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)

Sand, Sun, Dirt, Donkeys--Home Times

I’m back in Sudan. Every time I come back here and sort through the stuff I left here because I don’t use it anywhere else (thobes and extra sleeves to wear under short sleeved shirts and various currencies I’ve had with me coming in or out of a place), I feel annoyed with all the crap I’ve accumulated. But I usually can’t get rid of it for various reasons. For example, should I take my semi-winter coat back to the US or leave it here to help me survive when I end up suddenly in places like Hungary or France in the dead of spring or fall? My life is full of quandaries like that one.

But it has been good to be back. While it is a miserable 8C/45F in Paris (not shorts weather unless you are a crazy Swedish guy, Johan) it is a beautiful 35C/97F in Khartoum, where the sun always shines on a happy land. (Note: No math was used at all in the previous C/F conversions. They are not accurate in any way.)

So far I’ve already enjoyed a midnight picnic by the Nile and the World Cup Rugby Final—two things I would probably only ever do in Sudan. Although, maybe if I were in Egypt I would take a midnight Nile-side picnic, but I didn’t when I was there last time. Picnics in desert lands tend to be done after dark (though I’d be fine either way). In Sudan, half the fun is searching for a patch of grass on which to spread out your feast. I’ve seen people picnicking on the median of large roads because there is a little bit of grass growing there. Sorry I don’t have any photos of that, but here are some of our party:

I'm drinking water, FYI. And I spilled it ten seconds
after this photo while posting it on FB.

The picnicking crowds

Moon over the Nile River-best I can do with an iPhone

Camel rides, anyone?

World Cup Rugby was also very important to me because Tim and Micaela needed to be around calm people who do not understand the rules enough to care who wins the game. This is because they have a mixed marriage - a beautiful cross-cultural relationship between an Aussie and a Kiwi, both of whom fully understand the rules of Rugby Union. I think that the very fact that I was there, eating Wallaby and All Blacks cupcakes, has helped to keep their relationship strong. Also, Micaela didn’t gloat too much, being more concerned with the fact that the All Blacks’ Haka dance was not caught on the mics.  (Note: that was very sad. If Whale Rider taught me anything, it was that you CAN ride whales and Haka dances are even cooler with sound.)

And finally, it seems my Arabic is still with me, though there are people who still insist on translating for me, those are also the people who are really impressed by the depth of my Arabic vocabulary. For example, Mukarram and I were talking about physical fitness, a discussion prompted by reading the helpful tips on the tag of my tea bag. He wants to gain muscle weight, and I suggested that he try working out. I feel like that is the way that people do that generally. He is surprised that the occasional game of soccer isn’t enough to bulk him up. I mentioned that he could maybe add in some push-ups because I am basically like a personal trainer. (Although the time I tried to get Selma to do yoga with me, she ended up collapsed on the floor for 30 minutes.) Later at lunch, Zuhoor’s husband was hanging out with us and the subject of push-ups came up again, because at IAS we care about physical fitness. And when I joined in the conversation, he looked amazed and said, “You know the word ‘booshub’ in Arabic? I can’t believe it. Your Arabic is so advanced!” Then he challenged me to a booshub contest, which I won because I don’t smoke sheesha very much (anymore) and also it’s possible that my shirt was not appropriate for that particular activity and he was being polite.

And speaking of shirts, you know you are meant to be in Sudan (at least for a week) when it seems more natural to throw on a thobe than to search for appropriate clothing to change into (or, you know, remember where you put your bra) when running down to the office for a few minutes to use the internet. Which is something I can’t do right now because the electricity is off. But at least when the electricity is off, so is the AC, and all is right with the world.

Appropriately clothed.

P.S. We just had some unexpected guests in our office, during this time of darkness, and after they left Mukarram said to me, “Amanda, I like how you play the game.” So even if my Rugby Union skills are limited, I can play Sudanese mind games, and really, those are much more challenging.

P.P.S Leif just said to me, “Wow, your Swedish is so fun.” I don’t think it’s a compliment, but it is hilarious.

Helpful Rugby Tip for You

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