling happening as well, as it is hard to decide which language to scream invective in when one is being attacked. As I was already clutching the phone with one hand, and he had a firmer angle on the ground with his feet, he managed to get the wallet free and ran for the street. Naturally, I ran after him. By this time, the guard managed to come out and join the chase, until the thief jumped on a waiting motorcycle and pulled out a gun. I kept running, the guard yelled, “He has a gun, stop!” So they got away, no thanks to the soldiers casually walking down the other side of the street who could have shot them.

A rough drawing of what the robbery looked like,
as there is no photographic evidence.

I guess it’s good that they weren’t shot, though. I mean, it would have been sad if they were shot for less than 60,000CFA (less than 100USD), a cool wallet I got in Colombia because it was cheap (and Debbie was taking a million years trying on those shorts and buying things was my only entertainment), my IAS ID badge, and my Chadian driver’s license, which had the dangerously wrong blood type on it anyway (I’m O- not O+). He tried to get my groceries, but got scared of me and dropped them. If he had gotten them, I would be totally cool with shooting him. He probably also would have been up for immediate death, facing the crushing disappointment of finding he’d risked life and limb to steal a bag full of candy and chips (I’ve been told that not everyone finds that an acceptable form of sustenance).

An example of the contents of my grocery cart, as a general rule.

So the thief got away, which bothered me because I don’t like losing, but I consoled myself by the fact that I still have my phone, which is way more important to me that a driver’s license. Now I have a great excuse not to have to drive. But if I want to drive, I have the police commissioner’s phone number if I get pulled over.  I kind of  hope I do. “Oh yeah, Mr. Bored Police Guy Who Wants to Make a Quick Buck from the NGO Car? You want to try to get money from me? Here, talk to your boss instead.”

This is me chasing after the thief. A very accurate portrait I happened to find online.
(It's so hard to stay off the grid in this digital age.)

How did I meet the police boss? Well, as the thief was bopping away down the road and I was regretting not throwing a rock at him while I had the opportunity to check if his crappy old gun was actually working, I was immediately surrounded by a crowd of concerned people who had been conveniently absent moments before. I really don’t know where they all came from. I found my head awkwardly smashed into the firm embrace against the ample bosom of my very concerned office housekeeper who had also grabbed up my groceries and put them back in the bag without judging my nutritional choices (to my face anyway). She is great.  There were also about 8-10 men, most of whom I’ve never seen in my life. People seemed to be waiting for me to cry (which is consistent with responses of most other people after that), but I was feeling pretty good. I’d won the main contest (phone) and almost won the second contest and it was striking me at the moment what a hilarious debacle this had been for the erstwhile thief. I mean, I was in the car with the keys in the ignition. He had a gun. He could have pulled it out on me earlier and demanded the car. No one, including myself, knows if I would have just acquiesced. It turns out, I’m not super-good at surrendering.

One of the things in my grocery sack that the thief didn't get.
Yes, I did spend 1100CFA on a bag of melted crocodile gummies.

Still edible.

Oh right, I was going to tell how I met the police. One of the men I’d never seen before turned out to be the brother of our neighbor, a half Sudanese, half-Chadian who understands my Arabic. He also spent some time in India and we spoke some Hindi together too, though he was in Tamil Nadu. He insisted, in Indian-accented English, that we go to the police station (side-bobbing his head too, I’ve really missed that), as he himself is a police and he can make sure that we can report this just in case the thieves murder someone and casually place my driver’s license on the dead body. If I’ve reported them stolen, I will not be dragged off to jail as a suspect. Otherwise, there’s no guarantee. I have a murderous look in my eye, it seems. 

So we jumped in the car and went to the police station where most people were already gone (It was Friday, which is always a half-day in Chad, a really good innovation unless you are concerned with getting a lot of things done in a week—I rarely am, so I’m a fan). The police ushered me into the office muttering something that I wasn’t paying attention to. I walked in and sat down before he started yelling, “Les chaussures! Les chaussures!” I’d neglected to take off my shoes at the door and I’d walked across his ugly fake carpet in sandy shoes. He managed to forgive me and dutifully noted my loss on a scrap piece of paper where, no doubt, he’d previously dutifully noted someone else’s. But at least I’m safe from being accused of murder…for now…

 And an encouraging note for my mom: Hervé's reaction to this event was to immediately sit down at his computer and write an Email entitled: "Urgent. Agression des bandis sur Amanda devant le bureau," which proceeded to describe how I was agressée at 13:05 until the gardien intervened (I suppose he intervened a tiny bit at the very end). He copied everyone who checks their emails in IAS Chad (so about 5 people), but the news spread fast and I had about 20 phone calls that weekend (some at 6am on Saturday--I feel the love, but don't love me that much) to tell me how sorry they were and "Courage" and "are you really ok?" Kandos even called from the Congo where he is on vacation with his family to check in and start on an elaborate plan to keep me safe in the future. Hervé escorted me home in his car. The guards now come outside and stand by the door of the car every time I get in and out now. The IAS team will take care of their white girl foreigner who doesn't pay attention to motorcycles that might be following her car from the store because she always secretly plots how to accidentally on purpose knock motorcyclists off their bikes with her car anyway so she can't humanize motorcycle drivers, and consequently she doesn't notice the ones that are exhibiting concerning behavior. Anyway, Mom, the IAS people have got my back. 

We also had to file an official "declaration" of the loss
 of my driver's license so that I can get a new one.
We went back to the 1960's to file it on a type writer.
Herve was amused by how much I loved that.

This has nothing to do with the blog, but I saw this tea
in the shop the other day, and I thought I should probably buy this.
I really need to learn how to decline the sugar.
But I didn't. And I still can't decline the sugar.

I also didn't buy this one, but I still love this packaging.
A masterpiece of marketing genius.
This is why it is important for the Chinese to expand their hold on Africa.

 And this blog post is over. I wasn't sure if that was clear. But that's I've now told the story of what happened against the better judgement of many of my friends--and I'm still alive. And I'm still not crying. I am a bit more suspicious of people, but I've also taken great pains to flirt delicately with men I see every day on my running route(s) so that they will protect me if they see someone messing with me. And Annie is going to get me some pepper spray so watch out, criminals.

Une Histoire Pour Les Romans (One for the Storybooks)

The thing about having a good adventure is that it involves a lot of discomfort. Of course, if it’s a really good adventure, you don’t usually remember the miserable moments very much, or if you do, it’s almost better for having had them because the story is so much more exciting.  I told my mom a version of this after she mentioned that she was praying for me while my electricity had been off for 4 days. I told her that once it got past the 4 day mark and then my water cut out too, I was ok. By that time, my refrigerator was gone and I’d eaten everything possible and thrown out the rest of the rotting food, but you know what? Gummy smurfs do not have to be refrigerated (one of their MANY virtues) and so I had plenty of food for survival. I explained to my concerned parent that once things get to a new level of bad, I’m ok and I kind of want to see how much worse it can get. It’s the intermediate level that I don’t really like because it’s not a good story, and it’s just annoying. She replied with the Eye Roll emoji because she is supportive like that.

Anyway, to get to the point, I’ve noticed recently that I can’t go to Koudalwa without SOMETHING happening. This should have given me pause before inviting a pastor working with the people group in the area to come with me. In my defense, I last-minute asked him, and I really thought he would say no.

Scenes from the road

 Our trip started in the usual way—an hour late. This didn’t bother me much. I didn’t expect it would bother our guest either—I mean, he lives in Chad too.  We sped down the road, Hervé driving, in the large Land Cruiser borrowed from a Neverthirst partner who had parked his car at our office while he is in the US for a vacation. (I did ask him first.) After un-installing the car seat from his car, I decided never to have children, or if I do, only to have ones I don’t mind roaming around cars in an unrestrained fashion. When I reinstalled the car seat after we got back (SPOILER ALERT: we made it back), I was affirmed in the wisdom of this decision.

He wasn't pointing out the cool cow cart,
he was greeting his friend.

 While on the road, we called ahead again to remind our friends that we were coming (they knew, but it’s always good to follow up) and to ask them to get the motorcycles ready for us (they also knew about this). Why motorcycles? Well, last time we got stuck in the mud for 16 hours in our 4-wheel drive Toyota Hilux, but with motorcycles you don’t get stuck, though you do have to carry your bike through mud holes some times.  Naturally, upon arrival we thought (naively of course) that our hosts would be prepared. They weren’t, and then the motorcycle guys saw that we had two white people and they tried to jack up the price to new and terrible levels. Hervé resented this and fought for our rights. An hour and a half later we were on the road. This was a problem because it was after 3pm and sunset is at 6pm. And we had 40km to go. And it was about to rain. And the roads were terrible. But we were committed.  Or I was anyway. Plus, I like adventures, and it is pretty fun to splash through rivers of mud, so I was in a great mood in spite of the delay and the anticipation of a long evening. I estimated our ETA back in Koudalwa at 20:00, well after dark, but early enough to get some dinner and sleep before the trip back to N’Djamena. I was wrong, very wrong, but not knowing the future can be relaxing. I have no idea what Mr. The Pastor was thinking at the time, but I imagine he was beginning to wish that his wife had put her foot down and said, “No, absolutely no spontaneous trips with that woman with the crazy eyes.” Well, too late now.

Before Hervé took over from Orange Shirt

 We splashed along, 4 motorcycles with Hervé bringing up the rear because he didn’t want me to be on the last motorcycle (he takes chivalry very seriously). We were following closely at the beginning, rushing along to try to make up for time lost to bargaining down the nasara price and lack of preparedness. Just at the last minute, my moto driver swerved around an up-ended tree. Hervé’s moto guy didn’t have the reflexes and I looked back to see his motorcycle stuck in the roots with Hervé standing behind looking dazed. Sadly, I don’t have a photo. I was laughing too hard (it seems I don’t reciprocate chivalry with a great deal of sympathy). Hervé told me later, that when he saw they were going into the tree, he just stood up and let the motorcycle continue on without its passenger. He is very tall, so he just put his feet down, voilà—he was on solid ground. He told me this later, while we were trudging through the mud together around 11pm. I was wet, cold, muddy, sore all over (I've never been saddle sore on a horse before because I don't like them enough to stay on long enough for soreness, but motorcycle saddle sores are real), exhausted and hungry and I STILL laughed for 10 minutes with this image in my mind. I noticed soon after the tree incident that Hervé had become the driver, with his little moto guy hanging on as the passenger. Hervé said, “The driver was too small, not strong enough to drive us.” That was probably true. It is also true that Hervé is a bit of a control freak.

Rainbow Snake Omen of Coming Evil

Initially, I tried to avoid getting splashed too much, but soon this was out of my control. Then it rained on us. There was a lovely rainbow that I kept trying to get videos of for Insta-stories for Neverthirst Instagram, but I never got to post them because I didn’t get into internet land soon enough. I meant to ask if Chadians also think rainbows are scary snake omens of death like the Moru in South Sudan do, but I never got a chance to do this. Maybe because I was distracted getting on and off motorcycles to wade through deep rivers. One of these times, I stepped in the wrong spot and got suctioned down in the mud. My driver had to pull me out, back onto not dry-but firmer, less-suction-y ground because I really couldn’t get out by myself.

After being pulled out of the suction

After my dress got longer because of rain and mud and began dragging on the ground.
Djibrine kept yelling at me to pull up my skirt so that it wouldn't get caught in the wheels.
My shiny white legs were scratched up by thorns and chewed on by insects.

The good part of the road.

Hervé is still smiling here.

He is plotting my assassination here, thinking about how much better it was
back in the day before I came on board. He told me this morning that he is sick
because of our trip and that we never should have planned it like this.
(Now he just told me he forgives me because I gave him half of my sandwich.)

Amazingly, we completed two reports, though one will have to be re-done, likely, as it was completed after dark, and it is not easy to get photos of Chadian people after dark in a place without electricity. I had all the motorcycles shine their lights on the pump so we can get some photos, but the main thing is that the pumps are there, completed and working. So when I take the American boss there in a few weeks, it should be something nice to show him. Though, I will have to make sure that the roads are passable first. The boss is not one for night-time rainy rides. He loves to say things to me like, “No unnecessary risks!” and “Amanda, if I TOLD you not to do that [presumably dangerous thing], would you actually not do it?” (Fortunately for my job, he has never pressed me to answer that last question because, sadly, I think we both know what my insubordinate answer would be).

Dress dragging through the mud, getting some work done.

Road conditions. This road is wider than most,
which is nice because you're less likely to get hit in the face by a tree branch,
but still impossible to drive down without pushing with your legs.

Bugs attacked me when I stood in the motorcycle beams.
My glowing skin is worrying these children.

This photo isn't too bad, right?
Hervé took it to help me with night photography.
Shortly after this last report, we lost a motorcycle to fatigue,
so we tripled up on two motorcycles.
Hervé wouldn't let me, he said that "ma reine" (as he was calling me
that night) should stay with him on the third moto. Also, I think he was tired and wanted
the smallest person on the bike with him. We had some fun conversations--
this blog post title is a quote from him, and he told me the details of the tree-crash story, and we
admired the stars and his helpfully-long legs, but time is not making this memory fonder for him.

This is what my face looks like riding in the rain
on the back of a motorcycle.

 In conclusion, we were on the motorcycles for 9 hours. We got back to Koudalwa at midnight, in time to crash on the floor of the chief’s house. I did not bring my own mosquito net tent like Mr. The Pastor, but I did bring organic bug spray that my sister gave me. I do now have mosquito bites on my scalp and all over my legs. Chadian mosquitos laugh in the face of your lavender and citronella oil. And then they bite you in YOUR face, the little bastards (sorry, Mom, it was warranted). We didn’t get dinner, but that was ok (for me-- Hervé was not happy and he ate the rest of my cinnamon peanut butter cookies that I’d made for the trip) because I didn’t feel like brushing my teeth or hair or doing anything besides getting out of my cold, wet, muddy dress and collapsing on the blanket-mat the chief gave me and using my bag as a pillow (Mr. The Pastor brought a pillow—some people are way more prepared than others who have already gotten into the habit of using the bag as a pillow to minimize the carrying of extraneous objects). I was awake just long enough for our guest to tell me that he is never traveling anywhere else with me again. So, I’m adding him to the list of people who have said this to me…he did graciously admit that there were one or two beneficial connections he made on the trip, which I found gratifying.

In penance for my bad planning (“Why didn’t you just stay there a little longer and take your time getting the work done?” people asked me. BECAUSE I DIDN’T WANT TO! Also, because we had a UNICEF meeting the next day.), I drove 5 of the 8 hours back to N’Djamena, letting everyone else sleep when they (ok, Hervé) weren’t pointing out ALL of the speed bumps and potholes and wandering goats after I was ALREADY BRAKING for them and lecturing me about how you can’t pass someone on a bridge (I KNOW THAT TOO! I WASN’T GOING TO PASS THAT GUY WHEN I SAW THAT THE BRIDGE THAT WAS COMING UP WAS A ONE AT TIME BRIDGE—THAT’S WHY I SLOWED DOWN AND WENT BACK BEHIND THE TRUCK!) and stopping to buy watermelons. I got home at 4pm and ate two bags of gummy smurfs and ordered food to my house and was in bed by 8:30. Adventures are exhausting.

I'll leave you with this drawing of me and Hervé driving back to NDJ.
The men in the back were sleeping or asking why I wasn't wearing my seat belt
(answer: because when I hit an unavoidable bump, I fly in the air and it chokes me).
Note Hervé yelling at me about speed bumps and me yelling back that I already saw it,
and also me trying not to swear-drive because Mr. The Pastor is anglophone, and he would understand,
unlike that time I was driving with Emelie and she asked, "Amanda, what does $*#@! mean?" and
I had to tell her NEVER EVER to say that again, especially not in front of the Church People.

Elephant Rock

He really wanted a "Make America Great Again" hat,
but I couldn't find a free one and I can't/won't buy one,
so he had to settle for a USA t-shirt bought at Wal-Mart (bien sûr)
and he loves it. Apparently it doesn't stop him from
making disparaging remarks about my height.

“Good morning, Amanda—wait, whoa! Did you get shorter?”

This is how my colleagues greet me when they arrive at the office.

“No,” I said. “I don’t think I’m quite old enough to start shrinking.” I mean, so far I haven’t noticed any part of my body shrinking, but I am dedicated to my high-sugar diet, which is keeping me from malnutrition. It could also be the reason why Urbain piped up with a  “Yeah. She does change a lot. One day I think she is skinny and another day I think she is fat. I think maybe it depends on her clothes.”

Don’t come to work for IAS Tchad if you don’t like people making comments about your appearance. In one day (wearing the same clothes, I might add), I’ve been told I look fatter and skinnier by two different people. I have been ganged-up on by my colleagues about not always wearing t-shirts. But when I do make the effort to wear work-appropriate clothing (i.e. not jeans and t-shirts that don’t look like t-shirts), they are appreciative.  

This is what I look like now. After I went to Sweden,
I decided to start wearing the Viking horn-hats all the time.
I think I'm really pulling them off.

So anyway, this doesn’t have much to do with this post, except that it would have been way easier to climb Elephant Rock if my legs were longer, but as I’m shrinking and getting fatter, apparently, I did let our Chadian ex-army guy driver give me a hand on the way down.

See the elephant?

The Elephant Rock Adventure was a joint effort by Amanda and Rhyan to tourist in Chad. It’s not always easy to do that here. There aren’t a lot of options. Most weekend fun activities involve swimming in the pool at the Hilton (Rhyan’s home/work/gilded cage). I also enjoy spending weekends sleeping on my bed since night-time sleeping hasn’t been so easy these days with weird electricity issues that I’m having. It cuts in and out loudly and randomly, so I’m either woken up when the fan stops because it’s humid and sticky rainy season weather now or if I chose to AC it, then I’m woken up by a loud popping sound when it comes on and off. Worse—my fridge won’t work and my food is dying.  I only keep food in there that I actually want to eat (so: chocolate because otherwise it melts in this desert world and diet soda because I’m healthy like that), thus it is important to have a functioning fridge. Forget the fact that I lived 2 years without one in Mundri. Now it is a necessity for my life and general well-being.

We are great at taking selfies together.

And now that I’ve finishing complaining, Rhyan and I decided to visit Elephant Rock based on a whim and time constraints. Because if we hadn’t had any (time constraints, that is, not whims), we would have gone to Tibesti (her choice) or Fada (mine) or Samarkand (also mine).  I also would have accepted Timbuktu, Kabul, and/or Tehran. But again—time constraints. So we went to Elephant Rock, a little over an hour away (depending on who is driving--I could have made it in an hour)  in an area called Dandi. It’s a good thing we went, too, because it seems that Chadians are intent on turning all their rocky outcroppings in the area into gravel for building projects.

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Anyway, enjoy some photos of our touristing, courtesy of la belle Rhyan, as I was low on funds due to an unfortunate banking card situation, which will probably never be resolved because life is not fair. So she paid for the car and I brought along protection in the form of Herve (to placate her colleagues who are sure she is going to be shot/stabbed/kidnapped at any moment as soon as she sets foot outside the protected halls of the Hilton).

I know, I know--culturally-inappropriate clothing,
but the sweater I was wearing (aka jumper bc I was with a Brit)
kept getting in my way, and I had to climb.
I also had to get rid of the shoes. Fortunately the weather was ok for barefoot rock climbing,
unlike the time I tried that in South Sudan.

I took this photo from the top while Rhyan screamed at me--
she was mad (angry) because she wore a skirt and climbing was difficult.
I told her that I was going to wear pants (trousers).

A more experienced climber could probably have crawled up this
(I saw a monkey climb up it), but it is distracting when people are yelling at you to come back.

In the interest of full disclosure, moments before I climbed up here,
I'd told Rhyan and Herve that I wouldn't, but then I HAD to.

This photo shows a bit more the distance.
Herve wouldn't climb up because he said, "I'm a river man, not a mountain man."
But he told me later that he was really worried about me climbing because
he couldn't get up there to protect me if something happened.
I appreciate his protective instincts, but I also like to help him live on the wild side a bit too.

Herve with the ladies. Notice we are carrying a bunch of rocks.
Apparently it's an acceptable souvenir here. I was asked to bring some back to Urbain
who couldn't come as he was doing prep for a UNICEF eval that still hasn't
happened yet because they last-minute postponed it 3 times. Bless their hearts. Or something.

Herve really wanted to bring us to see this giant gravel pit.
Note that Rhyan is LOVING it. But then we got kicked out for
"security" reasons. We do look suspicious, I guess.

Plotting our next trip.

And this is how Herve's protective instinct really benefits me:
I have a drippy, hacky cold. I wanted ginger juice from our local lady
who always comes by whenever I don't want it, but she didn't have any made this time
when I NEED it for my health and well-being. So Herve went out and got me some ginger juice from someone else,
plus the "sirop" to make more myself (concentrated ginger and melted sugar) plus a small container of Koumra honey,
which is the best honey I've ever tasted in my life (delicately sweet and smells faintly of flowers) plus sweet potato chips.
It's ok if he can't save me if I fall off a rock while barefoot climbing. He can save the entire office from having to listen
to me whine (whinge) about not having ginger juice. He's a true hero.