3/8/06

It's only taken five years, but a portion of Marc's pension finally comes though. He left for Bongor, the regional capital, last week and returned a few days ago, presumably a couple hundred thousand FCFA richer. Not that it was an easy trip though- because Gounou-Gaya is enclavée, there's almost no regular transport, and since Marc wasn't going to pay the 8000 FCFA round-trip for what there is, he biked out to Gang, a village on the paved road about 35km away. 35 km on a normal road wouldn't be all that bad, but the 'road' between Gaya and Gang is an oxcart trail, choked with weeds, sharp rocks, and enough loose, dry sand that even Tiger Woods couldn't chip his way out of. To get to his pension Marc had to bike (on a dilapidated Nigerian collection of spokes, pedals, tires and rusty iron bar masquerading as a bicycle) through the sand and weeds, avoiding the rocks in either pitch-black or 45ºC heat, depending on the time of day. Nobody could say he hasn't earned his money- I'd say he deserves it just for making the trip, but this is Chad, and around here, ç'est normale.

Now that he's back, Marc's on a roll. In the past few days I've seen him buy two huge sacks of rice (54,000 FCFA), another two sacks of red millet (about 25,000), 2000 baked mud-bricks to build a wall (40,000 including the transport and unloading), a new bright-blue tank-top and shorts combination (maybe 5,000), a small shortwave radio (about 3,500), plus give me 10,000 of the 20,000 he owed me. Rumor has it that he was handing out cash to his kids, nephews and nieces as well- 5,000 to Ertchey, 1,000 each to Liva and Toksouna, and 500 apiece to Tanga, Ka-Idi and Hophyra. Hell, he even gave me 2000, "for some tea." It's great that Marc's doing what it takes to ensure his family eats (the rice and millet), but I have to wonder about the other stuff. I don't say anything, of course, but I am curious what's going to happen later on this year when, presumably, he'll be broke. It seems like people here don’t place any value on actually keeping money, like the coins and bills are so hot that they literally will burn a hole in their pocket- I can't understand why Marc is doing this.

My answer comes in the form of a "Salaam Aleikum," as we're lounging on his purple-and-yellow plastic mat with a giant ice-cream cone pattern, and the label 'Happy Time," also a recent purchase (8,500 FCFA). It's an old man carrying a walking stick, and Marc immediately jumps up to grab him a chair, while Ka-Idi races off to get him cool water from the canary, both standard for a visitor in Chadian society. As usual, I don't follow most of the conversation (in Musey), although I do catch a few words here and there. It's not enough to know what's going on though. A moment later Marc gets up and goes into his house, returning with a bar of soap, which he gives the man who gets up and leaves.
Marc sits back down on the mat, I can see his face in the glow of the half moon- he looks tense, annoyed.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

He pauses for a moment, seeming to collect his thoughts. "I get so frustrated," he says, "with people coming here and asking me for money. The guy who was just here, he came just to see if I'd give him something. He even has a job- he's the notary for the Chef de Canton."

"I see," I respond. Although the reasons are different, I know the feeling; I'm constantly getting asked for money, not because I flaunt what I have, but simply the fact that I'm white, and around here, white=rich. I don't want to be selfish, but at the same time, I get so sick of the constant begging, for no other reason than the color of my skin. Yes, I do make a good 'salary' here (165,000 FCFA a month), but that hardly makes me Bill Gates.

"People think they automatically have a right to my money," he continues, even though they haven't done a damn thing to deserve it."

That's true- I've talked about this before, but most Chadians automatically assume that any time someone among their family, friends, or even village gets money, they'll automatically get their cut, for no other reason than the fact that they're still breathing.

"This is my pension," Marc says. "I was the one in the army. I was the prisoner-of-war. Why do I have to give it to them? What have they done?"

"Nothing," I answer.

"Exactly!" Marc exclaims. "I don't mind sharing when I can, and of course I'll do what I have to do to feed my family, but people here don't understand that. They just figure that if I suddenly get some money I'm going to give it all to them, and they get angry with me if I don't."

"Well, it just seems like people believe they have a right..." I begin.

"Yes!" he says, cutting me off. "They do! They think they have a right to anything someone else gets, so they sit and wait for it without doing anything to help themselves- that's why things don't change here."

I admit I'm surprised- I never thought I'd hear a Chadian say that. But again, Chadian though Marc may be, his years of growing up in the care of the Duncansons (the first American missionaries in Gaya) undoubtedly affected his values and the way he sees the world. If any Chadian in Gounou-Gaya were to recognize it takes more than begging, it'd be Marc.

"My brothers and their families are all mad at me," he says quietly, "they think I should give them all the money. I don't care though; they're jealous because I've been careful with the money I do have, and I've been able to improve my life."

Again, this is true. Marc returned to Gounou-Gaya from the army with next to nothing after 20 years of service 10 years ago in November, and in that time has a lot to be proud of. He's built two nice (a very relative term) houses, bought his own land, has a wife and five kids (plus another on the way any day now) who love him, a steady job, and herds of goats, pigs, ducks, chickens, and more.

"They could've done the same thing," he says, gesturing towards his brother's huts, "but instead they waste their money on bili-bili or piss it away. My older brother," he tells me, referring to Dounplata, "used to be rich, but he bouffed everything." Knowing Marc's brother (Liva and Janvier's father), I'm anything but shocked.

"Sometimes it feels like people don't care anything about you, but only what you can give them," I say.

"You're right," Marc answers. Again, I'd never expected to hear a Chadian admit this; the truth hurts, and it takes a strong person to lay bare their society's faults, especially to a nasarra.

Unfortunately, though, it's true. I'm leaving in just over six months, and I have no doubt that about a month before, August or so, it'll begin- a trail of complete strangers and people I thought were friends will come demanding possessions of mine. There's a small handful of people, Marc being the first among them, who I know have enough decency to not be so disgracefully materialistic, and they're the ones who I'll be happy to give my stuff to. The problem is just that, that it's a small group, and I fear that my last month or so in Gaya I'll be spending more time fighting off the vultures than saving the memories I'll always cherish. I could yet be proved wrong, but unfortunately, I doubt it. Foreigner though I may be, when it comes to "sharing the wealth," I'm as much a part of the village as Marc.

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