8/2/05

It feels great to finally be home.

I'm not sure at what point Gounou-Gaya has stopped being simply 'post,' or 'site,' and begun to feel like 'home,' but either way I'm glad to be back after almost two very long months in N'Djamena.

I find a ride with a car from DED, one of the German NGO's based in Pala. As the Land Cruiser pulls up, the usual swarm of kids gather around, although I'm not sure if it's the shiny white truck or me which interests them more. The difference from the first time I pulled up here is that now I actually know their names, and I'm no longer just the random white guy who lives behind their house to them.

There's Tanga, the oldest of Marc's daughters at seven years old, beaming as she shifts 1.5-year-old Dakassia around in the sling attaching her to her back. On a side note, it always amazes me to see little kids here, sometimes as young as four, doing incredible amounts of work. The girls carry babies on their back, sweep the yard and haul wood on their heads; the boys run errands, dig in the millet fields, and herd cattle three times their size– they really do grow up fast, and work harder than most of us in the developed world ever will.

Tanga is holding back Ka-Idi, her five-year-old sister, who's wearing nothing but a ragged pair of '101 Dalmatians' underwear, and waving hysterically as I get out of the truck. Next to her is Hophyra, who at three sports a huge potbelly, and seems to have a fundamental problem with the idea of wearing clothes.

"Nah-than-ehl, han ee bonbonma!" She yells. Nathaniel, give me some candy! In Chad, and much of the rest of Africa, I imagine, it's the responsibility of someone returning from a trip to bring gifts, and Hophyra doesn't waste any time asking. Even Andjati, a little girl living with Samson (who runs the water pump) gets in on the welcoming act.

"Nasarra!" She yells. White guy!

Before I can react, Tanga smacks her on the head, and yells something in Moussei. I hear the words 'Nah-than-yel,' and 'Nasarra,' so I assume she's teling her not to call me that.

A moment later Valaddi approaches me. Even though we almost never talk, due to both language and cultural barriers, she still says "Bonne Arrivée, Nathaniel," and shakes my hand with a vise-like grip in callused hands that have been pounding grain and chopping wood for at least 25 of her 30 years.

Later in the afternoon, Marc gets back from work at the cotton factory, and I walk out to see him. We shake hands, and go through the traditional greeting routine.

Him: "Comment les vacances?" How was the vacation?

Me: "Ça va." It was fine.

Him: "Et la sante?" And your health?

Me: "Ça va."

Him: "Comment la famille?" How's your family?

Me: "Ça va."

Him: "Comment la fatigue?" How's your fatigue?

Me: "Ça va."

And so on. Nobody has ever suggested that Chadian greetings are especially original or informative.

Despite being hounded for gifts by small children, called 'Whitey," and rehashing the blindingly obvious, it's still good to be back. Compared to N'Djamena, people in Gounou-Gaya seem so much friendlier, and actually happy to see me, as opposed to simply wondering what they can get from me because I'm white, and obviously, rich.

Not that things are completely rosy- as I walk in the front door, my house looks like an insect exhibition, with termite colonies protruding from the wall, fleets of crickets hopping around, and giant spider webs in one corner. It's nothing a little cleaning and insecticide won't fix, but it's still annoying. There's more though- later in the evening I'm chatting with Marc– by now the conversation has moved beyond the "Ça va" phase, and I'm actually telling him about the trip. Behind me I suddenly hear yelling, the whistle of a stick cutting through the air, a smack, and a scream. Valaddi is beating Tanga for some unknowable offense, and listening to the sickening 'thwack' as Valaddi brings the stick down again, and again, and again, it's all I can do not to get up, grab the stick from her hands, and shout, "Why!?" Marc, naturally, continues chatting, and I find myself trying to pretend I don't hear the abuse- what we do in the name of cultural integration, I suppose. Maybe that's what has actually made Gounou-Gaya feel like home, being able to tune out something that would have me up in arms back home– if it is though, perhaps 'site,' is a better way to think of it after all.

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