2/4/06

Obviously, there things about this place I'll never understand, despite being here almost a year and a half.

Why is it, for example, that people seem to take genuine pleasure in watching others suffer? I'm not saying that enjoying others misfortune is specific to here, or anything- the Germans even made up an original word for it, schadenfreude.

It's a cool and foggy morning, and I'm early. It's the dry season now, and the dust in the air has me coughing most of last night, to the point where I finally give up on trying to sleep around 4:00 AM, prop my head up with an extra pillow, toss a mint cough drop in my mouth, and read by flashlight. I lay there almost two hours, trying to see the small print of The Autobiography of Malcolm X with the flashlight balanced on my shoulder, giving up when I begin to see daylight. I throw on a pair of gym shorts and shove open my heavy, gray steel door, paid for by Peace Corps to keep would-be-thieves out.

As I push aside the farfar twig curtain at the entrance of my hangar, the first person I see is Agathe, Marc's niece who lives with the family during the school year, and Zarah, one of her friends, sweeping the concession with a hand-held broom made of dried grass. The Chadian obsession with keeping the dirt properly cleaned shows no signs of going away. Normally this would be Valaddi's job, but as she's about ready to burst at any minute, she's taking it easy, by the standards of a Chadian woman, which means she still hauls water from the well on her head and chops cartloads of firewood, but leaves the 'more strenuous' stuff like sweeping, pounding millet, and cooking to Agathe and Zarah. I'm guessing there's a sort of mutual sisterhood among women here when it comes to housework late in a pregnancy- now that Valaddi is proche de l'accouchement, she has help from around the neighborhood, which I assume she'll reciprocate when it's someone else's turn.

I walk across the concession towards Marc, who's standing facing the road. When he sees me, he begins to move in my direction.

"Bonjour Nah-tahn-yel, ça va?" he asks.

"Oui, ça va," I say, the required response.

"Bien dormi?" he continues. Sleep well?

Despite the fact that I've felt like I was ready to hack up a lung for the past two hours, it'd be inappropriate to actually say that, so I simply respond "ça va."

We chat for a few minutes, as Tanga emerges sleepy-eyed from the house, and talks with Agathe for a moment. I don't understand the conversation, but I can sense a sudden change in mood. Tanga races back inside, and Valaddi crosses the concession after her as fast as she can, swollen belly leading the way. They disappear, but a moment later I hear the familiar swish-thwack of a stick striking skin, and Tanga screaming. I try to tune it out as best I can, despite my wanting to rush into the house and put a stop to it- what could I possibly do that would change anything anyway?

"What's the problem?" I ask Marc.

"There were a group of kids out playing and dancing late last night," he responds. "We told her not to go, but she did anyway."

Well, OK, she did defy her parents, which I suppose does merit some sort of punishment. Should it really be having the crap beaten out of her though? Around here, that's the only punishment that exists. Nine months pregnant or not, it doesn't stop Valaddi, and the thwacks and screams grow faster and more pleading. I look over at Marc, who's watching the open door intently- as I stare incredulously, I see a broad smile grow on his face. Disgusted, I turn away. I don't say anything- not that it'd make a bit of difference if I did. Apparently Marc decides he's had enough of being a spectator, and marches off into the house.

"BABA! KA-DIIIII!" I hear Tanga wail. Daddy, no!

The tone of the thwacks changes; they're harder, but less frequent. Marc has taken over the beating. Much as I want to storm off, I find myself practically rooted to the spot- I know Tanga can't see me, but it's almost like by standing there I want her to know that there's at least one adult in the concession who thinks that what's happening is wrong, a sort of psychological solidarity. As the beating continues, Tanga's screaming becomes a gurgling, incomprehensible howl.

I look over, and see Ertchey and Agathe laughing. I don’t consider myself a violent person by nature, but it takes all my self-control not to cross the concession and blow up at them, as my anger at this fiasco nears a boiling point. This feels like the millionth time I've said this, that I see things here through the lens of my upbringing and cultural perspective, but laughing at a little girl getting a terrible beating is just plain fucked-up. Outwardly, I don't let any of this show- my teeth might be clenched, but otherwise I do a pretty good job of keeping my anger concealed. Besides, it's going to continue whether I approve or not.

A moment later Tanga blasts out the door as if shot from a cannon, screaming, and falls to the ground. Ka-Idi looks over at her big sister and laughs. Marc emerges from the house, carrying an empty plastic water can. He walks over to where Tanga is cowering, lifts her up by one arm, and shoves the can at her chest, practically knocking her over again. I don't know exactly what he says, but I hear mboona, water, and he points at the pump. She trudges off, wailing.

This is why Marc is such a paradox- how can this possibly be the same man I was watching roll around on a grass mat with Dakassia last night, letter her climb on his back and bounce while she gurgled ecstatically? I suppose we all have those Jekyll and Hyde tendencies within us though. For the moment, it's clear which side of Marc is on duty, and I want nothing to do with him. I walk across the concession, push aside the farfar door, get started on breakfast, and try not the think about what I've just seen. I close my eyes, and take a deep breath- times like this, seven and a half more months feels like it might as well be seven and a half decades...

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