1/14/06

Spending time with embassy people and other expats in N'Djamena can be fun, but the lifestyle starts to get real old, real fast, particularly after realizing just how isolated and out-of-touch they are with life here, behind their broken-glass-topped concrete walls and razor wire.

Let me preface this by saying that virtually all the expats I've met here are genuinely good people, and while they make the choice, and thus bear ultimate responsibility to have so little to do with the world outside their compounds, it's at least understandable why they would, given the state of things here. Let me also say that I certainly don't begrudge them the lavish lifestyle they lead compared to that of a PCV or, obviously, 99% of Chadians. As a volunteer, I didn't sign up for the expat gig- sure it's fun to have once in awhile, for limited stretches, but I also leave N'Djamena every time feeling glad that it's not the only Chad I know. The relationships I have with Marc and his family, my fellow teachers, and even the commerçants at the market I'll keep with me for the rest of my life. Frankly, I'd be willing to bet that the only Chadians your average embassy expat knows are the ones who guard their houses, cook their food, and occasionally weed their gardens.

The last time I'm in N'Djamena I have lunch with Sam, one of the new PCV's at the Savana Café, a new 'burger and fries' type place that's become a favorite of the nasarra crowd. On a brief digression here, the restaurant situation in N'Djamena has gotten much better in the past year and a half that I've been here. Previously, if you came into town wanting foreign food, your options were: A) L'Amandine, the French pastry shop, B) L'Amandine, C) L'Amandine, and D) L'Amandine. Between the Darfur crisis and the oil exploration, foreigners have been pouring in, and the number of non-Chadian options has exploded. Now, you can choose between Chinese, Indian, Lebanese, three different pizzerias, and more. I do remember wondering what would possibly make someone wake up one morning and say, "Hmmm, I think I'll move to N'Djamena, Chad and open a restaurant," but when you think of the amount of money they're raking in from foreigners desperate for nasarra food regardless of the price, it's almost understandable.

Back to Savana; Sam and I each order burgers, and while we wait, look around the restaurant. Between the two of us, we realize that there isn't a single black face in the café that isn't serving or cooking food. Even a "cheap" place like this (about $4 for a burger) is out of reach for all but a few Chadians. To use the same tired phrase, if someone "lives on less than $1 a day," how could they possibly buy lunch costing four times that, not including a drink? We've become used to seeing immigrants, Latin Americans (in the US) and north Africans and Middle Easterners (in Europe), doing the low-end service jobs that others don't want to take. It's unfortunate, but it's the reality. Weirder though, is seeing the same thing happen, but in a place where the people doing the menial work are the locals. In a society where all but the tiniest sliver of the population are crushingly poor, along with a miniscule local elite and crowd of foreigners who are obscenely rich by comparison, this is what happens. An average embassy employee or other expat eats here (or at a place like it) three or four times a week, minimum, and could spend their entire time in Chad having never tried boule and sauce- of course, that might not be such a bad thing. At dinner with one of the embassy Marine guards the other night, we start talking about Chadian food, and I mention boule.

"What's boule?" he asks.

The fact that he could have been here for over a year and still not know the one thing that literally every Chadian eats, from Mahamat Villager to President Deby, says a lot. I recognize that PCV's have the tendency to take things to the opposite extreme, but there's out-of-touch, and there's really out-of-touch.

I think the best example of this I've seen though happens when I go to a dinner at one of the embassy employees' houses not too long ago. Their place is inside the large, fortified "American Compound" just down the road from the Peace Corps office, and completely self-contained with private electricity, water towers, and round-the-clock security. To digress again, you could very easily move between your home in the compound, the embassy, the string of expat restaurants on Avenue Charles de Gaulle and the compound again, with the only clue that you're in Chad being the heat and the dust blowing against the windshield of your air-conditioned Land Cruiser. Many foreigners in the capital do precisely that- I realize that Chad is a tough place, particularly N'Djamena, but if you're going to work for the Foreign Service, wouldn't it make sense to have some contact with, say, the foreign country?

Back to the dinner though- we're seated around a huge black table, two embassy families and six PCV's. Looking around, I notice that literally every light in the house is blazing- even as a Californian, with the era of rolling blackouts a not-too-distant memory, this strikes me as inappropriate- in Chad, where electricity is a pipe dream to 95% of the population, it seems inexcusable. I think she may have had a bit too much to drink before we arrived, but during dinner the hostess goes on at length about her multiple cosmetic surgeries: breast implants, C-sections, tummy tucks and more. I don't quite remember how it comes up, but at one point she shows off the diamond jewelry she's wearing, adding up the carats decimal by decimal. As this is happening, I'm watching the faces of some of the other volunteers- outwardly, they're polite and friendly, but their eyes give it away, a sense of revulsion and amazement that anyone could be so stunningly disconnected from the world 20 meters outside their door. I imagine I'm wearing a similar expression. I'm not suggesting that she needs to feel guilty, get rid of everything and turn into your average Chadian market woman, simply that a little awareness would go a long way.

After dinner I'm sitting in the living room with one of the other expats, responsible for running the embassy's IT system. Trying to make friendly conversation, I ask him if he speaks French.

"No, I don’t really need it for my job," he says. "Honestly, I have almost no contact with the natives."

The natives?

Is this Rudyard Kipling-land, or 'Little Mud House on the Prairie?' What century is it anyway, the 18th, or the 21st? The fact that the man telling me this has skin as black as your average Chadian only adds to the irony. It takes a great deal of self-control not to say, "are you even aware you're in a foreign country, and those 'natives' you refer to look a hell of a lot like you, if you hadn't realized. Instead, I squelch the rant before it can escape, and manage some polite, non-committal, "I see" sort of acknowledgment. I'm completely aware that Chad is an alien culture, but honestly, would it be too hard to at least attempt to understand it?

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