1/25/06

Paul, the missionary, hands me a letter to give to Marc. It's addressed to the church, making Paul the unofficial postman- in a place with no house numbers or street names, people usually send things by landmark, or less. Often, you'll see letters here addressed to simply a person and a town, i.e. "Monsieur Nathaniel Tishman, Gounou-Gaya." With me, of course, it's easy- everyone knows the white guy, or at least where he lives.

The letter is from Joan Duncanson, the widow of Bob, who was the first long-term missionary in Gounou-Gaya, and lived here for the better part of 50 years. During that time, he and Joan translated the Bible into Musey, founded the theological seminary, and raised a family. In a tragic twist though, just as he was preparing to finally retire and return home h was murdered by petty thieves in Garoua, one of the largest towns in northern Cameroon- after being here for so long, he'd decided that he wanted to be buried in Africa, and today his grave lies behind what's now the Szobody's house. As I've mentioned before, Joan essentially raised Marc as one of her own children, and he still refers to her as his 'mere adoptive.' He'd written a letter to her a few months ago along with a note I slipped in introducing myself. Naturally, when her response arrives, and I bring it across the road to him, Marc's face lights up. He tears open the envelope.

"Ç'est en Anglais..." he says, looking puzzled. It's in English.

I look at it.

"Oh, this part is for me," I say, seeing my name at the top. Folded inside is a letter for Marc, written in Musey. As he reads it, the smile on his face grows ever wider.

"It's great to hear from her," he says, putting the letter down.

"I'm going to write her back in the next few days, and if you'd like to write to her again too, I'd be happy to include it in the envelope," I say.

Marc quickly agrees- postage to the US costs 575 FCFA, a little more than $1, not cheap for your average person here.

The next day I'm sitting in the hangar writing to Joan when Ertchey comes in.

"Vous écrivez," he says. You're writing. Captain Obvious strikes again.

"Yes, I'm writing to Mrs. Duncanson," I answer.

"Oh, I remember her- can I put a letter in too?"

"Sure," I tell him, "but you have to write it soon, because I want to send it in the next day or so."

"That's fine," Ertchey says. "I'm just going to ask her for a camera."

I put down my pen and look up. "Ertchey, do you really think that that's OK, to write someone you barely know just to ask them to give you a present?"

"Pourquoi pas?" he replies. Why not?

"Ertchey, have a seat," I say, pointing at my woven twig chair. He slouches, and begins picking at his foot.

"I think," I continue, "that I understand the situation. I think you think 'she's white, so she must be rich, and she can buy me a camera.' If it were me, and someone who I met as a little kid, and hadn't heard from in years contacted me just to ask if I'd buy them something, I'd be really angry."

"That's not how it is," Ertchey protests.

"Then what is it?" I shoot back, not wanting to just drop the issue.

"What you just said is really harsh," he says, eyeing me accusingly.

People here are big on subtlety, so it probably did come across a little strong- nonetheless; I wanted to make a point. I've talked before about what seems to be the Chadian national pastime- standing, hand-outstretched, waiting for someone to give a handout- Ertchey's plan to beg an elderly woman, who devoted 50 years of her life to the people of Gounou-Gaya for a camera is just another example, and I find it infuriating. Perhaps I'm just venting, and Ertchey's simply the nearest target, but I feel a sense of righteous indignation as I go on.

"Well, Ertchey, sometimes the truth hurts. Why is it the people here always want to ask white people for a handout, and not actually do what they can on their own? Why can't you save up and buy a camera with your own money?"

Ertchey doesn't respond, just stares at me sullenly. I think I may have overdone it, so I back off a little.

"OK, I'll tell you what," I say. "Ask your dad- if he says it's OK, than I'll let you put a note in asking for a camera." I know this is a good way to solve the problem, even if it is passing the buck- Marc reveres this woman, and would never allow Ertchey to do something so rude. I might be chickening out, but I imagine a harangue from Marc will have more of an impact on Ertchey than my ranting on the psychology of Chadian society.

"All right," he says, "I'll ask him when he gets back from work. Après," he mumbles, see you later, and bolts out of the hangar.

I think Ertchey may realize that asking Marc about this wouldn't get him anywhere, so I'm not surprised when I mention it to Marc, and he has no idea what I'm talking about. He bristles when I tell him.

"No! He can't do that! I don't know who he thinks he is, or what his problem is- that is so rude," he snaps.

"I'd told him that he should ask you first, but also that he could save money and buy a camera himself," I say.

"Oh right, you've seen what he does with the money you give him," Marc says sarcastically. "Like he'd actually save anything? All he does is buy alcohol- you know, he's drunk every Sunday. I don't know what his problem is," he repeats. "Really, he's hopeless."

Pretty harsh words, coming from his father, but unfortunately, they're mostly true. When Ertchey doesn't buy alcohol with the money I pay him for hauling water and other odd jobs, he spends it on costume jewelry or worse. Recently, he bought a jar of hair-straightening treatment, and walked around town with a Little Richard-style Jeri-Curl- it was quite possibly the single most hilarious thing I've seen so far in Chad. He put the paste on too strong though, and within 48 hours had literally burned his hair off; he wore a hat for a few weeks afterward, to keep his scabbed and peeling scalp out of both the sun, and taunting range.

In a way, Marc's words are reassuring though, at least to me. It's good to see that not everyone here thinks constantly asking for handouts is the right thing to do. I'm imposing my Western value system, granted, but I'm happy that at least one Chadian realizes that begging isn't the way to get ahead. Undoubtedly, there are other people here like Marc- the problem though, is that most of them are more like Ertchey...

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