As Usual

Goats make me laugh-
laughing is better than crying

As usual, the topic of this blog is “the joy of traveling on this blue planet.” (It feels unfair to assign all the blame to “Africa,” as these things have happened to me in Asia too.)

The other day I went to pick up our auditor flying in from Khartoum. The scanned ticket he had sent me listed “11:00am” as the arrival time. I arrived just a little bit after that time because—immigration, baggage claim, getting on and off a stupid bus to go 3 meters across the runway to the airport—these things take time.

We had just slid into a parking place near the crack in the fence (my favorite place to park to avoid pushing through a barrage of wanna-be porters and people selling various types of juice) when James, the auditor, pops up at the car window.

“You’re already out here!” I said, surprised (because usually I’m the only one who can navigate the turbid waters of immigration that fast using skills honed in over-populated Asian countries and years of airport experience, plus sharp elbows).

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been here for two hours. I realized when I got there that they wrote the arrival time in Sudanese time and not Chadian time.”

Some photos from my last trip

 Because of course they did. Naturally, though it is not the traditionally accepted way to note arrival time in the time zone of the departure city, Sudan doesn’t bow to convention. Sudanese time is the only time that matters, b*tches! (I’m going to try to remember to take that last asterixed word out before I publish this, but if I forget, I’m sorry, Mom.) I said to James, “Well, I did not expect that from what I read on the ticket, but I can’t say that I’m surprised that this happened.” And then I apologized profusely for the wait because somehow it felt like my fault—I should have anticipated something like this would happen. Then I recklessly drove him to the office, casually swearing at all the other stupid drivers. Denis (finance manager who is also currently helping us out in Chad and has been spending a lot of time with James) told me that James has gotten the idea that I am naturally very short-tempered. “She gets angry very quickly, doesn’t she?” he said. Denis laughed and said that I really don’t, but when the only time you’ve spent with me is in the car while I’m driving, I can see how you would get that idea. I took James and Denis out to lunch later, making sure to be extra-charming to try to atone for my bad reputation. And I toned down the language to PG (not super easy after spending a few days in proximity to some militarians), but I managed to keep it together until after I dropped them at the office. The trip back to my house was when the “stupid” drivers went back to being “!@#$%$^#!@#$” drivers, because apparently I can be nice only under the judgmental gaze of my passengers (and that’s no guarantee either).

Now, I know I was just blaming Sudan for their travel habits, but I have another complaint that I’m probably going to blame on Chad, though Togo is still in the running. This month is a month of traveling. A month when I’m glad I don’t have to worry about the well-being of a small, evil cat who resents being left behind while others go on adventures to the outer-world. A month where I leave my fridge mostly empty except for water bottles and essentials like chocolate and hot pepper sauce so that I don’t have to worry about food going bad while I’m gone. I hate wasting food. Good thing gummies and chips last for a long time.

So I get up at 4 to work out in anticipation of a long day on an airplane on my way to Mali, which I’m excited about because it is a new country for me. I’m already missing one day of meetings because I couldn’t get a good flight out of N’Djamena to arrive in the morning in Bamako, though Chad and Mali aren’t exactly on opposite ends of the continent. I get to the airport and wander through, not paying attention until I’m asking the guy at the desk for an aisle seat and he tells me he is actually trying to see if he can re-book my ticket. Awesome. I go out and try to find a way to re-book my ticket myself, but it is impossible. I have to trust Asky Airlines, the airline that screwed up this flight in the first place (which I believe is based in Togo, thus giving them some responsibility for upsetting my plans) to rebook, earliest tomorrow. Now I’m down to 2 days out of a 4 day trip. 

 Finally, I decided to take a taxi to the office, as it’s close to the airport. The little old taxi driver insisted on taking the full 5000CFA, as that is airport policy, though sometimes I can convince them to go cheaper, as our office is really 5 minutes away.

He creaked the door open, and I slid into the car and waited while he cranked and cranked the engine and nothing happened. “Oh, the battery!” he said, “it’s tired.” He elicits help from 10 of the afore-mentioned juice sellers and the car begins to move. I wonder if it will still move once they stop pushing.  

“I’m not going to pay if we break down and I have to walk.” I said (but laughing and he laughed too). Actually, I should have walked, but I have a backpack and a computer bag and I didn’t feel like fending off all of the comments. Some days I prefer to be a bit more inconspicuous. And it felt like a sign of defeat to trudge off down the street, backpack bouncing sadly behind me.

Since this conversation was in Arabic, he was excited to note that I speak his language, and we started on a conversation.

Goats climbing things makes me laugh

“Where are you from? What is your country?”

“I’m from America,” I said.

“America-America or Canada?”

“America-America.”

“What city?”

“Nashville,” I answered.

“Nashkash?”

“Sure.” I said.

As usual, this conversation makes me feel a bit dishonest because it leaves out some many details and inserts ones that aren’t 100% true for all they are so simple. Still, it is a conversation that is socially acceptable and slightly preferable to the “how-many-children-do-you-have-wait-no-you’re-not-married-how-about-being-my-second-wife” conversation that is the other frequent ice-breaker discussion.

Anyway, he decided to tell me about his sister who married an American and lives in Hawaii. During this conversation, I noted that I probably could have walked to the office faster than we were driving. But who cares about that? I have earned an extra, unnecessary day in N’Djamena. It's like the opposite of Day Light Savings, plus a day, or something like that, I'm still a bit hazy on that America-American tradition. Then we drove past our street because I overestimating the amount of time it would take our decrepit vehicle to putter past the road, while I was searching for money to pay the guy.

Buying ice in the desert

Arriving in front of our door, I tried to find a way out of the car, which had a metal piece in place of the handle that wouldn’t move.

“It’s automatic!” he said, as he reached over his seat, braced his full body weight against my door while clutching at the metal handle. The door fell open.

So here I am…writing blog posts about why this is funny to me so that I don’t get mad about missing Mali Tourism Day, which is what everyone else will be doing today.  As I told Leif, it doesn’t matter that much because they refused to let me go to Timbuktu, which is where I really wanted to go anyway. Of course, he’s afraid he is going to get in trouble with Mark, who is slightly sensitive about me going places where I’m going to be shot at, otherwise we all know Leif would be right there with me.

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In conclusion, Asky Airlines called and said they will book me on the same flight tomorrow. And what are the odds that this happens again? Well, if we’re going to be honest….but no. Let’s not be. Lightning never strikes twice in the same African airline. Impossible. Tomorrow I’m going to Mali.

Legend has it that this used to be an ocean.
I can kind of see it...if only it were culturally appropriate to sand surf in my bikini...

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.

From Chad

I'm in Chad. Did I mention that I was planning to come here? I can’t remember.  But actually, I got my exit visa about 12 hours before I had to leave for the airport. This would stress out the average person who believes in planning ahead, but I’m not that person anymore. That style doesn’t work for me these days. Last minute planning and the figurative flexibility of an underage Chinese gymnast allows me to lead this life I live.

Coming to Chad has been a vague hazy sort of plan that has slowly materialized into an almost-solid state, like when steam condenses into beads of water, which then freeze into ice. I’m at the slushy stage. The stage that I was able to reach as a child when I wanted to freeze my chocolate milk into a chocolate ice cube but didn’t have the patience to leave it in the freezer for the required length of time. Maybe that is still my problem—I don’t have the patience to wait until plans are solid and detailed enough so that you can’t eat them unless you hack at them for a while with a spoon.  This metaphor has exceeded its usefulness.

But I am here. My 17^th country this year. One of the life events that I would never have predicted at the beginning of this year, which has not been one that has gone according to the ancient prophecies of early 2015. Here is a graph of my life this year:

Like all graphs I am involved with, this one makes lots of logical sense and was made with utmost scientific care.

Chad is definitely different from any place I’ve been before, but with lots of interesting similarities to many places I’ve been before, which is probably a valid description for everywhere I’ve ever been, but seems particularly true for Chad. The Arabic is quite Sudan-ish. The deserty landscape reminds me of Yemen. The donkey riders are Darfur-ian. Many of the cows seem like they could be quite at home on a milk carton in the US as they are wandering aimlessly in front of the odd traveller. Then there are the other cows that look very India.  And of course the bugs flying in my face and down my shirt—very South Sudan.

But the differences are also there. Chad borders Sudan but is 2 hours behind in time zones. While I always hate that the sun isn’t really up in Sudan until almost 7am (very late for an Equator Girl like me), it is equally confusing to have it begin peaking out by 4:50am and completely gone before 6pm. It’s not yet 8pm here, but it feels like it’s almost 10—because it is almost 10 in Sudan. 

I am really enjoying the multiple language conversations though. I am relieved that I got enough French in almost 4 whole months to communicate fairly well here. Also, I’d like to thank my parents for raising me cross-culturally, as it gave me the ability to give the impression that I really know what is going on, even when I don’t. But it has been fun to start a conversation in one language and finish it in another. I have also amused myself by trying to see if I can get someone to switch languages based on the filler-I’m-listening-to-what-you-are-saying words that I use while nodding slowly in agreement. In English this is your basic “uh-huh, yeah, good.” In Arabic it could be “tamam” or “ay” or “sa7.” In French I generally go with “bon” or “bien” or the long, drawn-out “ouuuuuuah,” which to me is like when pop stars sing “may” instead of “me.” So the rules of the game, which I just made up, are that I can’t change the language by speaking an actual sentence. If the talker asks me a question, I have to answer in the same language. The talker has to change the language himself. All I can use are the filler words. So for example, the guy I was talking to was speaking Arabic. I was nodding and saying, "Bon, bien, oui." A few minutes later, I was gratified when Leif looked over at us and said, “Wait-I thought you were speaking Arabic? Now you are in French?” And I get 10 points. Because 1 point is not enough, but it is easy to add using tens. And if American football and tennis have taught us anything, it is that a rational point system makes things better -- so why can’t a touch down be worth 5 points? And “love” is not a score.

Bon. I don’t know for sure where I will be next year since I can’t read the tea leaves through the slushy ice in the metaphorical cup of my life, but I know it will be OK if it is here in Chad. It will also be equally OK if it is anywhere else because God works these things out in the end. And I’m sure He has a reason for why I have used brain space to remember how to say “open defecation free” in French even if I somehow end up back in China next year where that phrase wouldn’t likely feature prominently in my conversation.

                                   

Meanwhile, enjoy some photos of Chad:

Sunrise from the road

Going to the watering hole

Camel train

Leif and Kandos-Men eat MEAT.
Kandos thinks I'm on a permanent diet because I didn't
eat enough. Clearly he has never seen me with the gummy bears.

A close-up of lunch. Guess what?
Those aren't macaroni noodles mixed in.

Loaded up the donkey with water and ready to head home.

So if you speak Indonesian and French
you might have a moment of confusion as
to why they wrote the word "water" twice.

Cow crossing. They need some of these in India.
And this sign should be expanded to include goats,
donkeys, and camels. We definitely nicked a goat in the
bus on the way home. There was a loud thump and people
looked up briefly from the loud, violent Thai movie playing on the TV in which
a team of Thai gymnasts save their village after lots of gory death.
I heard someone say in Arabic, "It was just a goat." Lunch is served for someone.

Village

Watering hole

Do these streets seem way nice for these houses?
If the Minister of Transportation is from your town,
you get all the good roads. And cross walks.

Foret de Mongo! Do you think Hansel and Gretel
would have gotten lost in this foret?
1 tree + 1 tree + 1 tree + 1 tree = FOREST 

A Swede, an American, and a Congolese walk into a bar...
(or rather, a bus park in the middle of no-where Chad)

Hey-people in Chad love Yemen! Me too!

Time to get water 

The lovely man who gave me a tour of toilets in his town.
(I have a great job)

Everyone loves taking selfies. It's just harder when the sun
makes it hard to see the screen.

Village ladies who wanted me to take their photo.
They are looking good.

My friend wanted to introduce me to his grandma.
"She's 160 years old," he said.
"160? ١٦٠?" I confirmed in multiple languages.
"Yes," he said. "OK," I said.
How could he be wrong? Forget that one lady in Japan. Chad for the win!

A really wonderful father who loves his wife and daughters
so much that he is making the effort to build them their own toilet.
I really liked this family. Lots of love there even if they didn't
smile for the photo.

Another village family. They have BORG twins, Marian.
We bonded over the twins in our lives, though these twins
were very suspicious of me.

Sewing class pays off!

Back of the truck fun. Emelie was not happy, but I got in fast.
Is there a better place to bond with new friends than the back of a dusty truck?

A beautiful little village in Chad.

IAS looks good with flowers.

Gas station, Mongo style.

The take-away bag I got from the restaurant for my left-over food.
I have so much confidence in the elections next year in Chad.
People are already using ballot paper envelopes.

Who needs diet coke? Thanks, Cameroon for all the good
food products in Chad. This coke tastes cinnamony. I like it.

I ate this whole thing in one night. Leif tried to tell me how good it is, but
he told me to try the one he left in his room in Khartoum for 3 years.
It was not great, but fresh Tartina=yes. Eat it with a spoon.
(also from Cameroon)