Bonjour,
Gueltir sets a brisk pace. We're walking side by side down the dusty streets of Béré. There are no street signs, no pavement, no sidewalks, no traffic lights, no signs, no evidence that we are in the 21st century. We walk past mud brick huts with people in front lying under mango trees on woven reed mats, pounding millet in crude wooden mortar-and-pestles, carrying big bundles of firewood on their heads, cooking over open fires, and a host of other activities that could place us anywhere from after the Flood to the present. In essence, Béré has managed to capture timelessness...at least until a motorcycle drives by or a man crosses the path with his world-band radio blaring.
We are headed to visit one of the junior high schools in Béré. There are two mixed junior highs, a Catholic girls only junior high and one full-fledged high school bursting at the seams with 1500 students meeting in crude mud buildings or in "hangars" constructed of woven reed walls and roof supported by crooked sticks stuck in the ground. The one we are going to visit is a private one built in 2001 which Gueltir says has been all but abandoned as the owner is occupied with other things in N'Djaména. Besides, for the moment, all the teachers are on strike everywhere except at Gueltir's school. None have been paid for three months. Fortunately, with some help from the US, our teachers are paid every month...a rare thing in Tchad.
We arrive at the Junior High. It's pathetic. The three mud brick buildings surround a courtyard with an open, empty well in the center. To the left and to the right, the buildings have three rooms each, side by side. Straight ahead is the administration building with two rooms. The doors are made from thin wood frames with green painted corrugated roofing nailed on. They hang haphazardly, "locked" precariously with tiny padlocks that come apart when unlocked. Inside, the uneven dirt floors support some rickety benches and tables leaning crazily at all different angles because of the floor. Most have been eaten by termites. Two walls have windows. The side facing the courtyard has windows made of the same material as the doors and they can be opened. The opposite side is made of mud bricks crisscrossed to leave openings in between for air circulation. The roofs are corrugated tin balanced on twisted sticks tied to the bricks with metal bands. One wall is painted black to serve as a chalkboard.
The ad building has one desk, a small bookshelf with a couple of empty chalk boxes on it, a locked trunk and a locked cabinet. A small chair leans precariously against the wall. I tell Gueltir I'm amazed at the conditions. He wonders what I mean saying this is great compared to how he learned sitting under mango trees and temporary shelters. In fact, on the way here, we passed a school and a church that were made entirely of mats. How can the Tchadians hope to become more educated when they have to learn without books, without good facilities and often without teachers (who are on strike half the year it seems)?
We finish and head across town, through the market as it closes up, and on to the house of one of the local "house doctors". He welcomes us into his courtyard, brings out chairs, and invites us to sit. One by one the members of the household come to greet us. The women bow to the ground and extend their hand to shake with the other hand supporting it at the elbow in a sign of deep respect. Our friend's wife brings us a metal bowl of water and a table is called for. We begin to discuss the local gossip. It appears everything is known about everyone. He wonders why I didn't leave to go to Koumra this morning with André. He thought I'd left. I just found out about it last night and decided it was too late to go. Apparently, he knew I was supposed to go before I did. We move on to the raising of ducks, how to plant fruit trees with bull horns buried beside, when the rain will come and a variety of other topics.
The pastor of the Evangelical Church #2 joins us. He is Dimanche's dad (Dimanche is one of our nurses provided by the state). We pass to another round of greetings and acknowledgements.
Finally, I get around to the purpose of our visit. I tactfully mention that we are all here for the health of the community and that one thing I've noticed is that kids often get referred late for treatment of malaria. In fact, we just finished rescuing a small, one-year-old girl that had been treated by him for several days before coming to the hospital. I say that it's something in general we see that kids just don't do well with malaria unless they're hospitalized. He seems to understand. In fact, he seems happy at the exchange. I don't bother to mention that I think he has no right to be treating patients at all since he is not trained except in basic CPR and first aid. He's still going to continue to treat patients at his home. In fact, in the middle of the conversation, someone comes up and greets him as "doctor." All we can do is try and help him to not hurt people.
It's getting dark. We bid goodbye. Our friend accompanies Gueltir and I just till the main road. Without a guide, I'd be lost in the maze of paths and huts. He promises to come see me soon at the hospital. Gueltir and I head home. We pass an outdoor cabaret. The warm rumble of muffled conversation floats over the air along with the smell of local brew. Surrounding the cabaret are the small time vendors. Each has a small table with a kerosene lamp, small plastic sacs of tea and sugar and detergent and oil along with cigarettes, small crackers and various other items. Over head is a mat supported on four sticks poked into the ground. Business is booming. We continue on through the dark streets bereft of any artificial light until we see the fluorescent glow of the hospital through the trees and we know we are home.
James
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