4/14/06

I give up any pretense of trying to rest, and sit up.   My mind has been racing for the past hour-and-a-half, and I've been trying to keep a handle on my emotions.   It's maybe four in the morning, and I'm already near the emotional breaking point of a day that I know is going to be one of the toughest I've ever experienced.  

I keep thinking of Dakassia, Marc's youngest daughter, and the way I said goodbye.   I left Gounou-Gaya eight days ago, with Paul the missionary, who gave me a ride out to the goudron , the paved road, where I could catch a passing taxi-brousse heading towards N'Djamena. As I crossed Marc's concession with my giant heavy-duty nylon camping backpack attached to my shoulders Dakassia came toddling up to me, making high-pitched joyful squeals, and wobbling towards me as fast as her two-year old legs could carry her.   She attached herself to my leg with a grip any bodybuilder would be proud of.

"Nyah-neh-nyel!" she said triumphantly, looking up at me and beaming.   She was completely naked except for a dirty, floppy white cotton sunhat with a badly fraying elastic strap.   I readjusted the hat, which had slipped askew in her mad rush to clamp on to my leg, picked her up to give her a quick hug, and set her back down as I began to walk across the street to the Szobody's house.   Valaddi was over in her hangar / kitchen preparing bouille porridge for Tanga and Ka-Idi, who already had their new dresses on, and were waiting for a quick breakfast before heading off to the girls' school, as well as Hophyra, who was playing with a plastic bucket.   As I passed, I gave them a quick wave and a smile.   I was walking over to his door when Marc emerged to wish me goodbye.

"So, you're leaving today," he said.   As always, the obvious questions are a part of the daily details of Chadian life.

"Yes, but I'll be back in about 10 days," I responded.

"Vraiment, nous vous souhaitons bonne voyage," he said- Really, we wish you a great trip.

"Merci," I say, and with a wave, walk off.  

Replaying this scene in my memory now, and realizing that I was unknowingly saying my last goodbyes to all of them, I lose any control I might've had of my feelings, and bury my head in the pillow, shoulders shaking, chest heaving, so I won't wake up Bobby, my roommate.

We've been told we're evacuating (for real this time), when the Peace Corps Cameroon cars arrive on the other side of the river.   Last night they stayed at Kousseri, just across the border from N'Djamena, and should be across the river from Dougia within a couple hours.   I get control of myself as much as I can, get out of bed, and begin repacking everything into my backpack.   I already did it yesterday, so it doesn't take all that long to throw the few things I'd taken out back in, pull the drawstring, and fasten the buckle.   I finish up and carry everything out to the terrace by the swimming pool again- outwardly I'm calm, but inside I feel like I'm trying to contain a torrent of emotion, and it'd take only the slightest shock to shatter the façade.  

The rest of the group has gathered at the long dining table near the pool.   We're still waiting for word from the Peace Corps Cameroon drivers, and the Dougia staff begins to lay out the typical Chadian interpretation of a French continental breakfast: fresh mini-baguettes, butter, jam, Nescafé and cheap Lipton tea.   There's very little conversation, even the servers seem subdued- we all realize we're eating what will almost certainly be our last meal in Chad, and that once the cars come we're getting on the pirogue and almost certainly never coming back.

As we finish up, I'm starting to walk back my room to make sure I haven't forgotten anything, when "bee-boop," my phone chirps and vibrates in my pocket.

"NEW MESSAGE, READ?"   it says.

I press the button and look at the sender.

Marc.   Oh God.

He's still learning how to use text messages (teaching him was an interesting conversation one afternoon maybe three weeks ago), so all I get is "Nathaniel:" two times.   A moment later, just as I'm about to dial his number, my phone rings and his name pops up on the caller ID.

"Bonjour Marc," I say quietly, picking up the phone.   I walk further away from the rest of the group.

"How are you?"   he says.   "Are you in N'Djamena?   We've been following what's happening on the radio, and we were worried about you."

I feel like my heart is being pulled apart strand by strand.   He called because he was worried about me, like any father would do for his son, and now I have to break the news to him that we'll almost certainly never see each other again.   Trying to compose myself, I take a deep breath.

"I'm fine," I lie.   Even now, following Chadian tradition is important- everything is always ça va .  

"Marc, I need to tell you something," I say.   "I don't think I'll be coming back to Gounou-Gaya.   Peace Corps says we have to evacuate now."

"Kai!   Vous ne revenez pas?"   he says.   You're not coming back?   I can hear the shock and strain in his voice.   "What do you mean?"   he asks.

"Peace Corps won't let us," I say, "because of the security situation."

"But... What about your things?"

"They'll send a driver for them when the roads are safe."

"Vraiment, ça me choque beaucoup.   On ne va plus rencontrer?" he says.   This is a shock- we will see each other again?   As he says this, I can hear him begin to choke up, and stop to clear his throat as he struggles to hold it in- displaying too much emotion, even at a time like this, could ruin his reputation.   I'm under no such restriction though- I close my eyes, and try to keep my voice steady as the tears cascade down my cheeks.

"Marc, I am so, so sorry," I say.   "I had no idea that this was going to happen, but there's nothing I can do."

"But will you ever come back to Gaya?"   he asks.

"I really don't know," I say.   "If it's possible, if God wills it, I will.   I'll send you a letter as soon as I can, and tell you more.   I'm sorry, but I have to go- we'll talk soon though."

"I understand," he says.   As I'm about to take the phone away from my ear, I hear him begin to cry, and then the connection ends.

I stand there for a moment, eyes closed, breathing deeply, trying to pretend this nightmare isn't happening, that our conference will be ending tomorrow, and I'll be back in Gounou-Gaya this time next week.   It doesn't work- I feel like the world is crashing down around me.

I walk over towards the Peace Corps' Land Cruiser, where we'll be keeping our non-essential baggage for the time being.   My friend Josh is stuffing a bag into the back seat.

"Haay," he says with a drawl.   "How's it going?"

"I just talked to my host father," I say in barely a whisper, "and tried to explain what's happening."   The wall crumbles, and I begin sobbing.   "I told him we're not coming back," I say in a strangled voice, "and I could hear him crying too."

Josh puts his arm on my shoulder.   "I know," he says.   "Nobody ever knew it'd end like this."   I see tears glistening in his eyes as well.

I try to compose myself, and walk over to the riverbank- the Peace Corps cars should be showing up momentarily, and once they arrive we'll be loading up and leaving.   As if by magic, I look up and across the river just as a maroon Land Cruiser with an orange Cameroonian license plate drives into view.   The cry goes out- "Get your stuff, we're going!"

The boat is too small to carry all of our bags, having been designed for a casual river cruise, hardly a full-scale evacuation- we'll need to make at least three trips.   The maroon Peace Corps' Land Cruiser is on the riverbank already, and as we watch, three large taxi-brousse pull up next to it.   We see men in olive uniforms in red berets carrying machine guns- these are the Cameroonian gendarmes , who will escort to Garoua, since obviously nobody has a Cameroonian visa.

Greger, one of the volunteers, helps Brownie down the path and into the pirogue .   The pilot revs the motor, turns the boat, and a 10-second boat ride later, they're in Cameroon.   The pirogue comes back, ready to load up the next group, along with their bags.   That's when the reality of all this really hits me.   I'm about to step on that boat, and I'm not coming back.   Although Peace Corps is officially 'suspending' the program for 30 days, nobody has any illusions that it'll be anything but years before Peace Corps Volunteers return to Chad.

As the first boat of PCV's leaves, people are trying to put on a brave face, some better than others.   Watching the boat leave I feel myself choking up, for what already feels like the hundredth time today, and I see others who were once only colleagues, but now friends doing the same thing.  

How could it have turned out like this?   We were supposed to finish our service in five months, celebrate, and go on a long vacation to relax and enjoy the end of our volunteer days.   How did we end up sneaking across an international border to the waiting embrace of armed guards because the capital is too unsafe, leaving behind so much we care about?

The boat comes back, and it's time.   I'm leaving, and it'll be a long time, if ever, before I see Chad again.   I grab my backpack and start lugging it down the path- before I step into the boat I grab a small handful of dirt and toss it into a Ziploc bag I find in one of the pockets.   I don't know how significant it is, but at least I can say I'm taking some small piece of Chad with me.   Houroumtcho has been down by the water, helping people into the boat one-by-one.   He's staying behind to be with his family, and will drive the Peace Corps Chad Land Cruiser back to N'Djamena and the Peace Corps office, along with all our non-essential bags.   I climb down to the water's edge, where Houroumtcho is waiting- I can see him struggling to hold back tears too.   Having served in the heart of Musey territory, and with Houroumtcho being Musey, I've felt a special sort of bond with him, even though we've only known each other for a few months.   I start to shake his hand, but he quickly embraces me.   Houroumtcho is a giant of a man, easily 6'5", and my head ends up just below his shoulder.

"Have a safe trip," he tells me in Musey.

I can't think of the appropriate response in his language, so I simply respond in English.   "Thank you for everything, and God be with you and your family," I say.   Then, with a helping hand from Houroumtcho I step into the boat, and my time in Chad ends.

Just like the first group, the boat ride is a short sprint to the other bank.   For some reason we can't pull all the way up to the shore, and we have to wade the last few steps to dry land.   Most people are wearing flip-flops, although a few of us, including me, are wearing tennis shoes.   There's no other option, so I jump in, immediately soaking my feet, and squelch over to the waiting gendarme , standing beside a taxi-brousse.

"Bienvenue au Cameroun," he says.   Welcome to Cameroon.

I don't really feel the need to tell him that I'd rather be on the poor, undeveloped, strife-torn and ethnically fractured other bank, so I simply say, " merci."

We load our bags onto the vans, pile in, and set off towards Garoua.   We do our best to joke and lighten the mood, with Josh frequently making the comment that he 'feels like he just left the bastard- signed the divorce papers, and everything.'   It's clear to everyone though that our attempts at humor are simply poor efforts to cover up what's really going on, like trying to put a Band-Aid on the stump after having your arm torn off.

The village across from Dougia is at least 35 kilometers off the main road, so we bump our way along the rutted, although still better than most Chadian roads until we arrive at the goudron .   I chat for a few moments with the gendarme escorting our car.   As opposed to your average Chadian military policeman, the officer is friendly, speaks near-perfect French, and seems to be neither drunk nor asking for money.

"Comment ça va?" I ask him.

"Bien, et vous?" he answers.   Good, and you?

"I'm all right," I respond, but he can clearly see that things aren't " ça va."

"I saw all of you crossing the river, and I can see how sad you looked," he says quietly. "I can understand- you're in Cameroon, but you left your souls in Chad."

Leave it to a Cameroonian military policeman to moonlight as a psychotherapist, but it feels like he hit the nail on the head.   I knew I was going to be leaving Chad in five months, and had started to mentally prepare for it, but leaving now, like this, it really does feel like I left a part of myself on the other side.

We continue in the taxi-brousse as far as Maroua, the capital of Cameroon's 'Extreme North' province, where we switch to a rented bus that will take us to Garoua, the north's largest city.   As night begins to fall along the notoriously bandit-ridden road, the driver careens along the narrow two-lane 'highway,' missing cement mixers and fuel tankers by inches- in a morbid moment I can't help but think how ironic it'd be to evacuate from Chad, only to be killed by a Cameroonian bus driver who thinks he's the next Michael Schumacher.   I try my best to nap, which would avoid me having to watch.   The breakneck pace makes it impossible though, and I only doze for a few moments.   When I do open my eyes, an amber sun is sinking behind the Mandara mountains- I watch it, and realize I'm watching the sun set on a huge chapter of my life, in a way.

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