9/29/2004

So, we're in what feels like the absolute middle of nowhere, outside of Darda, Chad... I was just sitting down to write, trying to think of something interesting to say, and in the midst of the African Savanna I hear a strange noise.

Doo doo doo doo/ doo doo doo doo/ doo doo doo dooooo dee.

Yes, Nokia has made it to Chad. Even though we're unequivocally in the Third World, certain things like cellphones have made it here. Every so often, in the midst of a sorghum field or cluster of trees, a giant red and white transmission tower will appear.

We got our first real taste of an African rainstorm today. The sky began to light up with almost constant flashes of lightning, the wind was blowing ferociously, and before long massive drops began to fall– I'm sheltering in a concrete hangar at the moment, writing by the light of a generator, which runs six hours per day.

We had quite a day today... We split into three groups and headed out to visit a few current Volunteers. I went with about nine others to the town of Guelendeng , about one and a half hours south of Darda, to visit Jonathan Vessey, a volunteer who arrived last year.

The 'highway' to Gueledeng itself was quite an experience– old Peugot pickups wheeze along, piled several feet above the edge of the bed with mats, bags, jars and more. On top of this sit five of six people, legs dangling over the side as the truck crawls along– these are taxis, Chadian style. As if it wasn't precarious enough, potholes which seem large enough to swallow the vehicle appear every so often; the road itself is barely two lanes wide, which doesn't stop people from driving any less maniacally than they might on I-75 or 101 North. Keep in mind that this is the main (well, only, actually) North/South route in the country; I can't see myself ever criticizing Caltrans again...

We arrived in Guelendeng about 10AM, the first large town on the road after leaving N'Djamena. Small shops stand alongside the road, with vendors hocking everything from dried fish out of the nearby Chari River to prepaid cellphone cards, for those same Nokias. In the center of town the cell tower is a beehive of activity, and one of the few signs that the 21st century has made it to Guelendeng.

Jonathan's concession, the family housing compound, is perhaps 300 meters off of the main road. The man he refers to as his 'host father,' named Abba, singlehandedly built the place, which is made up of a combination of mud-brick and cement, with several rooms clustered around a horseshoe-shaped courtyard. Jonathan jokingly describes Abba as having "positive ADD," and claims that he'll go to school one day, come home, and find a freshly woven straw mat, a new well, or perhaps even another room entirely.

Jonathan's house has a small patio made of woven grass, called seiko, and a small interior room with a kitchen off to the side. Just outside and behind a large tree stands the latrine/shower setup- nothing glamorous, but Abba has even managed to rig up a seat of sorts, using three bricks. His room is decorated with bits of American memorabilia; a recent Sports Illustrated cover featuring the Minnesota Vikings is taped on a small board along with assorted family photos, favorite snapshots, and a picture of Air Force One taking off from the Daytona International Speedway.

We spend the first part of the morning with Abba, his wife Renée, Jonathan, a cousin of the family, and three year old Yannick, Abba's youngest. Renée brings us fragrant red and green tea, which she quickly pours before disappearing to the edge of the concession. Equal rights for women is something of a foreign concept here- women are expected to be seen and to serve, and certainly not heard.

After our tea break we go to visit Jonathan's school, the Lycée du Guelendeng; on our way out the door we're surrounded by local kids... One nasarra (foreigner in Chadian Arabic) is interesting enough, but having 10 appear at once seems like the most interesting thing to happen this month, or maybe even this year. The children form a Pied-Piperesque trail behind us, clamoring for pictures. A cheer goes up as I pull out my camera, and I'm completely surrounded. I manage to snap a few pictures before hopping into the back of the waiting Land Cruiser.

The school itself is something I could never have anticipated. Jonathan tells us that although he has a great administration at the lycée, the facilities leave something to be desired. This seems to me to be a bit of an understatement, akin to World War II being a minor skirmish, or that it gets a little chilly in Alaska in January.

There are three or four mud brick buildings, each with labels over the door reading 6e, 5e, etc, which correspond to seventh and eighth grade. The Chadian education system is based on the French model, and the grades count down as the students get older until they reach the final level, terminale. After this, if they pass an exam known as the BAC, they will have the option to attend university in N'Djamena, but very few pass.

The floors are hard-packed dirt, an old and chipped blackboard is mounted on the front wall, and approximately 20 rows of long wooden benches step back. Apparently American culture has made it to the lycée too– on the side wall, I see a familiar name carved in chalk; apparently Jennifer Lopez is famous in Chad. The school is clearly not up to diva standards- naturally, there is no running water, but there is a nearby pit latrine, reserved for the teachers; the students simply find a spot in the forest.

We'd heard from some of the other volunteers that Jonathan has a particularly funky setup, but this is far more dilapidated than I'd ever imagined. I suppose that's where the work of the Peace Corps comes in– as a secondary project Jonathan has written grant proposals, and has raised almost $10,000 in order to build a brand new building at the school, which will replace the one that disintegrated during the rainy season. It's sobering when I realize I might be teaching in a place like this for the next two years. Also, it's a little galling to see a place like this, and hear about suburban soccer moms back home complaining that the bike path on the way to school is too narrow, and that there aren't nearly enough safety patrols.

We chat with the Proviseur, or principal for a little while, hear about the other subjects taught at the school, and before too long head off to visit the Sous-Prefet, the local government official in town. Protocol and titles are incredibly important here, and in order to be proper, the Proviseur jumps into the car with us for the ride down to the Sous-Prefet's office. As we lurch up the bumpy dirt road we come across the Sous-Prefet, who is parked under a tree fixing his motocycle and listening to French pop music. He stops what he's doing- 10 foreigners is certainly something worth noting in his logbook.

We talk for perhaps 20 minutes about who he is, what he does, and why if you live in a place where men are 'well-endowed,' it's important to be 'well-endowed' yourself... Apparently, the Sous-Prefet is something of a philosopher. As we're leaving, the Sous-Prefet stamps and signs our Ordre du Mission, a permission slip we can show to the gendarmes (military police) if we are stopped at a checkpoint. If word of a coup attempt is in the air, everyone is stopped, and as there was supposedly an attempt just the Sunday before, the gendarmes are a bit edgy.

After our meeting, we go to the Guelendeng central market, where Muslim women are selling dried fish, roasted peanuts, and various plastic trinkets. As we pass through the market, word of the nasarra parade has spread, and again we're surrounded by kids, who once again demand we pull out our cameras. I've been needing to buy a towel since we arrived, so I find a stall where I manage to buy a very red, very synthetic-looking one for 1500 CFA, about $3- the merchant originally wanted to charge me the nasarra price, probably about double, but Abba steps in and bargains him down on my behalf. We pass another stall, and a woman tells me in broken French that she wants the Wildberries Marketplace baseball cap I'm wearing to shield myself from the blistering sun. I decline as politely as possible in my own broken French– later Jonathan tells me that the best way to respond is with a joke, saying that, 'sure, you can have my hat, but only if I can have your firstborn son,' for example, and that the woman probably didn't speak French anyway.

We're about to wrap up the day now, and head back to Darda. We lead a parade of kids back across the road and over to a nearby shop, where we manage to find some semi-cold Coca Cola, and after our semi-refreshing beverage, 500 CFA each, head back to the Land Cruiser. As we make our way home dodging the potholes I find myself waxing a bit philosophical– what will Guelendeng, Darda, or even N'Djamena look like in 100 years? Will it be any more developed, or have regressed ever further?

Like I said in an earlier journal, this sudden adjustment to Third-World life is a little tough, and it's when you think about the littlest things that it really hits you. I'm plugged into my iPod now, a device that costs more than an average Chadian will earn in a year. Or to think that Moumine, only two years younger than me at 22, already has a wife and children, yet is barely able to read and write, and if he lives the average Chadian lifespan, will die before his 50th birthday.

I was talking to my roommate and fellow trainee Bobby this evening, and asking him if he thought the Chadian teachers we have here at Darda were jealous of us. Without a second thought he said 'yes.' If we're talking strictly of material goods and opportunities in life, I can understand why that would be the case, but I think in some ways we probably have reasons to be jealous of them. No matter who we see, they're almost always smiling, and they greet us warmly, something which certainly doesn't happen on the streets of Boston or San Francisco.

Of course, this is a pretty big generalization, but people do seem to be genuinely happier here. We've been told that Chad and its people will teach us far more than we can even teach them in the next two years– if we can figure out the secret of that happiness and bring it back with us, it'll be a good start.

Back to Peace Corps Writings