10/20/05

I skim the latest issue of Newsweek, which Adji, one of the Peace Corps drivers brought down last week. It's only a month-and-a-half late, right on time by Chadian standards. I'm engrossed in the an article on Istanbul's exploding social scene, with my back to the door as I lie on the string cot in the hangar. I hear the farfar rustle, and glance behind me– it's Hophyra, who's come in, and is staring at me.

"Neemeh?" I ask. What is it? She giggles and turns away, and I return to Istanbul. I finish the article and realize I'm getting hungry; it's almost 11:30, meaning I should get going on lunch. I get up to go inside– Hophyra is still there, only now she's joined by Ka-Idi, both of whom are watching me intently. As I walk towards the door Hophyra runs at me and clutches onto my leg. Suddenly I have a 20kg sour smelling, hysterically giggling attachment to my body– I try to shake her off gently, grab her recently-shaved head, and jostle her around– she lets go.

"Ndak Hophi, an chak deh!" Ka-Idi yells, using Hophyra's nickname. Hophyra, I'm going to beat you! In Chad, it's perfectly normal, even encouraged, for older siblings to beat their younger brothers and sisters– it saves parent's time. Hophyra knows this is no idle threat, and slips out of her reach- I go inside.

I emerge a moment later with my arms full of stuff: spaghetti, olive oil, basil, oregano, salt and pepper– nothing special for lunch today, just noodles and seasoning. As I exit, Hophyra runs and grabs my leg again; I stagger, and nearly fall before reaching the table.

"An chak deh!" Ka-Idi yells, and smacks Hophyra on the arm. She slinks away, and I light the kerosene stove, fill the pot with water, and add a sprinkle of salt. As the water heats up, Hophyra and Ka-Idi are still there, watching me intently. I'm not sure I understand would could possibly be so interesting about watching someone boil water, whether they're white, black, brown, green, or purple. I decide the best thing to do is simply ignore them– I move the string cot back inside, bring out my table and chair, and do my best to not notice the two little girls watching my every move.

The water's boiling, and I add in the pasta, when Hophyra starts to get out of hand- she charges at me, grabs onto my shirt, and yanks. I try to pull her off, gently at first, but eventually yanking her away roughly. I suppose it's my own fault, in a way– over the past few days I've been roughhousing with Marc's daughters quite a bit. Now that Tanga and Ka-Idi are beginning to understand French, and Dakassia doesn't scream every time I touch her, I've been making a real effort to play with the kids. They're usually so ignored by adults here, so I think it's good that they have a grown-up willing to interact with them, even it it's one who doesn't speak their language. I've also been much more permissive about them playing in and around my hangar– before, they all knew that disturbing me was punishable by beating, courtesy of Marc. That sounds draconian, but unfortunately, it's the reality here. Most Chadian kids have absolutely no discipline, and the threat of (or an actual) beating is about all that works. Since I've been friendlier than usual with Marc's girls, I bear some responsibility too. Nevertheless, Hophyra is getting to be too much.

"Hophyra, djola!" I say, trying my best to look menacing, and using one of the few Moussei words I know. Stop it! She continues, tugging my shirt (and me) to the point where I'm afraid the fabric might rip. I yank her off, carry her outside, and deposit her about 10 meters from the hangar, and go back to my spaghetti, which is almost finished cooking. Hophyra runs back in and grabs my leg again.

"Djola!" I say. She laughs and pulls on my shirt. Finally, not knowing what else to do, I smack her on the side of the head– not too hard, but enough that she realizes I'm not playing around any more. Fortunately she seems to get it, and races out of the hangar. I drain the noodles, add the spices, and finish lunch uneventfully. A little while later I hear Marc pull up on his bike. I wait a few minutes for him to get settled in his pink plastic chair in the shade of the neem tree, and go out to talk with him. After the usual pleasantries and confirming that yes, it really is hot, I get down to business.

"I had a bit of a problem with Hophyra this morning," I tell him.

"Oh, what happened?" He asks, and I tell him.

"Hophyra, baya!" He barks; she comes over to him nervously. I don't follow much of what happens next, as it's in Moussei, but I see Marc point at the hangar, my shirt, and me. The next part, I understand all too well– Marc stands up, tears a thin branch from the tree, strips the leaves off, and begins beating Hophyra, who wails in pain and terror. Feeling frustrated, and empathizing with Hophyra, I walk back to my house, as Marc continues to hit her. I didn't want to be the cause of a beating, but what was I thinking Marc would do, ask her to stop? He disciplines his children the only way he knows how-– around here, I suppose I shouldn't expect any less...

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