10/24/2004

We have our first opportunity to go back to N'Djamena today after being out at Darda for almost the entire month. It's strange how inviting a dirty Third-World capital can seem, but everyone has been relishing the chance to get into town, check email, and go out to eat.
Before we could get into town though, we had to find a ride. Our training staff decided that we would need the practical experience eventually, so this was our first chance to experience the unofficial Chadian bus system, the taxi-brousse (bush taxi).

Our driver, Mamadou, brought us from the training center out to the main road, drove us a few minutes down the bumpy 'highway,' and dropped us off by the side of the curb in the nearby village of Mandelia. It isn't every day that eight nasarra suddenly appear, and just like seemingly every other time we go out in public, we're big news. Chadians, particularly children seem to have a 'nasarra-dar,' and no matter what everyday thing we happen to be doing, it's always incredibly interesting. A group of kids swarms around us, appearing from out of nowhere, but we manage to shake them off and find a waiting taxi.

Our bus for the day is an ancient blue Peugeot minivan with a cracked windshield, which looks like it was designed to hold perhaps nine people comfortably. The seats have been ripped out, and replaced with four thinly upholstered benches, two facing each other horizontally, and two more in the back running lengthwise. A green cord runs the length of the van, which seems almost like a parody of the stop signals on city buses, but in this case there are a few faded flower-patterned curtains strung along. We're a big group, so this should be perfect– there are eight of us waiting, plus the driver– all set to go, right? No. I watch somewhat in shock as 12 more people suddenly appear and pile in around, behind, and in front of us.

I find myself facing a woman in a shiny grey dress and headscarf, carrying a purse and an old antifreeze container, which she tells me is for the oil she'll be buying once we get to N'Djamena, along with another man who she seems to be traveling with. The conducteur comes around the side of the van to where I'm sitting by the open window; I hand him a 1000 CFA note, about $2 US, which is the fare to N'Djamena. He collects money from the rest of the group, and shuts the back and side doors. With a wheeze, the van starts up, and we lurch to the edge of the paved road

Although it's a little cramped, the trip is surprisingly good. As I've said in previous journals, the road is something of an adventure, and traffic laws seem to be more suggestions than anything else. As we bump along my fellow trainee, Darren, has a few questions for the woman facing me, and the man along with her. As Darren has only recently begun studying French, I translate (poorly) for him.

"Corps de la Paix?" (Peace Corps), the man asks.

When we answer yes, his face lights up... He tells me that when he was in school he had three professors who were Peace Corps Volunteers; he slowly and deliberately recites their names for me. We'd been told about this sort of thing happening– Peace Corps has been in Africa since its inception in 1961, and Chad was one of its first programs, although it's been interrupted several times. As a result, a large percentage of the educated people in the country have been taught at some point during their schooling by a Peace Corps teacher. Our training director, Noelle, told us a story about being stopped on a highway in the middle of the desert when she was a volunteer in Niger- apparently the gendarme stopped their bush taxi, realized that Noelle was clearly not from anywhere close, and asked to see their papers. When he saw she was with the Peace Corps, she remembers him looking startled.

"Do you know Miss Becky?" He asked. "She was my English professor in 1972, from Wisconsin."

Obviously, Noelle didn't, but it's interesting to see just how many ways the Peace Corps has touched the lives of one person or another throughout Africa, from our TEFL coordinator in Chad, to a bored gendarme on the side of the road in Niger.

It turns out that both the man in the taxi-brousse and the woman were taught at least in part by Peace Corps teachers, and today they teach at the local primary school in Mandelia. They're heading to N'Djamena for a conference of some sort, I think- my French is still very rough, and I'm not entirely certain what they tell me; I smile and try my best to understand. Still, we manage to have something of a conversation, and he tells me we'll be in N'Djamena in about 45 minutes. We lurch along, stopping periodically to let off a passenger or two before continuing. Our van seems like a typical African scene, in my mind: there's a woman in a red and blue pagne (dress) with a baby, the two teachers from the Primary School, the driver and conducteur, eight Peace Corps trainees (which probably isn't that typical), and an assortment of five or six others, all piled into one very small van on a very hot morning.

We begin to see the first signs that we're approaching N'Djamena before too long- we pass rows of mud-brick houses that a month ago would've looked uninhabitable, but after my sojourn with Mourangue and company look almost nice. As we get closer, we begin to see billboards lining the road for Celtel, the largest cell-phone company, and Gala beer, one of the most popular brands in Chad. We also pass several gendarme stations- the government here is undeniably somewhat paranoid, and tends to have more soldiers milling around than anywhere I've ever seen, with the exception of Israel. I'm a little shocked to see a female soldier at one stop; with the gender roles seemingly so rigidly defined, I certainly wasn't expecting to see a woman in fatigues with a gun- she waves us through without incident.

In the distance we see a few things that look like normal city features in the distance, a couple water towers, a cell-phone tower, and a bridge across the Chari River. The road suddenly becomes a one-lane route as it approaches the bridge, and our driver has to dodge bush-taxis going the other direction, bicycles, farm animals and small children, all of who are trying to make their way to the other side.

Eventually we make it across, and stop at the first large traffic circle, where several of our fellow passengers jump out. We continue, and stop beside a large field, where the two teachers from Mandelia get out, waving goodbye as the van pulls away. We lurch along for a bit longer, turning onto a side road, and a few moments later pull into the gare, or station. Rows of bush-taxis are parked in a large dirt lot, and our driver expertly maneuvers his way into a waiting slot. We clamber out and cross the road, surrounded by crowds of children, naturally. Four of us split off and hail a nearby city taxi, an ancient yellow Peugeot.

"Vous connaisez le Bureau de Corps de la Paix, à côte de Boute Climat?" I ask (Do you know the Peace Corps office, near Lake Climat).

Of course, he says yes, and after negotiating a price of 1500 CFA, we're off. We drive around for several minutes, and I begin to get the sense that we're being taken for a ride, figuratively and literally. We stop at another traffic circle about 15 minutes later- our driver has no idea where he's going. We sit in the middle of the traffic circle for several minutes while other drivers gather round gesturing and arguing in Arabic, pointing feverishly. Another trainee who I'm in the car with, Emily, asks a driver standing outside the window if we have to pay, since the driver didn't take us to where we wanted to go, and in fact went the exact opposite direction. He says no, and we get out of the car. The same driver then turns to Aaron, Emily's husband, and asks him for some money- he did drive us this far after all. Emily jumps into the conversation, somehow manages to tell the guy off, and we head over to another taxi.

After verifying he knows exactly where the Peace Corps office is, we pile in. He then tells us that price will be 3500 CFA; we're obviously getting the nasarra discount. We try to negotiate with him, but he refuses to budge, and we have no choice but to pull the trump card- we get out. We've been told that the normal price for any N'Djamena taxi is going to be 1500 CFA; we find another car nearby, I stick my head in the window, and try to confirm that he knows how to get where we need to go, should we decide that we'd like him to take us. He says he does, and I ask him how much.

"3000"

"No, no, 1500," I say

"But it's a long trip," he says, "2500, then?"

"No, 1500"

"No way."

"All right, how about 2000?"

He grunts and nods his head as the four of us pile in. We set off along the bumpy dirt tracks, and make our way towards the office. The condition of the roads in N'Djamena is telling- everything is smoothly paved around the government buildings and expatriate areas, but as soon as you get into the more everyday Chadian places in life, like the taxi-brousse station, the roads are a trash-filled mess of dirt pathways, giant potholes, and dirty children playing. We make our way along more or less the same route that the taxi from Mandelia took us on- the first taxi driver took us to literally the opposite end of the city from where we wanted to be. Before too long, we're in the ex-pat area though, and we pass what I believe is the newest building in N'Djamena, the gleaming multistory headquarters of the BEAC, the Central African Bank. It looks more than a little incongruous here in the midst of mud huts and farm animals, but I suppose that this is what they mean by 'Developing Country.'

The road is hard-packed dirt by now, relatively smooth, and after negotiating a few potholes, we arrive at the Peace Corps office. For an organization whose stated purpose is to help the country of Chad, the headquarters looks as though it wants to be as separated from it as much as possible.

Gates that look to be at least 12 feet high are topped with coils of razor wire, spotlights stand on the corners of the concrete walls, and there is one large red steel door at the entrance. Our taxi drops us off outside the gate; we walk in between a row of cement traffic barriers which have been marked up with white chalk graffiti; one says 'AMIKEN,' which I presume was an attempt at 'American', and another is labeled 'YAKOUZA,' the name of the infamous Japanese criminal gang. We make our way up to the guard's booth, which is staffed by Chadians in faded maroon 'US Embassy N'Djamena' polo shirts and white baseball caps- the guard slides open the porthole, sees that we're clearly not Chadian, and opens the gate. We're in.

To be fair, it isn't the Peace Corps that has mandated these rules, but the State Department, which has determined that Chad is a high-security zone in the wake of the War on Terrorism. Former volunteers who were in Chad in the early 1990's have said that the Peace Corps was never like this before, that the office was always open, and it's only been since the September 11, 2001 terrorist attacks that the organization has become so seemingly paranoid.

Once we make it inside, it's like a little American oasis; air-conditioning, computers with Internet access, recent copies of Time and the Atlantic Monthly sit on a bookshelf, and more. It's nice to be here for a little while, but I can completely understand why the Peace Corps would want us to spend very little time here- it completely alienates us from the society we're supposed to be serving. The term 'Golden Ghetto' has been used to describe the living and working situations of ex-pats in Third World countries- behind the walls and razor wire, swimming in the pool and watching satellite TV, it's easy to forget where you really are, and how the other half lives. Were we to be placed in similar situations as Volunteers, we'd have no chance of becoming part of the community, which in my mind would be tragic– why come all this way, and not learn anything?

From what I can tell, the approach of much of the ex-pat population, particularly those in the diplomatic community, seems to be to stay as far removed as possible from Chadian society. Along Avenue Charles DeGaulle, the main paved road through the city, there's a row of shops and restaurants catering almost exclusively to foreigners. This isn't to say that it's wrong to escape a little once in awhile, to go and have a nice meal, but when it happens all the time, I can't help but think that it's missing the point. We've been told by our Country Director, Nelson, that there's nothing wrong with indulging periodically though, that the purpose of Peace Corps isn't to forget who we are or where we come from, so I can feel all right with having a day to eat and do what I'd like.

Four of us pile into the Land Cruiser back at the office (which seems incredibly luxurious after the taxi-brousse) and head over to Amandine, a French ex-pat bakery along Charles DeGaulle. There's a guard outside the front door, which reminds me of restaurants and public places in Israel; the difference, however, is that the guards are there to keep out beggars and small children as opposed to suicide bombers. Nevertheless, when we step out, we're swarmed by the requisite mob of small children, who this time happen to be little girls selling bags of roasted peanuts for 500 CFA each. They're aggressively pushing them on us, and we decline as politely as we can before making our way through the door. As we cross the threshold I see the guard stand up and make as if he's about to chase them away- they scatter.

Walking into Amandine is like walking into another oasis, only this time it's a little piece of France in the heart of N'Djamena. The air conditioning roars, light blue flower-patterned wallpaper gives the room a spring-like feeling, and several small tables with white lace tablecloths sit behind a partition with a few ex-pats sitting at them. One obviously dour, obviously French middle-aged man sits in the corner, smoking a pipe and reading Le Monde. How many Chadians does he ever meet who aren't servants or guards, I wonder? There are two large refrigerated cases filled with cakes, tarts, croissants, and more. A wooden shelf is mounted on the wall and filled with baskets selling crusty bread known as boule (which is absolutely nothing like the Chadian version) and baguettes. There's also a small cooler in the corner selling Fanta and Coca-Cola. Through a small hole in the wall behind the counter, I can see several massive baking ovens, and a balding man dressed in white carrying what looks to be a large bucket of flour.

The woman who I'm guessing co-owns the bakery is also very French-looking, if that's possible to describe, and cheerfully stands by as I butcher her language to order a pastry and a Fanta. Aaron, Emily, and Greger, three of my fellow Trainees each order, and we make our way to a corner table. I can't help but wonder what would drive someone to move from France, or any other developed (or even semi-developed) country to Chad simply to open a business. Since we've arrived I've seen shops run by Chinese, French, Lebanese and Indians, all of whose respective countries are in far better shape development-wise than Chad is likely to be for a long time, if ever. I suppose money might be a factor, but I don't know if I would necessarily stay here was I not living in Chad to try to do some good.

We finish our snack and head back to the office, Mamadou waiting diligently beside the car for us outside. We tried to invite him in before, but he said that Peace Corps regulations prohibit him from leaving the car unattended- another post 9/11 security thing, I imagine. We felt badly about it nonetheless, enjoying the air-conditioning and ex-pat cuisine while he waited in the sun outside- unfortunately there was nothing we could do. We wait around in the office for a little while, reading, playing Scrabble, and a few of us checking email before we head out again, 10 of us this time, back to Charles DeGaulle for an all-you-can-eat Lebanese buffet.

Another ex-pat establishment, and again, another oasis, although I'm not sure if most of Lebanon is any better off than Chad. Ali Baba Restaurant though, looks like what I presume cosmopolitan Beirut would be (I've never been- unfortunately the Israeli stamp on my passport prohibits me from crossing the border, at least for now). Tourist posters of Lebanon line the walls, a large balding man who I presume to be the owner welcomes us in English, and leads us to a table for 10 in the corner. Over the next hour and a half the Chadian serving staff brings us plate after plate of pita, hummus, babganoush, tabouli, falafel and roasted meat, which is an absolute joy after weeks of bland couscous, pasta, potatoes and boule (not the French kind). I eat far more than I should, but I want to pack in as much as possible, besides, it's expensive at 7000 CFA. As we finish lunch I look around and realize that there doesn't seem to be a single Chadian here, except for the serving staff; I can't help but be reminded of one of my trips to Israel, when I noticed that the only Arabs I saw in our hotel were pouring drinks or mopping floors. On our way out the door we're mobbed by the same pack of children with the same peanuts. We've just come out of an all-you-can-eat buffet, so I'm not quite sure why they'd think we were hungry, but nevertheless they approach. The guard shoos them away though, and we head back to the office.

We get back a few minutes later, and I spend the rest of the afternoon waiting around, reading, checking my email, playing games, and chatting with other Trainees and Volunteers. With a groan, we realize that it's time to head back to Darda– Al-Hadj is waiting with the Land Cruiser outside. Night is falling quickly, and we have to get back before it gets dark– the roads aren't safe at night due to bandits. We bump along the highway in the Land Cruiser, a far more comfortable trip than on the way into N'Djamena. I'm a little surprised when we stop briefly about halfway there, just as it gets completely dark; it's the month of Ramadan, and Al-Hadj has to stop to break his fast, and pray. We wait for maybe 10 minutes, Al-Hadj jumps back in, and we're off. We make our way back to Darda with no issue, fortunately. Overall, the day has been a success- it was great to have a chance to experience a little city life, but for now, training continues...

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