9 /6/05

I catch a ride to Pala, even though Darrell, the PCV there is in N'Djamena. He's leaving at the end of the month, and I'd like to get a chance to see him before he goes– today I'm in Pala to do errands though.

By Chadian standards, Pala is fairly developed, and full of nasarra stuff that's virtually impossible to find outside of N'Djamena. 'Developed' is a very relative term, of course– the red dirt road leading in from Kélo and farther east is full of ruts big enough to swallow a small minivan, and is usually impassible in the rainy season. There's nothing resembling a central electricity system, and high school classes are held in a dilapidated warehouse complex abandoned by a German NGO. On the other hand, there's a huge Catholic mission and cultural center featuring plays, concerts, and satellite TV, a credit union (which charges a hefty commission), and my main reason for coming, Yaya's boutique. It's not exactly Whole Foods, Safeway, or Publix, but anywhere outside the capital where you can buy olive oil, popcorn, imported Turkish chocolate bars (which tend to taste more like chocolate-flavored candles than candy, but still), and Palmolive shampoo is a major plus. Pala was the first place the French colonial authorities allowed American missionaries to begin working, in the 1920's. Since there have been westerners in the area for more than 80 years, a handful of shop owners have realized that there may be people wanting to buy things that can be made into something more than boule and okra sauce.

I stock on as much western stuff– strawberry jam, spicy French mustard, popcorn, shampoo, liquid dish soap– as I can fit in my backpack. As Yaya hands me the bill, and I pay, I find myself thinking yet again of the vast difference in means between the average Chadian in my position, and me. A Chadian teacher with a university degree will generally earn about 120,000 FCFA per month, roughly $220, assuming he or she actually gets paid, which is hardly guaranteed. It's not that I earn substantially more, 177,500 FCFA (about $320), but I have far more freedom to save money and buy things considered luxury items here. It's strange– I've never earned less money since I began working, but I feel wealthier than I ever have. An average American teacher's starting salary, maybe $30,000 a year, would put me in the same league as government ministers and rich businessmen here.

Of course if I really want to get western supplies– cinnamon, oregano, or soy sauce, cheese, a bottle of wine, or a Snickers bar ($5 each)– I have to go to N'Djamena. Even with good luck it's usually a two-day trip from Gounou-Gaya, and as much as I'd like to stock up on nasarra stuff, there's nothing truly essential. Janvier happens to be going to the city to file his application at the University of N'Djamena, and I ask if he'd mind picking up a few things for me. He readily agrees, and I give him 10,000 FCFA and a list: Tabasco sauce, couscous, la Vache qui Rit cheese spread (which doesn't need to be refrigerated), all available at the Grande Marche. I could use some more soy sauce and oregano, but I wouldn't ask Janvier to pick those up for me– they're only available at the nasarra store. I worry it'd be too much of a shock for him, having been to N'Djamena only once before, to walk into 'Chez Wissam,' the Lebanese-owned foreign foods store, or the very French (and very expensive) La Gastronomie in the center of town. He'd be surrounded by legions of French, German, Swiss, and American development workers, foreign diplomats and rich commerçants, most of whom earn 500-1000x his monthly salary, and would think nothing of spending the same 15,000 FCFA on dinner for one that he could use to feed his family for a month. Surrounded by thousands of packaged products he's never seen, how could I ask him to know where to begin? It would be confusing and unfair, and truthfully, I don't need cinnamon or soy sauce that badly. As an impoverished Chadian, Janvier lives in a completely different world than I do, even though we're both currently living in the same country. I can never truly live life the way he does, and he could probably never understand mine, which seems clear in every pot of spaghetti sauce I make, and every mound of red millet boule he eats.

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