Extra Time

PCR with Pika

 I mentioned on a self-pitying social media post that I would write about my last trip back from the US, which gave me another good reason for why I have decided to be based here in Chad as no one seems to believe that I just genuinely like it here. My good reason: I have a Covid test guy. He comes to my house. He does the test on my front porch while my dogs look on with moderate  interest. He brings the results back to me later in the evening. I pay him about $20 for his service on top of the money I pay for the covid test (cheaper for me because I’m vaccinated). It’s so easy. I do miss (a tiny bit) the days of going to L’Hôpital Central where everybody knew my name and I sometimes got asked to go back into the booth and help them type stuff in from the passports. The Ethiopian passports I brought to them really confused them because Amharic is not a language they can read here (English is on there too, but Amharic is distractingly cool). And Paul’s New Zealand passport was a first for them too—they were trying to type “NZL” as his surname. But I happily gave up all those fun times when I found my guy. I was reminded of how thankful I am for him when I was told by missionaries that he had stopped working, and I went with a friend of mine to get her test. Now you have to pay in one place, go to another place and wait in line for the test, then go back to the second place at an unspecified time of day (probably after 14:00 they say) to pick up the results. It’s not that bad, but it is not convenient. And I have a new covid guy now, who is great and also comes to my house, so I still get to be a Pandemic Princess. He’s a little more expensive, but totally worth it. 

But in America, in its fastest growing city which still gets called a “village” (by Leif), getting a quick turn around covid test for travel is not easy and almost not even possible. It ended up not being possible for me anyway. But the Google informed me that JFK Airport in the great city of New York has multiple 1-3 hour turn around covid testing centers available in the airport. I decided to change my ticket to give me a day in New York so that I could be tested in the necessary time frame before flying back to Africa. My concern at that point is that I was flying to Egypt, and I was reading that Egypt wanted a certified lab signature and/or a QR code. Alternatively they would accept a vaccination card with a QR code. I and other friends searched to find QR codes for American vaccination cards. I do have an American vaccination card thanks to the military doctor who vaccinated me in a hotel in N’djamena with extra vaccines the American people spent their hard earned money on (thank you, American people, for your donation). But American vaccination cards do not have QR codes. And the internet did not enlighten us as to how to get one. So I figured I would take my chances with the PCR test. 

Dinner on a boat floating in the Nile River--proof I was in Egypt
(for meetings)

Koshari on the balcony

Fortunately, I found a PCR test with a 30 minute result turn around in a spa in JFK before I even got to Baggage Claim. Shout out to the friendly JFK volunteer who told me about it, as I’m not a spa person and wouldn’t naturally notice a PCR test that can be done while getting a hot rock massage and a pedicure. $280 later (and that was without a massage or a pedicure) I had a negative result.

Fast-forward to boarding the next day and they refuse the spa test. Why? Because the paper had the word “positive” written on it. I carefully showed the check in guy that positive was written under “range.” As in “range: positive/negative,” but “result” clearly noted “negative.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the guy said. “The Egyptian airport will see “positive” and immediately deny you.” I said, “Egyptians really aren’t that stupid.” But he, himself an Egyptian, insisted it was not acceptable, and the other test I had taken in Tennessee was too late. “Are you vaccinated and does your vaccination card have a QR code?” I explained that yes I was but no, American cards do not have QR codes. He said, “No problem. Go over to that lady there and she will show you how to get the QR code.” After one minute on a website I had a QR code approved for boarding, meaning I spent about $400 on PCR tests for no reason. It’s really too bad that America is not as civilized as Chad about covid tests.

Some TN fun

I’ve been thinking about this as I work with some of my self-proclaimed diva colleagues (to reiterate: this is description they have given themselves) on a trip to Niger/Chad that has changed multiple times and is even now on the verge of crumbling into dust (but still might turn out to be great!). I have no covid guy in Niger, but I do have one in Chad. I kept thinking—why do we have this PCR house call service in Chad and not in Niger? We are very similar countries. I realized that this house call PCR started after the president was killed last year. Many foreigners decided to leave, anticipating widespread chaos and violence (that did not come, I would like to point this out as I was strongly advised to leave and only after putting my foot down and insinuating that people did not respect my opinion because I’m a woman was I allowed to stay—BUT I WAS RIGHT!!!!!!). Of course in the age of covid, no one can leave without a PCR test, but many people were afraid to go out on the streets in case of being caught in a riot or eaten by a rampaging hippo or I don’t know, but we were all laying low (except for when I had to walk the dogs) and thus the PCR house call service was born. And I’m not sad about it. (If you read my blog post about the president’s death, you will remember that I was sad about that—I’m referring here to the advent of the PCR In-House Test).

Some CA fun

And there is another good thing that came for me out of covid craziness (though it was also testing positive for covid that meant I missed Thanksgiving with my dad’s family in Philadelphia): my extra day in NYC I actually spent in Philly. I knew that my grandparents’ health has been failing, and I wanted to make sure that I took advantage of proximity to go see them. I wasn’t super psyched about driving 3 hours to get there, but I knew that it was important. Then another unexpected pandemic positive: due to high numbers of teachers sick with covid and an impending snow storm, my dad’s school was closed for the week and he decided to come with me to New York, drive with me to Philly and visit his family for a few days. We found cheap tickets, and I was able to get him to drive to PA so that I could see what it was like driving through NYC on double decker bridges and multiple lanes where you don’t have to dodge donkeys or motorcycles but you are expected to follow basic traffic rules. 

Thanks to an American married to a Chadian I was invited to a Thanksgiving party I couldn't attend.
Thanks to a Canadian and a British couple, I got to eat some of the leftovers.

I hadn’t traveled with my dad since I tagged along with him and my mom on a visa run to Singapore in 2015 after I was evacuated from South Sudan. I had just decided to go to Chad, and I was working on French to prove to Leif that it was good idea. Never say no to a trip to Singapore. The food alone is worth the hours on a plane. And it’s not even that long of a trip if you go from Indonesia, which you should visit for the food and the people and the beauty and the surfing and the hiking and the volcanos and culture and the Komodo dragons. 

Ramandan donut with my dad in the background,
annoyed at my expensive eating habits at Soekarno-Hatta Intl Airport.

My dad hadn’t traveled on a plane since my parents moved back to the US to take care of my grandmother (mother’s mother), and they’d been a bit tied down with that. This was immediately obvious as he had packed his scissors in his carryon but neglected to bring his vaccination card. It worked out though because it turns out if scissors are small enough they let you keep them and my sister sent him a photo of his vaccination card, which he was using as a book mark in the book he had left in his office at home and we didn’t end up needing it anyway in spite of the weirdly confusing Delta Airlines announcement saying that we did. Anyway, Dad and I had a great time traveling together, as he waited for me to get my PCR results while antagonizing security guards in the airport because his face mask kept slipping down the large bony nose he inherited from some Jewish ancestors way back in the gene pool. 

I’ve not been back to Philly since grad school, so it was good to see my dad’s family, and I especially had a really good time with my grandparents before driving back to JFK to argue with check in officials about PCR tests and QR codes and board my flight to Egypt. This morning I woke up to a message on the family group chat that my grandfather passed away in the night while I was sleeping. I’m so grateful that I had that last special day with him and my grandmother. 

This has been a season of loss for me. My dear friend lost her mother in August, a woman who had been very kind and lovely to me when I was going through a very tough time. I lost my maternal grandmother while I was in Ethiopia last year. Then an Egyptian friend of mine in the US died of cancer. Over Christmas I heard that a dear missionary uncle of mine was sick and he died just after I got back to Chad. It felt so fast. I wasn’t really prepared for it, and the grief I feel for his family is still heavy with me. Then coming off of that a dear pastor friend of mine in South Sudan who I had just heard was recovering from covid passed away too. It hit me hard, and I spent the night crying with other friends around the world for him, a man who brought everyone who knew him joy. I used to joke that I have never heard anyone who knew him say his name without smiling. It was never “Oh Pastor James Dema” but “OH PASTOR JAMES DEMA!! I LOVE HIM!!!” Friends send me clips of his funeral service, a celebration of his life full of singing and dancing, but the truth is that the world has less joy in it without him. Then last week I hear that little Jonathan, who was just a boy who would come hang out at my house when I was in South Sudan died of cancer in Khartoum, a teenager now, but still so young. Leif’s mother also died last week. She was 93 and it’s easier to celebrate her life as I celebrate my grandfather and my grandmother who passed last year who were also in their 90's. But still I miss them. I do. I missed buying sugar free chocolate for my diabetic grandmother over Christmas and sitting in her steaming room, the only room hot enough for me in American winter, chatting about her past Africa adventures and my current ones while her TV flickered in the background. I will miss having long one-sided conversations about politics with my grandfather (though this last time he listened to me passionately defend Dr Abiy’s policies in Ethiopia and rant about continued French political and economic control in Africa, which I am passionately against, though I can’t be 100% sure he heard what I was saying). 

I was going to try to make a point about something here, but I don’t really feel like being preachy. I’m grieving, people I love are grieving too (more than me even). I’m not at the level of grief where I can’t still enjoy things around me, while I know others are there. I’ve been in that level of grief before and it hurts a lot. There are no sermons I can give or verses I can quote that take away that pain. I wish I could offer something more than the “hug emoji” on facebook to grieving friends or assurances of my prayers, but that’s all I have. I’m thankful that I have hope in the Lord that this isn’t the end for any of my loved ones, but Jesus knew he was going to raise Lazarus from the dead, and He still wept, so I think it’s ok. I’ll still send out my love and prayers and hug emojis and be thankful for little frustrations that gave me a little bit more time with loved ones, though I am not thankful that the last photo I ever took with my grandfather was as bad as the one my dad and uncles took. Come on. 

See how bad this photo is?

This photo is not bad though

The lovely and kind Ms Duff

Me probably complaining that Mama Jewell got more cake than me.

A photo of Leif and Pastor James that Leif sent me while I was in Pakistan last year.
Leif and I and many others are still grieving his loss. We were not ready.

A screenshot from a video of Pastor James talking about his ministry.
I am gutted that I won't get to see that smile again this side of heaven.

Little Jonathan (we called him Jona) on the left there.
He was always such a sweet kid, never rough or selfish or pushy as other kids can be sometimes.

I like this pic of Uncle David, in his element, working to build up the local church.
He leaves behind ministry that will continue because of his faithfulness to prepare others to take over.

Some things in my life that I'm still enjoying

They really wanted some of my nasi goreng,
or they think they do. There is only egg, no meat in this so they would never eat it.

The only way to know if your nasi goreng is hot enough
is to see how much you cough and sneeze while cooking.