11/14/05

What's the point?

Why am I here? I know that Chad is officially 'the most corrupt country in the world,' which is tough enough to swallow in theory, but now that I've seen it on a personal level, it's hard to feel like I'm doing anything but wasting my time...

The moon is 3/4 full, and I go outside to chat with Marc. We haven't had electricity in almost a month, but the moon is so bright that neither streetlights nor flashlights are necessary.

"Bonsoir Nah-tahn-yel, comment ça va, non?" he says, shaking my hand. Marc always gives up his favorite bright-pink plastic and molded-flower chair when I arrive; I'm still not sure if this is simply Chadian hospitality, or some sign of respect because I'm a foreigner/professional/white, or all three. Marc shifts to a small wooden bench and resumes his conversation in Musey with an old man wearing a shapeless orange embroidered cap. It's obviously something animated, and I can pick out a few words here and there, but for the most part the conversation is meaningless to me. Not Marc though- he and the other man gesture wildly, howl with laughter, and let out enough exclamations of Hai! Kai! Eee! and Ay-Yah! for any 10 people. Another younger man arrives, and the conversation continues- I sit and watch, waiting for a language I can understand. I realize it's my own fault for not making more of an effort to learn Musey, but still, it's hard not to feel annoyed as they continue to chat, and I'm left in the dark.

Most Chadians think nothing of talking about someone who's standing directly in front of them, switching into an incomprehensible language, or more. Marc, for example, readily and happily criticizes Ertchey to me while he's standing in front of us- as a friend and a 'peer' to each of them on some level, I try to be as noncommittal as possible when Marc tells me his son is a drunk, a delinquent, or worse. In most of the western world, people would find that sort of thing incredibly offensive. In situations like this, I always have to remember something we heard on our first day of training. To paraphrase, everyone has their own cultural perspective- what seems offensive to an American might mean nothing to a Chadian, and vice-versa. How many Americans would get upset if you handed them something with your left hand? You wouldn't dare do something so rude in Chad, especially with an Arab.

I sit quietly, trying not to feel frustrated. Eventually the conversation wraps up, and Marc gets up to escort his guests out. Chadian culture dictates that the host has to symbolically walk his guests home, even if it's only for 50 meters or so- not doing it is simply pas bon.

Marc comes back a moment later- we sit and chat a bit, until Janvier comes ambling over. They immediately switch back into Musey, with occasional snatches of French thrown in- I hear a string of Musey with "est-ce-que?" in the middle; Marc goes on again, and I hear "cent mille!" (100,000) and "ç'est vrai" (that's true). Finally, my curiosity is piqued.

"Vous parlez de quoi?" I ask. What are you talking about?

"We're talking about the teacher's college in Bongor," (the regional capital) Marc says. "He took the exam," he says, pointing at Janvier, "and he passed, but his application was rejected."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because he didn't pay them a bribe. They wanted him to pay 100,000 FCFA and he couldn't, so they rejected his application," Marc responds.

"Even though he'd passed?" I ask incredulously.

"They don't care," Marc says. "As long as you pay the bribe, you pass. If you're the son of a minister, you don't even need to take the exam, you're automatically accepted."

"But, how does..." I trail off, speechless.

"Ç'est la corruption seulement," says Janvier. It's all corruption.

"Why doesn't anyone do anything about it?" I ask, recovering my voice.

"What can we do?" Marc asks. "We don't have any power."

"Ç'est comme ça." Janvier agrees. It's like that. He and Marc laugh, and I struggle mightily to keep from losing my cool, not at them, but at their sense of fatalism about the whole thing.

"That's it right there," I say through clenched teeth. "That's why it continues, because you laugh about it, and you accept it."

Marc and Janvier's blank stares are easy to see in the moonlight.

"What I'll do," Janvier says, "is save up." That way, I can take the exam again, and when they ask for a bribe, I'll be all set."

I'm too frustrated to even respond, so I change the subject to something more innocuous. It's approaching 8:30 though, and I'm ready for bed. I quickly say goodnight, and head off to brush my teeth. Standing in the dark over the gravel-filled pit that serves as my sink, I'm seething. Why do people accept this shit? Why do they say, "This is OK?" Why the fuck aren't Chadians able to understand that this is the reason their country is going nowhere? If this is how the system is, and people are unwilling or able to change it, why am I wasting my time?

In my three classes (four, counting the Catholic girls' school), I have about 335 students. At the lycée, I have roughly 100 per class, with a much more manageable 30-35 at the girls' school. Of those 100 per class, there are maybe two or three in each section who really have potential, who could actually do something more with their lives than farm cotton or have babies. Koussongue, Sippa, Daïna, Remadji, Belamamou- that I can count on one hand, on a first-name basis the few motivated students says a lot about the Chadian education system. Their achievements and efforts mean nothing though. All that matters is the money- unless they can pay their bribes, they'll never get anywhere. For me, it's frustrating, but I'll live- I'll be gone in just over a year- for them, it's tragic. The handful of students like this in classrooms throughout this country is the only chance Chad has for a brighter future. Thanks to corrupt administrators, officials and politicians, though, they'll never have that chance...

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