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.