The Last Part Where the Exciting Stuff Finally Happens

Photo helpfully posted on Facebook previously by Moussa 

Finally the end of the saga, and if you made it this far -- nice work (I know it's you, Mom)! To remind you: we had just bought a new-to-us spare tire, and we were back on the road with another 350km to go at 5pm with an hour left of good daylight and the only good bit of road behind us.

I told you it is pretty out here.

About an hour later, I was braking for potholes or goats or something, when I felt the brake push all the way to the floor. I am not a car person, but on the giant Land Cruiser trucks that I have been driving, when the brakes are working, you push a little on the pedal and feel the catch pretty quickly. In this case, the catch wasn’t there, and I had to push all the way in, like how much you have to push the clutch in before there was any catch (pretty much all the way to the floor, which means Sister Short Legs here is almost standing), and it wasn’t a strong catch. I knew it was probably the back brakes, which we had just had fixed, but likely they hadn’t been fixed as well as we had hoped. A car person gave me his theory as to what happened because it has happened to him before--possibly someone forgot to tighten the thing when he was fixing the other thing and then the thing fell off and didn't do what it was supposed to do. I really appreciated his efforts at the explanation, which actually made sense at the time, but unfortunately all that remains of his attempt to educate me are that the thing wasn't tightened. Anyway, we were in the middle of nowhere. There was nowhere to fix the brakes or re-tighten the un-tightened things. There was nothing to do except convince myself to drive more slowly, which, along with remembering names of car parts, is not one of my stronger skills. I told myself to stay in 4^th or below, but you can go pretty fast in 4^th too. I told Nesie what had happened, and I asked him to pray.

About 20km outside of the last town before N’djamena, it was almost dark and hard to see. It was too light for the headlights to help much but too dark to see very well. I really wanted to get to Massaguet (the last town) by 7:00pm because it was a stupid goal that I had set for myself. From Massaguet there are only 80km left before N’djamena. I was hoping to get home by 8:30, and I remember thinking to myself, if anything happens, it will be way after 8:30 before you make it home, so try to drive carefully!

The aftermath. You can see that I had the lights on, but it's still light-ish out.
At this point everyone was really worried about me, but I was really worried about the chickens.

Clearly I don’t listen to myself because when I swerved to miss some tire-killing potholes I saw at the last moment because it was hard to see, I lost control of the car, it slid across the road and flipped on its side landing in the grass. I remember lying there for a moment listening to Nesie pray and Antani scream my name thinking, “Yeah, we aren’t getting home by 8:30.” And then I told Antani I was OK. And everyone else said they were ok. Two young men walking by who had run for their lives when I lost control of the car and it looked like I was heading for them, ran over to help us. They broke the passenger side window and helped pull us out of the car. That’s when I noticed my dress was ripped and my left shoulder and arm were dripping blood. My right hand was ripped up too, with one nail broken in half. Fortunately, no one else was injured. I did what I always do when I think I might need medical help: I called Claire.

I was pretty upset and not very coherent. We were attracting a crowd. I genuinely had no idea what we should do and how we could get out of there. Claire told me to get to Guinebor Hospital (where she works) if I could and they would help me get stitches (it was clear that I needed them) and clean the wounds, but that was another 100km or so away and we had no transportation. I looked over and found that a crowd of 15 men lined up by the truck and “one-two-three” pushed it back upright! Fortunately I got that on video because say what you want about Chadians, but this is the night before one of the big Muslim holidays, and they’re all dressed up and off to festivities, but they happen upon a tipped over car and they say, “Hey guys, let’s fix this!” They flipped it back over and went on their way like it was no big deal. Then a Chadian military car stopped to check out the situation. They were on their way to Massaguet. The “Captain” (the other guy called him that so I assume that was his rank) told us to get in his car with his driver and he got in our car and they drove us to the “hospital” in Massaguet, dropped us off and then headed on their way to their festivities. The Captain said, “The car works, but the engine seems to be getting really hot so you should probably fix it here if you can.”

My efforts at posting the video of the guys pushing the car back up.

Another effort in case the other one doesn't work. Likely neither one will work.

Meanwhile, I was ushered into the “hospital” by my very concerned passengers (none of whom had even a scratch) who had been traumatised by my stupid driving but were all mostly concerned for me, as I was dripping blood all over the floor. It’s ok because the floor was already covered in mud and bugs. I use quotation marks around the word “hospital” because it was one room with a man in a lab coat, a table with some medicines on it and a few beds pushed around the corners of the room. One light bulb lit the room, and that wasn’t sufficient to see the wounds, so one of the ladies standing around who was presumably a nurse, but could also have just been a friend of the guy in the lab coat, whipped out a nokia phone and held the tiny flashlight over my arm. Another lady helpfully snipped off a chunk of my dress, along with a bit of my hair, so that I could pull my arm out. The doc and another kid in a lab coat start rubbing down my arm with betadine (?), which I think is iodine in English? (Red stuff that burns.) They dug the cotton swabs in my wounds and marveled at my ability to speak Arabic. In between my groans I told them my life story, and they were excited about all my time in the Arab world. Then I noticed the doc grab a large syringe, and I figured things were going to get worse. He poked the needle down into one side of my jagged elbow wound, then twirled it a bit and poked it up out of the other side of the wound, like he was trying to sew it shut. At first I thought he was starting the stitches, and then I realized it was the local anesthetic as he squirted the liquid all over the outside of the wound. Then the young kid in the lab coat popped over and started sewing. I’ve been told that proper procedure is to give the local anesthetic a bit of time to start working before sewing up the wound. Also, I’ve been told that usually it’s given before they start swabbing out the gashes with burning red stuff. And I think that generally when medicine is administered by injection, it is supposed to go inside of the body and not be squirted on the outside, but I'm no medical professional. Anyway, I definitely felt the stitches, but later while I was sitting on one of the beds waiting for Urbain to show up, I noticed that there was a bit of numbness in my arm.  I also noticed that the guy who wrapped the bandages around my stitches did not wear gloves, though the others had, and he also tore strips of tape and gauze with his teeth. I don’t want to blame him for the infection I developed later, but he is on the suspect list.

They have gloves on!

It’s 80km from Massaguet to N’djamena, as I’ve mentioned previously. It took Urbain nearly 2 hours to drive that distance to come pick us up, which is not because the road is terrible (it isn’t great, but it is not terrible), but because he doesn’t drive fast at night (a lesson that some of us should take into account, I realize), and he didn’t crack 60kmph even once. Covid curfew at the time was set at 10pm, but we had a doctor’s note from the doc in the lab coat, clearly the most official person present (so why did they let the kid intern do the stitches?). He wrote a nice note on fancy doctor paper, declaring that I needed an xray ASAP. It is possible that he really believed that. To me, a non-medical person who does not own a lab coat and has been known to use candy as medication and the power of positive thinking to cure headaches, it seemed fairly clear that no xray was needed, but whenever we were called upon to produce that permit to drive after curfew (3-4 times actually), the fact that I hadn’t been given any actual pain medication this whole time and the fact that my dress was covered in blood and blood was soaking through the bandages as well, really sold the medical emergency. It did not spur Urbain to faster driving, which is probably good, though I was pushing the gas pedal for him in my mind.

Don't say I only post photos of me when I look good.

We made it to my house at 1am. Because they wouldn’t have my pained facial expressions to convince police that we were ok to be out after curfew, everyone stayed over at my house that night. The men slept on beds and mattresses in Henry’s house (since Henry is back in Kenya now and Victor was in Dourbali), and Antani slept on a mattress in my house. The next day, everyone headed to their respective homes, and Claire came to pick me up, fill me with drugs, drive me to her hospital (about 20 minutes out of town) to have me checked over by Dr Tom of Guinebor Hospital, bought me lunch and escorted me to an Art Show with Tea put on by the Guinebor Kids (so classy are these multicultural little TCKs), and then drove me home and then went back out to Guinebor. If you have a friend who is that caring, selfless and wonderful, you are pretty blessed, aren’t you? I know I am.

Claire told me that she looks serious in this photo because this is serious business.
She helpfully wrote out everything for me about the meds
because I did not pay attention when she was talking. 

Dr Tom was actually fairly impressed by Kid in a Coat’s stitches, so I felt bad for doubting him. He did say that he should have stitched up the cut at the top of my shoulder though. I don’t blame Kid in a Coat for that—the nokia phone light was just not powerful enough, but that could have been a cause for the infection too. Fortunately, due to double doses of antibiotics from Claire, Pharmacist Extraordinare, that didn’t last long. It maybe lasted a bit longer than it would have since the pain meds made me barf up everything for two days. Claire drove in AGAIN to bring me anti-nausea meds, which I later misplaced, and when I couldn't find them, I immediately assumed that the dogs ate then (which was unfair to them, but they do cause a lot of mayhem and destruction in my house). Later I found them in my bag (where I had put them and promptly forgotten), so it was all good, as I was really worried that the dogs had eaten them, but I would never find out because they wouldn't be able to barf them up--because anti-nausea. Claire is very kind to put up with me. I will say that a convenient thing that happened this year is that I have learned how to throw up. It took me a long time, but it is amazing how much better you feel after. All it took was a year of consistent trauma, pain, and frequent medical issues to help me re-learn a skill I presumably was born with.

Doc Tom and I in our super-cool Chadian facemasks.

A fun thing about being in an accident or in hospital for any reason here, is that people will come to visit you and check in on you. When you are alone, as I am, you are then responsible for dragging yourself out of bed, sitting in a chair and smiling awkwardly while hoping you have something in the cupboard to offer them. Fortunately, I always have cookies, and since I wasn’t eating due to nausea, there were still plenty to offer to my guests.

Céline came by to fix my bandanges.
Yes my house is unorganized and the couch cushions are like that
so that the dogs don't mess them up and the mattress is in there
because Antani slept there and I couldn't move it out with only one functioning arm.

Observe the beauty and order of Claire's house in contrast to mine.
She only has one cat. Also she's better at interior design than I am.
Also I have no interest or abilities in interior design.

Moussa showed up with Victor on Saturday to pick up some supplies and check in on me. He took some videos and photos, which he diligently posted on Facebook on my behalf (thus informing many surprised people who I'd not told that I had been in an accident). He also tried to give away my dogs because he says there are too many. He is right, but I haven’t given any away yet, though I have locked them out of my house a few times. He actually called Emelie and told her to come take the one he calls Kakilé, which I actually decided officially to call Kwach in honor of Henry, though in reality I still call her Puppy even though she's now bigger and fatter than both Flip and York because she is a glutton. Anyway,  Emelie knows me too well and didn't follow orders to pick up her new puppy. She does want Kakilé/Kwach/Puppiko (that's what she calls her) though, and I'll probably cave and give her the dog, but right now Antani's kids and myself love her too much.

How can I give up this puppy who so graciously steals my laundry
off the drying rack and then wears my bra around her neck because she knows it makes her look good?

Moussa was so proud to help Nadji cut the bandages for me.

Nadji and Céline (both nurses from Guinebor and friends of mine) came in alternate days to change my bandages. Nadji insisted on doing it even when I thought it could wait because he was worried about the infection.

Gross photo also courtesy of Moussa

And finally the end to the saga: Céline took the stitches out. She invited me over to her house for lunch and stitches removal (Claire was invited too). Lénaëlle (Céline’s daughter) put on a “spectacle” (the Guinebor kids are artists and performers for sure) and decorated the table with flowers in honor of our visit. Stitches came out fairly easily. I do not have to drive out over the bumpy dirt road to Guinebor for a while, though I can now because I have a big truck. And I did the next weekend to make cinnamon rolls with Claire. I had to learn the trick of turning the key, warming up the car system (turn key to light up dash but not start engine, then wait until the squiggle on the dash goes out), and get the horn fixed (I cannot drive in Chad without a horn), and fix the windshield wipers because it’s rainy season. I also learned that in order for the driver’s side door to stay shut while you’re driving, you must lock it (see the last post when I nearly took out a motorcycle driver when my door swung open while I was driving). Anyway, all’s well that ends well. And I’ll be off on another trip soon, and this time I will drive a bit slower. And bring more food. And leave as early as possible. And refuse to run any more errands for passengers. And make sure the brakes are working.

Stitches are out grâce à Céline and flowers in my braids are grâce à Lénaëlle.

And I was back later that week to make cinnamon rolls with Claire!
While they were baking we took many timed geography quizzes online
 because we are nerds who know how to have a good time.

They turned out well, don't you think?
Not pictured: cream cheese icing

Oh-and one important thing I forgot to mention: the chickens survived the crash! And then somehow they survived the night in my compound full of dogs--they are truly impressive creatures that will probably taste really good when Antani cooks them up.

  

This is not a photo of the chickens that survived,
but this is a photo I took on a previous trip to Bitkine
when we stopped to buy some chickens to bring back to N'djamena.
Clearly chickens here are tough birds.

What's in a Name? (Hint: people's opinions about your life choices)

Loved being back with this guy for a few days

I just completed a 10-day trip with the Americans—the boss, a colleague, and two video guys. It has left me considering early retirement on a deserted island in a secret location, but I haven’t even been able to convince myself to take a day off, even though I worked straight through two weeks and technically earned a weekend.

The trip was the first for the Neverthirst team back to Africa since before my dramatic evacuation from South Sudan. Consequently, I really wanted it to go well, and I had grandiose plans for its success. Yes, I had plans. In advance (!). I was uncharacteristically prepared for this trip. Mostly the Chad part, but also the Uganda part.

Ice cream selfie

On my end, the trip started out in the usual way, excessive immigration flirting to score some extra re-entry forms for the team on the return trip earned me a marriage proposal that I pretended not to understand.

Got to see this cool girl since I got to Uganda
before everyone else. We always have fun.

Once I arrived in Addis, made my way to the Silver Lounge, snuck over to the Gold Lounge through an open connecting door to steal diet cokes, and parked myself in a wifi accessible location, the fun started. I had messages from the Americans that their first flight was canceled due to hurricanes and they were driving and hoping their second flight wouldn’t be canceled. I informed them that it was too late for me to back out now, but a small part of me thought it might be nice hang out in the comfortable Entebbe hotel, complete with wifi and hot baths for a few days waiting for them to be re-routed. Then I had a message from Emelie telling me that there was a new immigration officer in Chad who was not giving her the visa she thought she’d have for Emmanuel who was supposed to be arriving from Kenya later that night and could we postpone his flight? Answer: no. He was already flying on that flight… I then spent the rest of the airport time trying to deal with that unsuccessfully and also eating ice cream at 11:30pm because they now have ice cream in the Addis airport! And years of digging out forgotten ice creams from the bottom of my grandparents’ freezer has made me appreciate the delicate cardboard aftertaste of slightly freezer-burnt confections, so I was able to enjoy my midnight snack.

I made him a nice two-layer cake
to celebrate his birthday late, here in NDJ.
It was a really good cake too, though not pretty.
It doesn't make up for all the pain and agony,
but Emmanuel is great and very forgiving.

(In case you are interested in the outcome, Emmanuel arrived in Chad, they sent him back to Douala the next day, but he is Kenyan and didn’t have a visa for Cameroon either and he had to stay in the airport while we waited to see if Emelie got the last signature she needed so he could make the 23:15 flight. She did at the last minute and he made it, but not before I realized that it was his 40^th birthday that day he spent sitting with Douala Airport Security—Amanda=World’s Worst Boss.)

Everyone ended up making it to Uganda for our trip. We were able to ease the Americans into Africa life—Uganda is much more developed than Chad, though we did have to take those vans with the side-bench seats that can be a bit uncomfortable for trips over unpaved roads. The following conversation happened many times:

Mark/John/Kyle/Nathan/Whoever: How far is this next drive?

Local partner: 30-45 minutes.

Reality: 30 minutes to 2 hours drive. But the important thing is that we made it to every village on the list. This would not be the case once we arrived in Chad…

Uganda was particularly memorable for me in that I received two new tribal names and a chicken. After translating interviews for a South Sudanese woman talking about how her biosand filter benefits her family, she pulled me aside and told me that she would like to give me a Kuku name (Kuku being her tribe, no need for “punny” jokes).

“I will called you ‘Kiden,’ “ she said. “It means ‘the one woman with all the men.’” So, basically accurate, though not exactly beneficial to me, as they are all married, but I do like having my own room in hotels when we travel.

Filming the biosand filter bit with Esther,
just before she renamed me "Kiden."

When you carry a baby girl through a warzone,
you have an unbreakable bond.
Love this girlie.

The second new name was one I received after a long grateful ceremony to Neverthirst in thanks for the wells we funded in the area. It’s a good thing that I’m not one of those people who is afraid of public speaking because I made many spur of the moment speeches at various and sundry ceremonies across Uganda and Chad while I was with the Americans. In Chad, I speeched in French and/or Arabic and then translated them back for the monolinguals, but in Uganda I had to work with translators (unless I was with South Sudanese refugees) because I don’t speak those tribal languages. I prefer to do my own translating, but I’ve not gotten the chance to learn Logbara (yet). I did pick up a few useful words to throw in when I am searching for loud applause and laughter (I like to work the crowd). At the end of the last (and longest) ceremony, Mark, John and I were called up to be given our Logbara names. Being Kiden, I was given mine first (chivalry). I had to quickly put down the origami animals I was making for all the kids sitting around me and pretend I’d been paying attention the whole time as I smiled and walked up to the front of the room (where we’d moved when a huge downpour did not, as I’d hoped, finish off the ceremony early).

“Your Logbara name is called ‘Itoru’! This name is the female of the name that means ‘Savior’ in English because you have brought water to our people!”

Ribbon cutting ceremony before the name-giving ceremony

I felt my smile sticking to my face and I begin hoping for a God-sent lightning bolt to zap me off the face of the earth for blasphemy. They literally made me into a White Savior, which is an actual type of person you find out here in the development world, and one I’ve spent my adult life trying to avoid becoming. It’s been a process and it’s involved listening to the superior wisdom of people in whose countries I’ve had the privilege to work and constantly reminding myself that I don’t automatically know better because of my educational background and then apologizing for the times when I thought I knew better and screwed something up. It’s the reason why I like working with Neverthirst and IAS because I rarely even see other white people when I’m working and I know how much more important all my people here are to the success of our work than I am. I’ve met plenty of people with White Savior Complex in my time in Africa and Asia, some I’ve tried to gently steer into reality, others I’ve tried to gently avoid at all costs in conversation and general proximity. And now I am one. Dammit. Well, let me know if you need anything, I guess. Apparently I’m in the business of saving the world. I don’t work week-ends, though. It’s important to have boundaries.

 Here are a few more Uganda Photos:

I'm super proud of this photo. See the billboard advertising "Sky View," Uganda's answer to Mountain Dew, as the
bus with the Mountain Dew advert on the back goes by...I should win the Nobel Photography Prize for this genius shot.

Joy made all my favorites for lunch chez Repent.
Everyone acted like the peanut butter greens were so weird,
and then all the Americans loved them, even
"I'll Just Eat a Power Bar" Mark.

Can you feel the hatred that this child has for me?
I think she heard about the whole "White Savior" thing.
I feel you, kid. I deserve that look.

Repent testing out the virtual reality headset,
which we are using to show Americans a bit about life in Neverthirst countries.
Here is Repent looking at snow. Works both ways.

Day 1: Mark and John twinning.

Day 2: did it again. Two days in a row in the same shirt.
This is the problem when all your clothes are Neverthirst swag.

The Americans have a dedication to getting the perfect shot,
no matter what the cost. Not pictured: Amanda untangling Nathan's foot
from the grass or Amanda walking behind Nathan as he walked backwards,
steering him onto the road. I saved his life so many times.

The lovely long-suffering Safia, allowing Kyle to
strap her to the 3D camera.

There must have been a moment when Safia regretted letting
it slip to me that she speaks Arabic because I made her be the video subject.
It's easier if I translate because I know what the video guys are trying to do.
Safia is a Ugandan who has spent much time with South Sudanese, and so she
speaks Arabic as well as several other tribal languages. She is a genius.
And now she's also a movie star. Coming to a theatre near you in 2018.

Chicken selfie. Yes, the people gave us a live chicken
that then had to ride with us in the car for two days until
Repent took it home for dinner...
(sadly for the chicken, he probably won't get the peanut butter greens)

Here you see him looking calm and quiet under my seat.
That is deceptive. He kept poking at my ankles, making me scream.
Hey-when it's dark and something under your chair touches your feet,
you scream. That is just logical.

Me and Abui in front of the hot air blowing out of the compressor.
I was freezing most of the time. Here I'm wearing John's jacket over Golda's cardigan
and my own sweater--still in imminent danger of hypothermia.

Photo with Loguya and Repent and someone's thumb.
Still wearing John's jacket. Said Kyle or Nathan or someone:
"Of course you need the jacket with a windchill of 90 degrees."
I agree with that.

Peanut butter milkshakes in the Entebbe Airport are the best.
Next post Chadisasters and Chadventures.

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Birthday and Other Types of Traveling

Already my traveling life is blurring, and I’m barely a third of the way in. I like traveling, and I like being in the field, so these are good things. I also like long road trips. But sometimes my life decisions are tiring.

 

On my birthday in the past, I’ve enjoyed taking time off and going on adventures. Number 30 was in Spain, 31 in Hungary, 32 just back from Nepal, making Mexican food for the office in N’Djamena (they liked it). This year I didn’t get a chance to plan an adventure, as I was informed early on that the donors were coming on that day. Naturally, I then informed them that it would be my birthday. With the generous openness natural to most Americans (really that is our reputation out here, I don’t know who thinks THEY hate us—we are much more lovable than most of the French), he offered to bring me a present. “What do you want from the US?” I asked him for a tub of that icing that you can buy in the supermarket. Simple, small, hopefully with funfetti. But I’ve noticed that men often smile and nod like they are hearing the words that are coming out of my mouth, though they have already made their own decision. He brought me Starbucks coffee and lotion. I’m sure that any other 33 year old woman would have been very happy with that, but I’ve already been open and honest about the maturity level of my taste buds, and I never drink coffee by choice. But they redeemed themselves by giving me a box of Little Debbie Valentine’s Day chocolate cakes, which fits into my nutritional system.

Gibraltar on my 30th.

Budapest on the 31st-same scarf, which was
stolen by the SPLA a few months later.

Driving face

The rest of the day was mostly uneventful, though I did drive from Massaguet to Bitkine (about 400km). I dodged potholes masterfully this time and punctured no tires. I did, however, hit one speed bump full on, and after that people kept jokingly reminding me of all the up-coming bumps. Then, after Tamadji took back the wheel, he immediately pinged a goat, and he became the brunt of everyone’s new jokes. He also never relinquished the driver’s seat to me again, but I think that was because he didn’t want to be squished in the front middle seat, straddling the shifter. It was an awkward position that I accepted because being the smallest, I was really the only one who fit there, though Tamadji managed to squeeze in and take over half the driver’s seat while I was driving. I think T didn’t love my driving style. He gave me a few pointers like, “When you’re going around the holes in the road, why don’t you slow down?” and “You can wait for the animals to go by instead of honking at them until they move faster.” Sadly, for the goat he offed, he didn’t take his own advice in this. I also got a tiny bit defensive and asked him how long he’d had his driver’s license. “Fourteen years,” he said. “I’ve had mine for 15,” I remarked casually. Of course, we won’t talk about the years living abroad when I drove at most once or twice when forced. The point is, I don’t need your middle-passenger’s-seat driving. If I don’t want to downshift to 4^th to get around the potholes, hold on to your door handles, there will be swerving, but as long as there are at least 2 points of contact between the car wheels and the ground, we’re probably good. I have not yet flipped a car. And I definitely got us to Bitkine in time to see the view in my favorite Chadian town.

Remember how I can never leave Bitkine area without chickens?
This time we brought a goat (and chickens too).

 Donor trips can be exhausting because managing expectations is hard, but I successfully treated a dehydrated donor (“drink ALL the water”-I’m basically a doctor), I crashed a wedding (I danced, I ululated, I took photos and gave the bride who I’d never met before money), I lectured little children standing in the road soliciting money from passing cars about road safety, I climbed up the water tower ladder in a dress, I read the book Marian sent me on Kindle while everyone else was watching the Jesus Film, and generally, it was a good trip.

Wedding crasher!!!!

She wanted to take a serious selfie.

Little girls showing me the clay toys they made.
I almost bought the tea set for my teapot-collecting grandmother,
but I was squished in the seat and was afraid they'd break on the road.

Jean Pierre, Herve, and The Author.

I had one day at home before jumping back in the car again to visit an orphanage needing a water system in the southern part of the country. I was pretty excited about this, having never been to the south. As a general rule, I tend to like the southern parts of the countries where I’ve lived—south coast of Java=yes, southern Yemen=set them free from the evil dahabashis, southern India=masala dosa (though I didn’t actually go there while I was in India, YES to their food), and so on. I really enjoyed visiting Koumra with the wonderful Jean Pierre of whom Emelie said, “He’s so nice you would think he was American and not French.” He was born in Bitkine.

Jean Pierre showing us the moringa he is growing,
packaging, and distributing to malnourished women and children.
Look up moringa online to see how great it is.

At the maternal health center playing with a recovering malnourished baby

I also had fun traveling with Herve. Someday, if you ever have the chance to travel with Herve, here are some things that you can expect from the trip:

1.     He will bring more than enough water bottles. This is a good thing, as I’ve been on trips with others who do not bring enough. Herve jokes that he is a camel, but camels only drink about once a month. Of course, then they drink 200-500 liters, and he probably averages about that amount per month too.

2.     He will throw the water bottles out of the window. Don’t freak out about this. It isn’t littering. The water bottles will be picked up and used. Usually you can see people run to pick them up as you speed away.

3.     He will bring music. This is mostly good, except I want to take this moment to complain about francophone Africa. Everywhere else in Africa and Asia you only have to listen to some of Celine Dion’s English songs. Here you listen to those AND her French stuff. There is no escape. At least ABBA only sang in English and Herve doesn’t know who they are. DO NOT ENLIGHTEN HIM.

4.     He will stop and buy all the weird fruits and oils being sold by the side of the road. He will buy you some too, even if you tell him that you don’t want them.

Chadian sesame snack

Did you know that this is how cashews grow?
The fruit is not my favorite, and sadly, you
can't just eat the cashew right off the top like that.
You have to cook it somehow.

5.     He will talk about how the French are the root of all evil in francophone Africa.

6.     He will lecture you about getting married. Or maybe just me. We started out with a lovely conversation where he told me that I was one of the strongest women he knows. “And,” he said, “I know a lot of strong women. I have 5 older sisters and my wife is also a strong woman. But you are the strongest. And I like your simple direct leadership style. You are honest and open. That’s a good thing.” After all of these compliments, I was feeling pretty good about myself until a while later when he said, “You know why you don’t have a man? Because you are too strong. You need to be a little weaker so that the man thinks he can come in and help you.” “What if I don’t need him to come help me?” “He wants to think that he can,” he said. “You have to give him an opening.” I clearly don’t know how to do this, but he didn’t accept my protests that I am not going to change who I am to catch a man. The problem is that I haven’t accepted that my life will be meaningless if I never have any kids. And as my window of opportunity is shrinking, he is becoming more and more concerned about me. Therefore, he will spend several hours lecturing me about “openness” and “God’s plan for me to get married” and “your babies will be so cute” and “I know if you actually wanted to get married, you could get married. Why don’t you want to be married? Just find a man and get married.” And then we reminisced about the time that he told me that men are like mangos, and you just have to pick a good one that you can reach. And then we stopped and bought a lot of mangos.

7.     And he will share stories about his time as a child soldier that will haunt you for the rest of your life, even though a few of the stories will be kind of funny. But you’ll start to figure out where his deep animosity for the current regime and their European allies stems from.

At any rate, we had fun. The car suffered but kept going like the Little Engine that Could. She is an amazing car that can withstand Amanda’s and Herve’s driving (though he didn’t let me drive because he believes in traditional masculine chivalry).

I have a few more trips planned this up-coming month, but for now, I’m enjoying the comforts of home. And the giant box of gummy crocodiles and other assorted candies that my friends, who know who I really am, gave me for my birthday.

Showing off the new pants I got from Denis (though it looks kind of like a pregnancy shot)
And the mango pie I made for Djibrine's birthday.

Either I'm trying to convince him to try the pie,
or I'm trying to get him to explain to me why the car is still making that noise.