On Thursday afternoon I said goodbye to so many things from a runway. As the plane lifted into the air I voiced my "farewell" to 40 + heat in April, to Chadian children who scream "nassara", to fresh watermelon in any season, to mosquito nets, to teaching English, to daily foot-washings, to bucket baths of cold water, to boule, to bleach rinsed everything, to bright colored outfits and wrapping yards of fabric around my head, to hand shakes and "sava"s, to so many other Chadian things.
As the plane reached cruising hight and the mud-brick houses disappeared beneath the sand clouds, I wiped the tears from my eyes as I read my sister's farewell letter. She listed Chadian experiences I dare not ever forget. And she reminded me that though my time in N'Djamena was barely 4 months out of so many more, it will stay with me. I don't leave these things behind as I fly away over the Atlantic, but bury them within my heart so that they may change me and challenge me.
And I did not say farewell to my family. To them I said "Au'revoir" and "God bless". Until we meet again. And they will be held closer still in my heart.

Cameroon and a funeral

I am in a place where I am content to wait on God’s plan. I am trying
not to worry about anything, but instead pray about everything. The
word “surrender” has meant a lot to me in the past few weeks. I am
slowly learning to give up the control I so crave and let the chips
fall where they may. It’s hard to approach a period of change again
with that in mind. I don’t want to plan too much, because I want God
to take the reins, and yet it’s scary to think I will be back in the
states in less than 4 weeks and I have as of yet no solid plans for
the next few months. But God will provide.
And meanwhile, life goes on as normal.
On Saturday we went to Cameroon to see elephants. I stood near a heard
of over 200. They are amazing creatures.
Today I was at a funeral. Our neighbors’ 23 year old son was mentally
handicapped and has severe epilepsy. On Friday he went to the boutique
to get batteries for his radio and didn’t come home. They found his
body on Saturday night.
The grieving process here is intense. It’s really hard to know how to
feel and how to write about the wailing, tam tams, and massive
funeral. I want to respect the grief, but in some ways I find myself
wanting to study it. I wonder if I should try to take some extra
anthropology courses. I am fascinated by the way ceremonies develop to
cope with live and loss. So anyway, I’ll try to let you in on a
glimpse of the process:
The waiting started Friday evening. Mom went over to give condolences.
And we prayed that Serge would be found. Saturday night at around 23
o’clock the wailing started. It was a guttural sound of pain. Hannah,
Mom, and I went over on Sunday morning before Nasarra church (the
English/white service that happens every two weeks on a white
compound) to grieve with the mother. By this time they were already
setting up a canopy for the men that blocked the whole road.
The women were all sitting on mats in the courtyard surrounding the
mother. When we entered we were ushered to her to express our grief
and then take a seat nearby. Gradually we made room for the other
grievers, woman who enter wailing and screaming with tears running
down their eyes. There was no embarrassment about grief. After about
an hour we left to walk to church (our gate was blocked by parked
mottos, so no way of getting the car out).
Today there was the funeral. There was a cow outside this morning.
When I got home from work at 9 o’clock they were setting up a couple
hundred chairs in the street. At around 10 Mom, Dad, and I walked over
to take our places for the funeral. The woman and men sat divided, but
Dad got to sit with us because of the fact that he is white, has poor
language skills, and they placed us in the shade in the front row.
Interestingly, the women have power over the grieving. The body is
placed in their midst, and they are the primary grievers, but the
speakers all turn their backs on the woman and address the male
guests.
The ceremony lasted 4 hours. There were two sermons, a lot of singing
in French and local dialects I can’t understand, along with a
processional viewing. What was most moving for me was to see how
Serges’ community, both the mentally handicapped students he studies
with and the local kids with whom he plays soccer, were included in
the ceremony and not shunned. His soccer mates even placed a jersey
and a new ball on his coffin.
After the service people left to go to the internment and we came home
to power for the first time in 4 days, lunch premade by our house
help, and even a little bit of air conditioning. Sometimes the world
is filled with polar opposites.
Tomorrow I am going to the tailor with my newest fabric to order what
will probably be my last outfit. Its design is going to be more North
American, because right now I’m planning clothing to bring home with
me. Maybe I should ask for a sweater:).

"adventures"

I have had many adventures here in Chad
Here lies the story of my spring break (or more accurately of my
homestay, illness and recovery)
For awhile I had been hoping to spend some time living with a Chadian
family. I know that my life at home is so different from what other
people here experience, and I wanted a glimpse, or a taste (I got more
than I bargained for). My mother has the best contacts here, and so
she took to searching for a homestay family for me.

My mother’s French teacher, Martin, lives in a two room brick house
with his wife Bridgett and two month old daughter, Merveille. They are
an older couple and for both of them this is their second marriage.
They live a quiet life in the suburbs of the bustling capital; out in
the neighborhood of Atrone where the houses are scattered over the
sand and the strong winds blow dust into your eyes. This is the home I
chose to visit last weekend.
On Friday afternoon I showed up on their doorstep. I came prepared
with a mosquito net, a bottle of bleach and one of hand sanitizer, a
few panniers, and my own water to last the weekend. I was terrified
and excited, hoping to spend time learning Chadian live, Chadian
cuisine, and the Chadian art of tying a baby to your back. I had my
camera and my sense of adventure. I even had my own role of toilet
paper. I was ready.

Friday evening was spent with Bridgett, her daughter Merveille, and
her step daughter and 8 month old grandson. Dinner was a struggle, but
I made it through. Bridgett (who thankfully spoke fluent French)
handed me a bucket of water and a bar of soap to take with me to
shower in the “douche” - shoulder high brick square with whole in
ground – across the open compound. Later we hosted guests who spoke in
Gumbi (local dialect) and asked me an occasional question in French.
By 8 it was time to hang the net, lay down the rug, run to the douche
for the last time, and then blot the doors because Bridgett, Merveille
and I were still alone at home (Martin being 6 hours away in Moundou).
My first net lying on the dirt packed floor across the room from
Bridgett and the babe was hot, exhausting, but still exciting. “this
is how people live” I thought every time I turned over and moved from
one pool of sweat to another.
We awoke at 6 am to roll up the rugs and prepare for Martin’s return.
Breakfast of Chadian green tea mixed with milk powder and vanilla
sugar, creating a chi like flavor, and Chadian doughnuts. And then the
diaper washing, last nights dishes, and other morning chores. A couple
of trips to the douche. A conversation with Martin, and finally
Bridgett, with Merveille tied to her back, and I were ready to head to
the market to buy the days food.
A hot and dusty walk to the local market, followed by two crowded bus
rides where 20 people are packed in a van that would fit maybe 8 North
Americans, to arrive in the market closest to my house where the fish
is freshest.
Dembaye is the best place to buy fish but also the
dirtiest and most crowded market and home to the thieves. Bridgett
carried Merveille in her arms against the pressing people and I
carried the grocery bag which was filled with raw fish, lettuce,
vegetables, oil in a used water bottle, etc. We topped it off with
mangoes and bananas before heading back on the bus all the way to
Atrone.
On the walk home I carried Merveille and gave the bag to Bridgett. The
whole trip was exhausting, but worth it. We arrived home just before
Merveille woke up and demanded fresh milk water sprinkled on her face.
I fed Merveille from her bottle while Bridgette washed and gutted the
fish. We had a tomato fish sauce and the Chadian staple of boule (a
rice and water paste) for lunch which I had the pleasure of watching
Bridgett prepare. The food was great, but Martin and Bridgett kept
insisting I eat much more than my fill. I had to explain again and
again that I just can’t eat like a Chadian.
The afternoon heat was passed by napping on the rugs or out under the
trees. And then begin the preparations for the evening meal. I made
the salad.
Or I attempted to make the salad and failed because I have
not been able to master the art of asking for an explanation about the
complexity of salad dressing preparation. The Chadians took over and
the meal was a success, though a little late for Martin’s standards.
We spent the evening in the outdoor patio with guests again and then
prepared for bed in a similar fashion as before. I was hot again, and
still turned from pool of sweat to pool of sweat, but I was exhausted
and slept pretty decently.
Sunday morning was a repeat of Saturday, except now we were preparing
for church instead of the market. I tied a panier on my head, Bridgett
did the same, and we took Merveille to the bus for our ride to church.
The service was long, very Chadian, and very warm. Thankfully this
church had chairs and I knew some of the French songs so I could sing
along. We headed back to the market to buy lunch and then took the bus
home to cook it. By the time the meal of rice and fish was ready, my
parents and sister had arrived and were invited to join us for dinner.
And then I said my goodbyes to the baby, to Bridgett, and to Martin.
In all, it was a weekend of feeling somewhat useless and placed in the
position of humble witness to the live of daily survival. Survival is
quiet, it is simple, but it is also beautiful, just like Merveille’s
smile.
I returned home and began to prepare for a week of class. That was it,
my adventure. I got my lesson plan together for Monday’s 7 o’clock,
ate dinner, watched House, and went to bed.
Monday morning I woke up, kinda odd feeling, but went off to work just
the same. I left work early, feeling faint with stomach aches and a
head ache. Got home, had a runny poo, and went to bed with a fan. Woke
up, realized I had a fever, went to toilet again, and went back to
bed.
When mom came home from work she found me burning up, threw me in the
shower of freezing cold water, and started a vigil. I moved out to the
mat in the living room, the diarrhea got faster, and I got weaker. Mom
went out for an errand and Hannah was there to clean up after me when
I couldn’t make it to the toilet and there was a trail on the ground.
Multiple times. She was there when I started to vomit and the diarrhea
came out, the same color and consistency as the puke, at the same time
onto the bed. Mom came back by the time the diarrhea had turned the
color and consistency of pea soup. She was there when it got darker
green, and when the vomit was the same dark green slime as well.
Mom was there for me throughout Monday night when I was running back
and forth to the toilet and the shower more than I the time I spent in
bed. She stayed home with me to wash all the dirty sheets and keep me
company on my bathroom visits. By Tuesday afternoon I was exhausted,
dehydrated, and hadn’t kept anything down (or in me) since Monday
morning.
We drove to the American hospital across town and the doctor diagnosed
me with a bug in the belly and dehydration. I got my first IV,
anti-nausia meds, and I kept down the antibiotic. Mom stayed the night
with me in the hospital room that cost us only 50$ American. The
toilet was much closer there. By Wednesday morning I felt loads
better. The bug was still in the belly, but there was water in my body
again and Mom and I passed time by singing and sleeping away our
exhaustion. I was still running.
I was discharged Wednesday evening and returned home to sleep once
more on my parent’s floor. No more puking and lots of false runs to
the bathroom. As of yesterday the discharge was still dark green, but
much thicker and much less frequent. I was able to eat noodles at
lunch and pancakes for dinner (a late Mardi Gras). Last night I slept
in my own bed, and finally today the discharge is brown again. I feel
almost 100% and am ready to stop adventuring for a bit.
And that, my friends, was my spring break. Thanks for the prayers and thoughts.
Bekah

24 things Chadian

My time in Chad has passed it’s half way mark. Now there are only 6
weeks left before I return to the big U S of A, or as the Chadians
call it: usa (oussa). In this past month I have learned about
disappointment and how to accept the boredom and routine of life. I’ve
had a few breath taking moments, and I’ve done some counting. Where
time is measured on a twenty four hour clock, here is a day in Chadian
numbers:
1 – dip in the greenish pool that we visited on Mohamed’s birthday
2 – Chadian meals eaten within a 3 hour period that filled my stomach
past its typical limit (the food was delicious though)
3 – Thursday afternoon sessions of saving Chadian orphan lives by
passing out mosquito nets
4 – exams I have slaved over correcting (50 copies for each one)
5 – days of laying on the floor coughing, feverish, and without energy
6 – feet of cloth that I will wrap around my head before heading out
of the gate on the way to class this morning
7 – hours on a hot and crowded bus on the ride to and from the city of
Moundou in southern Chad
8 – house episodes that have competed in volume competitions with the
Chadian movie theater next door (and lost)
9 – days until my home stay experience in a real Chadian home.
10 – minutes that most of my colleagues use as break time when in
reality they are late for class
11 – date of my half-way point here in Chad
12 – students who come regularly to my English club to laugh at my
French and play ridiculous games
13 – time I will finish class today
14 – people (both Chadians and expat) who have gathered twice at our
home for a bi-lingual young adult bible study on Sunday afternoons
15 – white children who got to drive me crazy last Saturday during the
expat woman’s retreat where I volunteered to babysit
16 – nap time! (If I get the chance that is)
17 – evening prayer time for all the Muslims
18 – the number of marguieas (rat sized lizards) in the front yard right now
19 – times out of 30 that I have made the dinner of fried vegetables
or bread and cheese
20 – number of Chadians who listened to me try to sing in their choir
(I gave up on the attempt after one try)
21 – bed time.
22 – the number of ticks I pick from the dogs body and feed to the
ducks every couple of days
23 – number of heart decorations cut out from recycled Take Back the
Night paper and hanging from our windows
24 – dollars I spent on my first Chadian outfit!
And that my friends, is twenty four things Chadian. Take care, enjoy
your prospective lives, and together let us be witnesses to the world.

classes and cooking

Last week was my second full week of teaching at the school and I was
confronted by my inadequacy and lack of experience. Again and again
lesson plans had to be put off so I could once more review the work we
had gone over the day before. But I’m improving. By Friday I felt like
I had a handle on teaching and reviewing. But by that time my 5e class
(basically grade 7) had already had their first English exam. I had no
say in the matter because the exams are scheduled by the
administration and then all the classes of the same level take them
together. Because the kids were taught some of the material by an
other professor, mom and hannah were trying to keep me from beating
myself up about the 10.6 average (that’s out of 20). 35 out of 52
people in my class passed. And the Chadians who I discussed this with
seemed to think that wasn’t too bad.
However, because the exam had been badly photocopied, the other prof
who teaches the same level I do decided we wouldn’t count this exam.
So now the kids have to write a second exam that will actually count.
At least I can make sure they are prepared for this one. As for
teaching this week, it’s going well so far. But then again it’s only
been one day and 2 classes. We’ll see how the rest of the week goes.
One thing about being an English teacher, I’m always thinking about
the tenses I use and if they fit the definitions/uses I am providing
my students with. Always looking for the exceptions, and it’s really
odd to be thinking that much about my native tongue.
The interesting story of my week is as following:
The director of the school is enjoying showing me off and invited me
to a board meeting on Saturday to eat with them. He told me to show up
around 12, so I walked over there and had sandwiches with the board
(baguettes with either beat or eggs/veggies in them) and then walked
home when the board meeting started up again. However, after I had
showered and sat down to help with the family lunch, the directors
daughter and chauffer showed up at my house to bring me back.
Apparently the actual meal was at 2. I got there, they were half way
through the meal, I joined in, ate in like 10 minutes, and then was
escorted back home. I thought this was hilarious, but my parents
assure me that in Chad it’s important that you are there to eat with
people, not that you actually do anything while there or stay for a
ridiculous amount of time. So I ate chicken cooked in oil Chadian
style and couscous. Delisious. And as always, terrified of getting
little buggies in my tummy. But so far so good.
Another good story, that illustrates how hard life is here:
Lately Hannah and I have been missing good conversations with young
adults. One thing my parents had hoped to do here is host a young
adult bible study with both Chadians and expats. And so, we decided a
few weeks that we would make this a reality. We invited our Chadian
and expat young adult friends and some girls from the choir at our
Chadian church. We planned to have the study in both French and
English. And we set the date for Sunday, Jan. 30. Chadian church
(which is a whole other topic that I hope I will have time to cover)
ends around 10 so we planned for 11:30.
Okay, so now we get to the tricky part. Our househelp, Jean, got hit
by a motto on Wednesday morning while she was on her way to work. She
had a huge gash in her leg and wasn’t able to work all last week, and
probably this week too. So that means we had to do all the cleaning
for the gathering on Saturday. And cleaning here is a lot more
vigorous. Mopping all the floors with a scwegy (like the thing you use
to clean car windows) after sweeping up the ants, dust, and crumbs.
And then the baking. A few dozen buns, soup, and chocolate chip
cookies doesn’t sound that intimidating. Now think really carefully
through the recipies.
Soup: lots of veggies. Need to all be bleached, peeled, cut, and then
cooked. Okay, not horrible. We got that one started in about half an
hour to forty five minutes.
Buns: hot water for the yeast = boiling a pot on the stove, then
waiting for it to cool. While it was rising, we realized the oven
wouldn’t shut. Call in our very own handy man = father. Buns formed
like normal and set to rise for a second time, dad still fixing oven.
Finally, oven is fixed and buns can go in. there are 4 trays. They can
go in one at a time. And there is no temperature gage on the gas oven.
Hot, hotter, or either and adding water to the base pan to slow down
the cooking. I chose hot and water (that’s what I use to bake bread).
By now the buns on the trays have run into each other and flattened
out. Not much we can do but put them in the oven. Set my phone for 15
minutes. Check the oven. Not even close. Okay, 5 more… and so it goes
for about half an hour a batch. And I’m still working on the soup. And
on supper for Saturday night. Finally the buns were done.
Cookies: I thought these would be easy. First thing: brown sugar, that
means molasses in white sugar. Not too difficult. And then I opened
the new molasses container and the built up pressure had the lid
flying on to the floor and spreading stick molasses all over me, the
table, and the floor. I laughed, cleaned it up and got back to work. 2
tablespoons of hot water. So I boil another pot. Finally the dough is
made and the cookies are shaped. I put them in the oven. 8 minutes
turns into 25 for the first batch. 20 for the second. So I set the
timer for the third for 15 minutes. And we half a batch of charcoal.
Sounds about right.
A whole day of work, from 3 pm until 9 pm simply getting ready to host
a few people for the bible study on Sunday. But the study was amazing.
The food was great, and it was so much fun to discuss between Chadians
and expats. I really enjoyed it.
That is just a little bit of my life here. I want to write about so
much more but it’s already 8:30 and I want to send pictures with this
email which might take God knows how long and I still need to make my
lesson plan for 11 o’clock. I wanted to write about church, I wanted
to tell you about the kids who smile at me when I walk around, and the
men who stalk me on their mottos or ask me to come home with them.
I wanted to share about our homegrown tomatoes that taste like heaven
and tell the tale of home-improvement in Africa (which is basically
that my parents kept talking about what they needed for their house,
but I felt that nothing was actually happening. So we made a list of
all the things they need to buy by the end of Feb when their budget
runs out. And then we tried to get started on that list yesterday. We
went to look for fabric to appolester their couch,and after driving
around, failed miserably. So I’m beginning to learn that things take a
long time, and I’m not so frustrated with my parents grand plans, but
more worried if it is actually possible to get it all done by the
28th!).
And then there are all the stories about solar power and fans and
electricity in the middle of the night and bucket showers because we
haven’t had running water during the day in a very long time. But all
that is going to have to wait for my next email. Maybe I’ll get it
written tonight.

to my loved ones far away in a place called Chad

This past Wednesday I celebrated my one month anniversary in Chad.
There wasn’t much fanfare. The day passed as many others have, with me
departing for work at the local Chadian private school where I am
teaching English, trying to teach classes full of 50 students between
the ages of 12-16, getting frustrated with the inefficient bureaucracy
left over from French colonial control, dealing with the fact that I’m
a white woman walking down streets filled with black men, taking a 2
hour nap, etc. A day like so many others, focused on adapting, on
resting, on living.
Life here is tiring, filled with effort, and sometimes extremely
depressing; the heat, the lack of consistent water or electricity, and
the trash in the streets make merely living so difficult. Life here
is lonely; living in a culture so contrasting to my own, surrounded by
a language that is not my native tongue, and being separated from the
young adult community that has been my life these past few years have
challenged me.
But there has been much more to my time here than simply learning to
survive. On the one month anniversary of my time here in N’djamena, I
read a letter from my fall roommate asking me about life lessons and
how the African world view has challenged me. I wanted to respond with
the Western ideals I have begun to realize dominate my life, the
reward theology that has frustrated me, and the biblical/cultural
habit of head coverings that has begun to grate on me. But instead I
forced myself to delve into life and lessons here.
I realized that I am learning to be adaptive, to be accepting of
change, and to live with world-views that are so different from my
own. I am re-learning how to live in family, how to feed the dog and
fill the filter, how the illusion of personal space/property doesn’t
always make sense when you have water and your neighbor is thirsty. I
am learning how worship comes no matter what you believe or what your
circumstance: God is still God. I am accepting that poverty is a part
of life. I am learning to laugh at the fact that I am not the only one
who doesn’t shower everyday (or who needs reminders that showering
every once in a while might be helpful (thanks Jamila)). I am
recognizing that you can learn to adapt to live without toilet seats,
instant internet, constant electricity or running water. I am being
refreshed in the certainty that God provides.
Like the bread I baked yesterday with leftover oatmeal, I am learning
that life doesn’t always come out the way you had planned. Whither it
was the lack of measuring spoons, the two settings of hot or hotter on
the gas stove, or the Chadian flour that I sifted to get rid of creepy
crawlers, even after an extra twenty minutes my precious loaves never
turned the tell-tale golden brown color I expect from my bread. And
yet, even with all the complications and their dull white complexion,
they still taste like manna.
Such is life here. While I’m not exactly sure what I expected, I know
it was not this tired, hot, and lonely existence I have stepped into.
And yet, there is as much goodness here, and the bread is eaten with
just as much love, as it was where I climbed the grassy hill beneath a
star filled sky to ground the local wheat myself.

inner beauty pants

I’m wearing the inner beauty pants this evening. There were called for
to give me courage and a reminder of much love and people who have
faith in me. I felt lost today, and very useless.
Teaching was so encouraging last week, but today I felt trapped in the
bureaucracy of the place. They schedule the staff meetings during
class and just let the children run around. And teachers go at least 5
minutes, most 10 minutes, late to class. And my classes are 50 persons
per class. And my guard is trying to bribe his way into university
because he has no other choice for an opportunity to get more
education. To say the least I was exhausted and trying to hide from
the world. And the worst part of it was that I knew I was
intentionally withdrawing. I hate that, when I intentionally do
something I dislike doing and feel helpless to stop myself.
But I’ve had a change of heart. I came outside to hang out with my
evening guard (the same one who is trying to get into university) and
then put on the inner beauty pants before writing you two an email.
I love you lots and miss my roomies. I hope your first week of classes
has gone better than mine. You are in my prayers and in my heart. I
miss the life at school, but part of me knows that I meant to be
here. If only for the forced rest. I’m not sure yet if I will follow
in love with this place, but I am here and I need to stop being afraid
of the unknown.
My guard is playing his guitar and singing about telling the truth and
sharing the good news. That is something I want to do here. Because
the scriptures I hear them reading are not the life giving ones that I
believe in. And the message that some churches take from the bible and
following Christ have nothing to do with the life of servitude and
humility I have chosen. I can understand argueing militarism, I get
that man can claim superiority to woman, but I don’t understand using
scriptures about modesty (head coverings) to define every part of a
woman’s life, but using them to accent woman’s vanity. I don’t
understand the claim that following Jesus brings material prosperity.
The God I serve is one of plenty, yes, but not one that gives out
earthy prosperity like a pleased dictator.
But there is still hope here. Hannah and I had a conversation with
Videl (our guard) about prosperity and what it means. And also
different ways of interpreting the text. And about the justice system.
It was refreshing. There are good people here, willing to listen.