12/27/2004


Holiday travel is tough no matter where you are, but after the past few days, I challenge, no, I flat out dare you to imagine any travel in the developed world that would be more annoying than a holiday voyage through southwestern Chad.

Livana, my 19-year-old neighbor, woke me up at 5:00 in the morning on the 23rd, as I prepared to make the 80-kilometer voyage to Kélo, where Aaron and Emily, two other new Volunteers are living. In the 1st World (or even parts of the developing world where there's some semblance of a scheduled bus service) 80 kilometers is no big deal (that's roughly 50 miles for all the Americans). In a country like Chad, where there are a grand total of four paved roads, it's another story entirely. The nearest of the four paved roads to me begins at Kélo, my destination for a Christmas celebration. I had to get up early, since the only way to get around in Chad is through hitching rides, either with a 'taxi-brousse' (bush taxi) or any other passing vehicle; semis, tankers, pickups, ancient cars, and every now and then an actual Land Cruiser. When it comes to transport, Gounou-Gaya is especially difficult, because it's about 30 kilometers off of the main road.

As usual, the walk from my house to the center of town, even at six in the morning, was packed with dirt-encrusted children, all of whom stare at me like I just beamed-in from Mars, in utter amazement that a nasarra would do something as crazy as walking, and moreover, carry a backpack. At first I found this whole approach, the incredulous stare, to be a little bit amusing, but I have to admit that it's become pretty annoying by now. Nevertheless, it's not going to change, at least not any time soon, so as my own small way of getting even, I usually stare right back– it seems to work.

When Livana and I arrived in the center of town, near the cell-phone antenna that was just activated last month we found two trucks, both already piled high with people. In Chad, people don't just pile into a vehicle until it's mostly full– every square centimeter is filled. For example, the Toyota pickup in the center of town was already filled with 30 people carrying 2-3 bags each, the truck groaning under the burden as it prepared to set out for a 100km journey over washboard-style dirt roads. I would've jumped in if I had to, if that was the only transports, but it wasn't to be– the truck was going to Fianga, the exact opposite direction. Still the driver thought he had an easy target, and approached me.

"Vous allez ou?" (Where are you going) He asked.

"Je vais à Kélo," (I'm going to Kélo) I answered.

Continuing in French, he told me that he'd take me to Kélo, but I couldn't help but think something was up- he had a full truck of people preparing to depart for Fianga, but he was prepared to take me instead? I asked him how much.

"50,000 FCFA" he said, which works out to slightly more than $100 US.

Being a white person in the developing world, inflated prices are hardly uncommon, but this was excessive even by reasonable standards- a trip from Gounou-Gaya to Kélo should cost no more than 3000 FCFA, roughly $6.

"50,000," I said in disbelief.

"You're white, and whites have money," he said, adjusting the kaffiyeh (headscarf) he had perched on his head. He wore a suit that looked to be made of pajama material, blue flannel in a checkerboard pattern.

"But I'm not rich," I told him. "I'm a volunteer."

"OK, what will you pay to get to Kélo?"

"10,000 is the most I can possibly spend." I had 20,000 in my wallet, but had budgeted 3,000 for the trip.

He looked as if I'd just slapped him. "10,000? Mon ami, how about 25,000?"

That was still almost 10 times what I'd planned- I could see this was going nowhere.

"Are there any other cars going today?" I asked him.

"No, try again tomorrow," he grunted, and took off- the truck left a minute later, sans moi.
I assumed he was probably right, and after a few minutes of searching hitched up my backpack and prepared to walk back home, Livana in tow. Just as we were about to turn down the path off the main road leading to my house, salvation arrived, in the form of an ancient Peugeot minibus, white, with "Charité Voyage: stenciled in green on the side. I flagged down the driver.

"Where are you going?"

"N'Djamena."

That was perfect- Kélo is on the way to the capital, about eight hours south. I asked him what the price would be, expecting the worst.

"3,000," he said to my relief. We'll leave in a little while. His name was Bassissou, and he said his aunt owned the van, which went to N'Djamena three times per week, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Today was Thursday.

"You didn't go yesterday?"

"No, the van was broken." I should've taken this as a warning, but I needed to get out of Gounou-Gaya today, and his was the only vehicle I could see. I handed him the money, and tossed my bag into the front seat.

The way the taxi-brousse system works is on a first-come, first-serve basis. When enough passengers arrive the van, truck, or car departs. In larger communities this works just fine- sometimes cars will leave every 10-15 minutes. In Gounou-Gaya, Chad, at 6:30 in the morning, I suspected the wait would be longer. It was.

Over the next two-and-a-half hours people gradually trickled in, bringing sleeping mats, shopping bags, 100-kilo sacks of rice and flour, and the occasional live chicken, with its feet wrapped in twine. During this time Bassissou kept himself busy, smoking cigarette after cigarette, downing cups of sweet tea and fried 'beignets.' and basically doing everything but round up people and prepare to leave. Around 9:00 we apparently reached an invisible 'magic number,' and we were ready to depart. The last person to arrive was a girl named Fatime, who wouldn't have looked out of place on the streets of San Francisco. She wore jeans, a red and blue warm-up jacket, hoop earrings and a baseball cap, and topped it off with a miniature red Motorola cell-phone dangling from her neck on a cord. She'd been in town for the recent visit of the President, and was heading back to N'Djamena, where she was a high school student. We piled into the front seat together, with what looked to be another 20 people crammed into the back, and headed off.

Or so I thought. We made it about 500 meters down the road towards Kélo and stopped, to load on a few more passengers, a woman with a baby tied to her back as well as two small children, who looked to be about 2-3 years old. Somehow we managed to pile them in, and we were on the road again. We'd only made it about 10km before the engine began to groan and we slid over to the side of the road. Fatime and I had to get out, as the front seat was mounted on a panel over the engine. Bassissou dug around in the glove compartment, found a wrench, and started banging on the engine, which had coughed to a halt.

Whatever he did seemed to work; he tried the engine and it caught, if a bit unsteadily, shut the seat/panel, and we got back in. We cruised uneventfully for maybe 15 minutes and suddenly stopped, for no apparent reason, under a large tree by the side of the road. I didn't really understand- every time we sopped we seemed to have more problems, and we'd been going without incident since the engine was fixed. Even more mystifying was the we sat under the tree while Bassissou and a friend of his wandered off into a nearby field for close to an hour- was he on a union-mandated break, or something?

Naturally, when he returned the engine wouldn't start, so we pulled the seat/panel off again, and waited while Bassissou banged around some more. The van wasn't starting, so several of us got out to push, hoping that a running start might improve the situation. The sight of a nasarra running behind the van may well have been the funniest thing the local kids had ever seen, and their laughter was easy to hear as I ran along in a cloud of exhaust. After several running starts, the engine kept turning, and we hurriedly piled in. This time we managed to keep going for a while, maybe 40 minutes, before we made another random stop, this time in the village of Pont-Carol. Shockingly, when it came time to go again, the van wouldn't start. There was no real point to the stop, although it was interesting to see Fatime open a bottle of Coca-Cola the driver had bought for us with her teeth.

I suppose I shouldn't have questioned, but as pulled away from Pont-Carol I found myself wondering what else could possibly go wrong. We'd been rolling precariously along for maybe 15 minutes when we suddenly pulled off to the side of the road again, and I heard one of the most hated words in African travel, 'crevasion' (flat tire). I hadn't heard or noticed anything, but Bassissou seemed to have an almost supernatural knowledge of the van; in the 1st World it would've been illegal to travel in something this rickety, but here it was the norm. Again unlike the 1st World (or practically anywhere else, for that matter) there was was no spare tire, so Bassissou jacked up the van, removed the flat, flagged down a passing motorcycle, and sped off back to Pont-Carol, light blue boubou flapping behind him.
I tried to imagine how people would react to a similar situation in the States. The bus departs, overflowing and three hours late, stops randomly for two 40-minute breaks shortly after departing, breaks down two more times, and gets a flat tire. Threats of lawsuits would be flying fast and furious, but here, people had an amazing sense of calm in spite of it all. I decided that it would be a good idea to act the same way– I could either get more and more frustrated, or simply adopt what I suppose you could call a Zen approach– when I get there, I get there.

So we sat by the side of the dusty road, 20+ of us in the shade of a single scrubby tree. On both sides of the road the bushes and grass were caked with a thick layer of dust kicked up by passing cars, the same dust that coated us as a fleet of five large cargo transports rumbled by. We must've made quite an interesting sight- a line of Chadian men, women and children, with a very obvious white (possibly red-brown by that point) exception.

About two hours after Bassissou had taken off we heard the whine of a motorcycle engine, and he was back, with the presumably repaired tire strapped to the rear. Men everywhere seem to have the tendency to become amateur mechanics whenever there's a breakdown, and this was no exception- a crowd of Chadians squatted by the tire, discussing the problem. Within a few moments it was reattached, the engine miraculously caught, and we were on our way.

In an amazing stroke of luck, the rest of my journey was uneventful, and we arrived in Kélo at about 3:30, 80km and more than nine hours from the beginning of my trip. As we pulled into the field that constituted the taxi-stop, hordes of merchants swarmed the van, even more so when they saw a white person. Cheap sunglasses, watches with Osama Bin Laden on the cover and Beverly Hills 90210 on the face, razorblades, 'pleather' belts, bananas, socks, wool hats and more– it could all be mine if I stopped to pay attention to the chants of "Nasarra," and "Chef, chef!" Somehow I was able to wave through the crowd back at Fatima, and set off through town, on the 'White Man Walk of Shame' towards Aaron and Emily's house.

I'm beginning to think that Chadian children are somehow genetically endowed with the 'Nasarra Song,' before birth, which they gleefully shout anytime a white person walks by.

"Nasarra gal kay / Anina salte!" Over and over, increasing in volume.

I've been told it basically means, "The nasarra thinks we're dirty and won't shake our hands." I'm guessing it originated with the first French people to arrive here. At the risk of sounding rude, they usually are dirty, and although I try not to shake hands, it's not discrimination, simply a preference to avoid Giardia. Anyway, I eventually arrived, after fending off dozens of children.

After the journey there, the three days I spent in Kélo were positively tame by comparison. It was great to see Aaron and Emily, as well as the seven others who made the trips from their own sites, most without incident. Mai, one of the new Volunteers had a five-hour ride in the back of a pickup filled with crying babies and a man who kept elbowing her in the head. Bobby and Sung-Mun, two of the others, were delayed overnight by gendarmes in Moundou, but otherwise things were fine. I used the opportunity of being in the 'city' to stock up on hard-to-find things, like dish soap, and Laughing Cow cheese (which doesn’t need refrigeration), and had a wonderful time speaking English, playing Scrabble, and above all comparing notes of our first 10 or so days at our sites.

We made several trips to the market to prepare for Christmas dinner, which was consistently well stocked with more than I'm ever likely to find in Gounou-Gaya. Kélo is five times the size though, so it makes sense. Besides, even though I felt jealous at the time, fewer things for sale means that I have fewer ways to waste money.

Christmas dinner itself was unlike any holiday meal I'd ever had, but it was one I doubt I'll forget. Beef, onion, tomato and green pepper kebabs, mashed potatoes, onion rings, stuffing, banana bread and pumpkin pie- did you know that it's all possible using a charcoal wire basket (called a ganoum), and a 'Dutch Oven.' The good cooks of the group (or at least the three who were good at predicting the whims of the ganoum) Alyssa, Emily and Aaron did most of the cooking, while the rest of us peeled garlic and potatoes, and washed dishes. Josh kept us entertained with his tales from the big city, Bongor, and regaled us with the story of how he nearly blew himself up the first (and only) time he tried to cook for himself. Apparently it started off simply enough– he added a bit of paper to the ganoum to get things started, put in a few lumps of charcoal, and then proceeded to dump an entire 1.5 liter bottle of kerosene on the coals. The resulting mushroom cloud and scream of terror was enough for his family to come running, and confiscate the ganoum, for his own safety. He eats with them now.

On Sunday morning, it was time to go, and I was dreading the return trip. All of the other Volunteers in the southern part of the country live in towns along the axis of the two main roads– I'm the only one who's off the main path, so I knew transport would be challenging although I seriously doubted it could be any more difficult than the trip to Kélo.

I walked back to the auto park with Mai, and we began to look for ways back to our 'hometowns.' There was one place left in a van headed for Pala, on the road to Mai's site, Lagon, so I suggested she should get on right away-– I'd find something afterwards. A quick hug and one bag thrown on the roof later, and she was gone, the yellow Toyota van packed to the gills with 20+ Chadians and one Laotian-American. I went up to the area the was meant to be the ticket office, a guy sitting under a grass and stick hut, with a notebook and a rubber stamp, and paid 2500 FCFA for a place in the 'cabine' on the next vehicle out. My plan was to catch a transport bound for Pala and get off at the tiny village of Bélé, where the road forks and continues to Gounou-Gaya. It was 2:00 PM

At 5:00 we were still waiting, and I wasn't optimistic- it'd be hard enough to get a ride from Bélé in the daytime, and nightfall was rapidly approaching. The rickety-looking white Toyota pickup that was to be my ride had finally reached maximum Chadian capacity, about 30 people, and we were going to be off shortly. There was no way we'd get to Bélé while it was still light, so I revised my plan- I'd try to go to Pala, find Darrell, the Volunteer there, stay with him overnight, and backtrack the next day to Gounou-Gaya. I paid another 500 FCFA to change the 'ticket,' a piece of notebook paper with a signature, 'NATANIEL' and a seal on it, and waited feeling reassured– I'd be staying with someone I knew, and I'd have the entire next day to find a ride home. I was in a vehicle that seemed relatively sturdy, and even had the front seat, a pleasant surprise. There was one other person crammed in between the gearshift, the driver, and me. His name was Martin, and he was a former professor at the high school in Pala, and remembered Darrell. He even offered to help me find him when we arrived.

But, before we could get on the road, we had to add air to the tires, something I couldn't understand the reason for not being done beforehand, when the truck was sitting empty for three hours. Chadians are great at stating the obvious, but doing the obvious sometimes takes a bit more effort. So, instead of one person, the driver, going to put air in the tires, all 30 of us did. The service consisted of a man standing by the side of the road with a tank attached to a portable air compressor, which wouldn't start. We waited 20 minutes while he repaired it, and took another 10 filling the tires, and we were finally off to Pala. This time we made it less than one kilometer before we had to stop again, at a gendarme post on the edge of Kélo. The officer took a quick look at my US Embassy badge, returned it, and went on checking ID's. Several people weren't carrying anything, and were ordered off the truck and into a nearby hut. They emerged a few minutes later, I presume after paying a bribe. Incredible as it may seem, we actually got underway and were cruising down the road- at this rate we'd reach Pala in less than two hours.

As we were driving along, Martin and I had an interesting conversation– he was a History/Geography teacher, and peppered me with questions about the US. How many people live there? How cold does it get? Are the places that are like Chad? The most interesting thing for me though, was listening to him. He believed, correctly, that the US is more developed than Chad, but presumed that we'd solved all of our problems. In Martin's version of America, everyone owned a car and color television, had free electricity and running water, and there were no black people. His surprise, when I told him about the homeless population, large numbers of unemployed people, and the multi-racial stew that makes up the US was obvious. I suppose in a way it mirrors the average American's knowledge of Chad and Sub-Saharan Africa as a whole, which is to say slim to none. I've been consistently surprised at the ideas people have of the US, that George W. Bush is universally adored, and that all Americans supported the invasion of Iraq.

We were perhaps 10 minutes outside of Pont-Carol when we pulled off to the side of the road, for no apparent reason. The truck was listing a bit to the right, but I assumed it was simply because it was so ridiculously overloaded. A few moments later we continued, but pulled over again when we reached Pont-Carol. Apparently we'd suffered some sort of unexplainable breakdown, and we were going to be there for awhile. I chatted with Martin and two high school students from Moundou, but it kept getting later, and I was afraid that by the time we reached Pala Darrell would be asleep, and I'd have to wake him up. Or, if we didn't make it out of Pont-Carol, where was I going to stay? I'd be a pretty obvious target sleeping outdoors, especially with my large travel backpack, and I was getting pretty worried. Martin seemed to sense my concern, and asked if I'd be OK with staying with the director of the local middle school, a friend of his.

And so it was that I found myself trudging across a moonlit field in Pont-Carol, Chad, looking for a person I'd never met, hoping I could stay with him. Fortunately we found Blamkoina (Blahm-KWEE-nuh) sitting outside his house, the shortwave radio blaring Radio France International. He was wearing blue soccer shorts and an old white t-shirt, and immediately offered Martin and me a seat. Martin explained our situation, that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer, and offered me a place to stay without hesitating. Martin wanted to continue on to Pala, however, so we said our goodyes, and he headed back to the broken-down truck.
Blamkoina was the director of the College (equivalent to a middle school) in Pont-Carol, and when he wasn't running things, worked part-time as an English teacher. I was more than a little surprised when he suddenly began speaking English to me- not perfectly, but definitely enough to get by. We talked for a few minutes, alternating languages, but at this point it was almost 8:30, bedtime in Chad. His two-room mud-brick house had a small string cot near the doorway, and I gratefully accepted a pillow, having mentally prepared myself for far worse.

The next morning, after a leisurely breakfast of beignets and, as always, sweet tea, we headed out to the main (only, actually) road, where I would try to find a ride home. The plan was to stop the gendarme post, where hopefully it'd be possible to flag down a passing vehicle, perhaps to Bélé, and if I was really lucky, Gounou-Gaya. The gendarmes at the post were friendly enough, and the captain immediately offered to put me on his motorcycle. I had to explain that Peace Corps rules prohibited me from riding a motorcycle, which he seemed resistant to, but eventually accepted. It seemed that nothing would ever come in my direction but more motorcycles, and I was getting more and more frustrated when I suddenly spotted an almost-empty pickup in the distance. The gendarme went out to the road to flag him down, but before he could get there, the truck had blown by, although I had enough time to glimpse an empty rear seat, and 'COTONTCHAD' stenciled on the door, which has a huge plant in Gounou-Gaya. I honestly almost lost it at that point, I was so frustrated, but there was nothing to do except sit, and keep waiting. About 40 minutes later I saw a large, mostly empty cargo truck coming down the road towards us. The gendarme was able to flag him down this time, and although he was going to Pala, he'd drop me off at Bélé if I wanted. I climbed up the side ladder, threw my backpack in, and saw three kids staring at me with a mixture of shock and disbelief. The idea of a nasarra riding in the back of a cargo truck was almost too much to comprehend, and I could see them staring intently at me as I positioned myself on the only seat available, the massive spare tire. They looked like they must be students at a Koranic school- they all wore turbans, and I could see a piece of wood sticking out of one of the kids bags, covered with wavy Arabic script. They also looked hungry- kids at the Koranic schools are usually not given food, I've been told- they're supposed to beg for food and money as an exercise in humility. With that in mind, when the truck stopped at the Bélé crossroad about 20 minutes later I gave the kids a bag of bananas I'd bought while I was waiting, and they instantly began eating them, tossing the peels over the side.

I spent a very uncomfortable hour with the gendarmes posted at the crossroad, only one of whom could speak French, and didn't seem like he wanted to anyway. A pickup truck approached... looked as though it might turn.... and continued on the road towards Pala. I was beginning to wonder if I might be spending the night in Bélé after all, when an old Land Cruiser stopped, turned, and began heading in the direction of Gounou-Gaya. I ran out into the road, flagged them down, and explained my situation. They were headed to Gounou-Gaya, and after paying 1000 FCFA, I jumped in. The ride was less than 30 minutes, making me remember how short this trip was supposed to have been.

I got out in front of the water tower, in the area that closest resembles downtown, and began the slow walk to my house. On the way, I bumped into the head of the English department of my high school, Enoch. Sounding almost nonchalant, or at least not especially disturbed, he told me that his baby daughter had died just a few days before. Wow. Suddenly my crappy travel experience didn't seem nearly so bad. I can't imagine the pain that must come with losing a child, but perhaps it's simply so commonplace in the developing world that people are better prepared for it. Hearing that put the whole thing in perspective- sure the trip had been annoying at times, but I made it there, celebrated, and got back safe and sound. I guess I needed a bit of a reality check- as much hardship as Peace Corps may throw at me, I have a lot to be thankful for, and even though I'm not Christian, I think that may just be the true meaning of Christmas.

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