4/13/06

Rapraprapraprap....

Sounds like someone's knocking over at the next bungalow.   We're at Dougia, the 'resort' (with an average of four hours of electricity per night) we usually hold our conferences at, about 90 minutes north of N'Djamena.

RAPRAPRAPRAPRAP!   Now it's next door- each round bungalow is divided into two rooms, and I can hear voices through the thin wall.   I feel the adrenaline course through my veins, and my heart begins to race- why is someone pounding on all the doors at 5:15 AM?

BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG!   They're at our room- I stumble out of bed, still a little groggy despite the rush, turn the lock and open the door.   Adam, one of the new PCV's, is looking at me, his blue-LED headlamp beaming into my face.

"We're evacuating," he says.   "Pack two bags, one essential, one non-essential."

"OK," I say numbly, not only because of the sudden wakeup, but also the shock.

Bobby, my friend and fellow PCV from the East Bay, gets up and begins throwing things into his backpack- I do the same.   Clothes, camera, binder with my important documents, cash, passport, etc- it all goes on me or in the bag.   We hurry out to the terrace by the pool, where other PCV's are assembling their things, looking groggy but at the same time fearful.   A few moments pass and Danielle, our new APCD (assistant director) comes out of her room, followed by "Brownie" Lee, one of the first PCV's ever to serve in Africa, and today a semi-legendary Peace Corps consultant/troubleshooter.   They both have cell-phones glued to their ears, and after hanging up a few minutes later, come over to where we're standing.

"Peace Corps has ordered us to evacuate, " says Danielle.   "The rebels have started to move into N'Djamena, and Washington wants us out now."   The rebels, known as the FUCD (yes, that really is their name, the Front Unis pour le Changement Democratique ) have made it clear their plan is to overthrow president Deby, violently if necessary.   Apparently Deby isn't willing to give up peacefully (no surprise there, considering he took power the exact same way 16 years ago), and the rebels have begun to make their move.

"We don't think it's safe to travel via N'Djamena, so we're going to cross over to Cameroon by boat, and continue on to Garoua," Danielle says.   Fortunately, Dougia is directly on the river that forms the extreme northeastern border with Cameroon, meaning our escape is a 30 meter-wide river crossing to the other bank.   The problem is that the only thing on the other side is a tiny village, easily 50 kilometers from the nearest maintained road.

"So, get your stuff together and carry it down to the river's edge," she continues.   "Once we get across, cars from Peace Corps Cameroon will come and pick us up."   The cars are being sent from the Peace Corps satellite office in Garoua, a large industrial town in the north-center of the country, about 400km from where we are.   Even in the best-case scenario it's going to take them awhile to reach us.   Brownie and Danielle seem to realize this, and considering that Dougia is neither in nor likely to be in any immediate danger from the violence, decide that it's best if we stay there for the moment, as opposed to sitting on the opposite riverbank for who knows how many hours while the PC Land Cruisers make their way up the spine of northern Cameroon.

Danielle gets on the phone to Nelson, our Country Director, who OK's this, assuming it's OK with his bosses.   Peace Corps headquarters in Washington is rapidly taking control of everything, and it seems like very little can happen without their specific approval.

This isn't what Washington wants to hear; apparently they want us in Cameroon, and they want us there now.

"All right guys, we need to go now," Danielle says.   We start handing bags down in a human chain to the pirogue , a large motorized canoe big enough to hold maybe 15 people and their bags.   We pile a few in and help Brownie down the steep path of broken and twisted ancient concrete stairs leading to the water.   Three or four people are already in the boat when a motorcycle comes screeching up.

A man in a sky-blue bubu jumps off the motorcycle, races over to Abdel-Karim, the assistant manager of the lodge (Abdolaye, the manager, is in N'Djamena), and begins screaming at him in a mixture of what sounds to be Kotoko and Chadian Arabic, neither of which I speak.   The argument gets very heated, very fast- most Chadians will jump headlong into a screaming match at the slightest provocation, hands and insults flying.   As I said, I don't speak the languages, but it's clear that Abdel-Karim isn't winning the argument.   Houroumtcho, PC Chad's new Training Manager walks over to the verbal battle to see if he can find out what's going on- he doesn't speak Kotoko, but is fluent in Arabic, so can understand.   He comes back a moment later.

"The guy in the bubu is from ANS, and he says we can't cross the border until he hears from his superiors," he says.   ANS, the 'Agence Nationale de Securite' is Chad's equivalent of the CIA or FBI, the government-controlled, semi-political police force who also serve as president Deby's bodyguards.

Abdel-Karim and the ANS guy are still going at it, and things appear to suddenly reach a climax.   The man in the bubu points at us, the PCV's and Brownie already in the boat, and the boat itself, and gestures wildly at the top of the steps.

"OK," Houroumtcho says, "we need to get everything out of the boat.   The guy from ANS won't let us go."   After some disbelieving grumbles from a few of the PCV's about the legality of preventing foreigners from crossing an international border, we begin hauling stuff back up the steps, followed by Greger, one of the PCV's, who's giving Brownie a steady hand.   Meanwhile, Abdel-Karim and the man from ANS have started shouting and gesturing at each other again.   Greger and Brownie reach the top of the steps- Greger seems cool enough, in a 'whatever' sort of way, but legend or not, underneath the calm exterior Brownie is one pissed-off almost 75 year old woman, with a long history of dealing with African bureaucratic bullshit.

"Where is he?"   Brownie asks quietly, but with a slightly menacing undertone, looking for the ANS agent.   We point over in the direction of the verbal battle, and Brownie marches off into the fray.   She gets in on the discussion with Abdel-Karim and the man in the bubu but it doesn't seem to make any difference- a moment later she gives up, and ambles over to lean under a mango tree while the battle continues.

So, it seems like we'll be waiting for awhile- the Dougia staff have naturally been keeping up with the conversation, and have figure out that we're going nowhere, at least for the moment.   Since the first evacuation order, emergency packing, constant phone tag between the Peace Corps staff at Dougia with both PC N'Djamena and Washington, loading the bags into the boat, the drama with Abdel-Karim and the ANS man, unloading the boat and more, it's almost lunchtime, and the Dougia staff begins setting the table.  

Hanging up, Danielle comes over to us.   "Well, it looks like we're staying here at least for tonight, guys.   We'll find out more information later, but for now go ahead and put your bags back in your rooms, and we'll have lunch in a few minutes."   For lack of any other direction, we do it, and gather at the table a few minutes later.

Pingpingpingpingping!   Brownie taps her water glass with a butter knife to get our attention.

"I just spoke with Nelson," (the CD), she says, "and we'll be leaving tomorrow morning, ANS approval or not.   We'll cross the river as soon as the Peace Corps vehicles arrive, and continue to Garoua.   Once we get there we'll be waiting and watching the situation for a few days, and there'll be two possibilities- if Peace Corps decides it's safe, we'll return to Chad.   If not, we'll continue to Yaoundé (the capital of Cameroon) and have what's called a 'Transition Conference,' where Peace Corps will help you try to figure out your next steps.   If we do go to Yaoundé, we won't be returning to Chad."

Brownie's tone shifts from business to personal.   "I want to be honest with you, folks.   I've personally been through one evacuation before, and helped coordinate several others.   Based on the situation now, there's almost no chance we'll be coming back."

This advice, from a woman who's been associated with Peace Corps for almost 45 years sends a shock wave through all of us, and instantly destroys any illusions we might've had that an evacuation could be fun and exciting.   If that's true, it means I've seen Marc and family, Gounou-Gaya and Chad for the last time, and my PCV career is about to come to a crashing halt.   Looking around, my colleagues seem to have the same thought going through their heads, and the rest of lunch is eerily quiet.

After lunch, a few people try to make the best of the situation, considering we haven't seen a swimming pool in months, and jump in, but most are huddled in small groups, talking softly.   Nobody needs to ask what the subject is.   A few of the volunteers had originally planned a "Peace Corps Prom" to celebrate the end of our conference and simply being together- at some point the group collectively decides to go ahead and have the celebration anyway, evacuation or not.   It seems absurd, I think, to have a party the night before you're forcibly removed from your home.   Everyone deals with stress differently though- Peace Corps Chad is hardly a group of teetotalers, and several of the volunteers immediately hit the booze.   One of my colleagues fills a 1.5-liter Tangui-brand mineral water bottle with red wine and begins pounding it down.   By the time dinner is over at 7:30 and the 'Prom' begins, she's staggering drunk.

The 'Prom' feels like a combination of celebration and funeral.   It's obvious everyone is trying to put on a brave face, dancing and drinking like nothing's wrong, and we'll be going back to our sites in a few days- the evacuation is sitting there on the open patio though, the elephant on the dance floor nobody wants to look at or talk about.   Most of us eventually give in though, although a few are able to pretend it away with a combination of crappy 80's music and 'nasarra juice,' our homemade pina-colada-type drink. We gather together, and in between tears and hugs we try to cope with the realization that the Peace Corps Chad chapter of our lives is about to be slammed violently shut, and that we're about to be ripped out of what have been our lives for the past almost two years.

About 11:30 I head off to bed, although I see my friend with the water bottle full of wine continuing to drink not only wine, but also beer and many, many cups of the nasarra juice. She happens to be staying in the other half of the bungalow with my friend Josh, and about 12:30 I jolt awake to his New Orleans-accented drawl, as well as several other worried voices.  

"We've got to get her on her side," I hear.   "If not, she could choke on her own vomit and die."   I get up to see what's happening next door, and find my friend prone on the bed, her breath coming in rapid, shallow gasps.   Her pulse is racing wildly- one of the other volunteers calculates it at 270 beats per minute.   Clearly, we all cope in our own way, and wrestling with our own pain, nobody noticed that she was trying to drown hers.  

"Chad says we're going to have to keep watching her all night, in case she stops breathing," Michael, another volunteer says.   He called Chad, our Medical Officer, a few minutes before, who was obviously very unhappy to be woken up to the news of an alcohol poisoning in the middle of the night before evacuating with his family.   "We'll do it in one hour shifts, in pairs- who's going first?"

I agree to do a shift, and at 3:00 go next door and sit by candlelight with Darren, a friend and PCV from just outside of Los Angeles.   Together we sit and watch our colleague, giving her Orasel, an oral rehydration salt drink that we normally use to retain fluids after a bout of Giardia.   Darren and I whisper about our future plans, while keeping an eye on our fellow PCV.   By the time we arrive she looks like she's out of immediate danger- she's stirring and talking, although I'm sure she'll have one hell of a hangover tomorrow.   Robyn, our replacement arrives at 4:00, and I go back next-door.   I crawl into bed and try to rest, but unsurprisingly, can't sleep...

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