4/16/06

Or so we think... Brownie has told us that we should have our stuff ready first thing in the morning, and that we'll be going straight to the airport.   I'm sitting next to her at breakfast, and she's glued to the phone.

"Y en a pas?"   I hear her say incredulously- there's none?   She hangs up the phone and taps on her water glass.

"Hi , everybody.   It looks like we may not be leaving today after all- I just spoke with the airline, and there's no fuel, so we'll have to wait until tomorrow."

A ripple of disbelief and sarcastic laughter sweeps through the group.   After living and working in Chad we're accustomed to things not working properly: schools going on strike for months at a time, taxi-brousse trips taking eight hours to cover 50 kilometers, brand-new electrical systems falling apart because of poor planning, and more- that sort of thing isn't supposed to happen with air travel though.   Even Toumai Air Tchad, the country's semi-official airline, has things together enough to run regularly scheduled flights.

Honestly, though, this isn't that much of a surprise.   From the beginning this whole thing has felt like an evacuation in slow motion, a series of 'hurry up and wait' moments- why should the flight to Yaoundé be any exception?  

As we leave the dining room one of the familiar white Peace Corps Chad Land Cruisers pulls into the parking lot- it's Jeff, our Admin Officer, along with Al-Hadj and Mamadou, two of Peace Corps' drivers.   Jeff has brought all of our files and personal items out of his safe- we'll need them, since our time in Chad is clearly over.   Someone will need to bring the car back to N'Djamena, which explains why the drivers are here.   A few of us quickly give Jeff a hand carrying boxes of files to his room- nobody wants to waste time though, since Al-Hadj and Mamadou have to return to Chad, and this will be our only chance to say goodbye.

I come back from Jeff's rooms and there's a group gathered around the drivers.   Mamadou, stone-faced, is going around the circle shaking hands with all of us.   Everyone handles tough situations differently, and I suppose Mamadou must be the strong, silent type.   He gets to me and grasps my hand.

"Bonne chance," I say.   Good luck.

"Merci," he responds, and moves on.

Al-Hadj is a different story.   By the time he gets to me, he's already sobbing, shoulders heaving, tears dripping from his chin onto the mustard-colored bubu he's wearing adorned with a Peace Corps lapel pin.   I'm shocked- not in a bad way, but simply taken aback at seeing Al-Hadj show his true feelings.   Chadian society is so aggressive and confrontational (not surprising, considering the ethnic strife interspersed with civil war and military dictatorships) and seeing Al-Hadj cry is one of the few times in 21 months I've seen a Chadian male express real grief. He gets to me, and I hug him.

"Je suis tellement desolé," I say.   I'm so sorry.   I'm so sorry, I'm thinking, sorry that we're abandoning you like this, that while you go to back to the war zone, I'm going on an early and unplanned vacation, that you're losing your job while an entire world of opportunities waits for me.   I know I can't change the reality that I have a hundred times more opportunity that Al-Hadj simply because of my birthplace and education, but as I tell him goodbye for the last time I feel something akin to survivor's guilt.

"Thank you," he says, trying to hold back his tears.   "God bless you."

"Merci," I respond, "et agoda aafe," I tell him, switching to Chadian Arabic- journey well.

The two of them climb into the Land Cruiser, back into N'Djamena, and back into the maelstrom.

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