Hallo,
I step outside. The buzzing hits my ears. A million insects like microscopic cockroaches fall as if they were small kamikaze pilots trying to demolish the big toads hopping gingerly away from my feet. Unfortunately, they mostly hit my back and neck. I walk out into a foggy, full-moonlit night. The drums pound in the background. A chant wafts on the air softly numbing the senses like the unceasing pounding of the ocean on the shore.
My chest burns as my lungs suck in the hot, searing air. It is Saturday and everyone has left church on march to the river for a baptism. The young guys have taken up my challenge. I began to walk fast and they soon felt I couldn't keep it up. They said, aren't you taking the car. I said of course not. I haven't exercised in weeks. I change from my Arab robes into some long shorts and a plain white t-shirt with sandals.
We pass the mud puddle in front of the hospital's main gate. The ducks waddle off quacking and swaying as if drunk. We round the corner at a fast pace. I am surrounded by young guys ranging in age from 6 years to late teens. We pass through the remnants of a millet field which, like a ghost town, has just a few reminders of the past prosperity left standing. Past the night watchmen's hut and through a few more mud puddles we hit the main "road."
Red clay stretching off into the African plain surrounded by yellow tipped rice in paddies as far as the eye can see. A few boys fish with homemade sticks and twine in the standing water that houses the rice. The red road is pocked with massive mudholes and deep grooves from the large transporters. We are still keeping up a brisk pace and already I'm wishing I'd brought water as the sun bakes my head making even sweating to keep cool seem almost like spitting in the wind.
A small Peugot truck is stuck between a rice paddy and the road where it tried to skirt a mud puddle. The mud is over the tires and into the chassis. I call the boys over, take off my sandals and step into the muck as I begin to discuss a plan of action with the turbaned driver. The back of the truck is piled with four barrels of diesel and a ton of miscellaneous sacks and plastic containers. I call all the boys over as they pass.
We attach a rope to the back and some pull while others lift and push on the side facing the rice paddy. I look over and see a well dressed man hit some slick clay and fall on his back off the bike like a Three Stooges movie. He's ok but getting the truck out has been put on hold as everyone stops to have a belly rolling laugh as his expense. Soon, we are to follow as the rope breaks and our boys end up also on their butts.
We change strategies and unload all the bags, plastic containers, and one barrel. Then with coordinated heaves and ho's and many manly grunts, and with much soiling of clothes, the truck backs out of the hole and back on the "road." With many "Que Dieu vous guide" following us we take off again with mud between our toes.
I suddenly feel very energized and I take off running at a determined pace. The boys gladly fall in line bragging of how they'll run me off the road and how they could run all the way to Kelo if they had to. Unfortunately, I don't last long but end up having to slow to a fast walk which fortunately opens up the time to many questions. Most of them are to be baptized today and they pound me with questions about Sorcery and Ogres and stuff that is a part of their everyday lives and how that relates now to believing and serving one God. They are smart and with such stimulating and intelligent conversation we arrive quickly at the river where I dive in, barely missing the fishing net.
I baptize for the first time and couldn't imagine a better place or way: a muddy river, after pulling a truck out of the mud, in shorts and a plain t-shirt with guys I've just been running and having deep spiritual conversations with...it's my first time and I wouldn't trade it for anything.
The drums pound, the long metal cylinder is pounded and clanged, the rattles are in full roll, and the chanting brings each person into and out of the water where we wait waist deep. Laughs and swaying and dancing abounds. People drink water straight from the river from one plastic water bottle that one person has thought to bring. Pierre fetches the water, wading out with his shirt off showing off his ample gut rolling over his trousers.
It's probably one of the best days I've ever had...
James
Monday, October 24, 2005
Friday, October 21, 2005
Border Crossings
Hello,
It wasn't as early as I expected and it lasted longer than I wanted.
Sarah and I jump into our pickup, a Toyota Hilux. The truck is typically Tchadian in that it looks much older than it actually is. Inside it may only be a little over two years old but you'd never guess it by the dents, scratches, cracked windshield, broken mirror, twisted bumper, bent tailgate, and grill literally hanging on by a thread (or wire).
My dad and two other "nasara" climb in the back and we pull out of TEAM with a rattle, squeak and roll complimented by a grinding at the level of the right front tire and a stuttering turn of the steering wheel.
Bumping along the dirt road we find the round-about and hit pavement which turns out to be about as jarring and filled with potholes as the dirt part. Turning left at the French Embassy we pass the typical N'Djam�na midday scene: Turbaned men struggling with overloaded pushcarts carrying anything from plastic jugs of water or fuel to 10 meter long metal poles to dirty arabic rugs going to the river to be cleaned; a horde of bicycles weaving in and out usually with something on the back whether another person or a bundle or a live goat tied up waiting its fate at the market; people walking anywhere and everywhere--mostly uniformed students, fatigue-wearing soldiers with guns, robed and turbaned Arabs, and ragged kids and common laborers; Muslim philosophers sitting under trees and outside shops trying to conserve energy during their Ramadan fast; women selling anything and everything from pineapples, watermelons, and bananas to cell phones and cigarettes.
I weave in and out of the myriad bicycles, motorcycles, pedestrians, yellow Peugeot taxis and pickups trying to avoid the potholes as well. With a sharp eye, a lack of road markings and police and a heavy hand on the horn I find myself on both sides of the road and sometimes "off road". I pass the US embassy and then one of only a few actual gas stations (the rest of the fuel is sold on the side of the road in various glass bottles). Next comes the Catholic school where I am slowed down temporarily by the glut of school kids with their light blue and maroon uniforms and all their various forms of transport causing a mild traffic jam.
I hit the Chagoua round-about with it's gas station, entry-only bridge across the Chari River, and its bread, fruit and boiled egg vendors. On the other side of the round-about is a small mini-bus stop and then a stretch of firewood vendors with their bundles of sticks brought down-river in wooden log canoes. We finally get to the main bridge and cross the rain-engorged river.
Descending to the other bank I see the police. My first reaction is to keep going but unfortunately one catches my eye and waves me over. I should've kept going.
The policeman sidles up with a mocking look on his face. I know what's going to happen. I rebel. I'm tired of being seen as a source of easy bribe money just because I have a white face.
"Why are you bothering us?" I ask him, "I know what's going on..."
He asks for the cars papers and of course finds out that we haven't paid some tax and haven't had our annual vehicle inspection. Maybe he's right, the chauffeur normally is supposed to take care of all that. But I see all kinds of vehicles passing us in obvious street-unworthiness that aren't pulled over because they prefer to get bribes from foreigners.
I argue some more using all the tricks I think I've learned only to realize that it's hopeless. He threatens to impound the vehicle. I know that even if he doesn't have the right to do that he can do it.
I try to get the car's registration back. I know that if he has the papers he will use that as more leverage to get more bribes. Finally, I ask how much of a "fine" I should pay. He says 6000 francs (about $12). Not nearly as much as I feared, maybe showing no fear did some good. I pay it and we continue on our way as I boil inside at the corruption here and the feelings of helplessness. Unfortunately, it's only the beginning of the bureaucracy.
I turn left and then instead of going straight down the road to B�r� I hang a quick right towards the Cameroun border. Here the typical N'Djam�na scene is repeated with the addition of many handicapped Tchadians in their motorized or hand-pedaled three-wheelers carrying sacks of sugar from Kousseri (Cameroun) to N'Djam�na. Each day they are allowed to bring in one sack duty-free which allows them to sell and make a profit and have a livelihood...of course, with a little "soap money" placed in the appropriate hands they can bring in more than one sack.
I approach the red and white striped heavy duty metal pole that serves as a customs gate. It is slowly raised in front of me and we pass underneath. I pull to the side of the road right before the single lane bridge across the Chari leading to Kousseri. As I step out of the air-conditioned interior I am blasted by the dry heat that defines life in N'Djam�na. The sweat forms almost instantly on my forehead and I can feel it already dripping down my back and legs.
I walk down the dusty slope to the small cluster of dirt yellow block buildings with the red, yellow and blue striped Tchadian flag in front and Emigration-Immigration printed in black over the door. There is the usual small crowd inside consisting mostly of merchants coming and going from Cameroun and Nigeria. There is also one "nasara". The room is dark and consists of a high counter on the right behind which stand three officials and on the left a single wooden bench. The back of the room has a partly open door leading into an even darker room with a desk piled high with papers and documents. The counter has some scattered forms, a circular metal ringed rubber stamp stand with its variety of well-worn wooden stamps and some stains and a few pens.
I have all the passports from our truck and I start to fill out the forms. Pastor Job comes in a few minutes later with the passports for the rest of the group who've just arrived. We are 17 in all. Job and I furiously fill out the forms but they want basically all the passport and visa info for each one. One of the officials, a woman, starts to help out but, since she doesn't read English, requires frequent translation help. Slowly, another official starts to hand copy all the information into a thick bloc-note book. The sweat has now drenched me. The air is suffocating. I see Mickey out the door talking with some other foreigners.
Finally, all is copied. The official calls in an Arab courier, puts all the passports in a paper folder and the courier walks out the door with our documents. I sit down to wait. Sarah walks in and we chit-chat. Time passes. Finally, the man comes back with the stamped passports. Now they need to be signed at yet another office. Job hands the officials 3000 francs "for their trouble." We exit and enter the office just to the right.
A Muslim man is lying down on a bench. He gets up when we walk in a sits down behind a desk. As he signs all the passports I fill out a tiny slip of paper with the trucks info that I am to hand to someone right before crossing the bridge. I take the signed passports and am about to leave when he looks at Job and says "Kikef?" which means literally "What's up?" in English but really means "What, no bribe?". Job hands him 1000 francs with which he is not to happy but Job walks out the door laughing and shaking his head. I follow.
I think we're done. Wrong again. Job leads us across a small ditch and into yet another office. Fortunately, it's one of Job's "acquaintances" and he signs all the stamps yet again and no money is necessary. Finally, we finish. Sarah and I jump into the truck and crank on the a/c. We wait in the line with the group of motorcycles, bicycles and pedestrians waiting to cross. Finally, when the green signal comes, we approach a little straw shack providing shade to some other officials who are in the process of interrogating the driver of another car. Sarah calls him over, gives him our little slip of paper and we move another 10 meters where we stop to pay the 1500 francs toll to cross the bridge. Another officer asks for our passports, leafs through them rapidly, and wants to know if we are with the mini-van that just passed with Pastor Job inside. We say yes, which is apparently the right thing to say as he waves us on.
We cross the narrow bridge and almost repeat the same process except that this time it's only one office and we don't have to wait for him to copy it all into his book, he just takes the info, stamps (and signs) the passports and we are at last, 2 1/2 hours later, inside Cameroun on our way to the National Park of Waza where after all that trouble we see 3 giraffes, 5 foxes, 10 gazelles, 3 antelopes and a bunch of birds...but hey, we only had one evening and one morning of safari...then, after a short detour to Mora to drop off some supplies for the Adventist Hospital of Koza, we return to the border for more laughs, kicks, and giggles...
James
It wasn't as early as I expected and it lasted longer than I wanted.
Sarah and I jump into our pickup, a Toyota Hilux. The truck is typically Tchadian in that it looks much older than it actually is. Inside it may only be a little over two years old but you'd never guess it by the dents, scratches, cracked windshield, broken mirror, twisted bumper, bent tailgate, and grill literally hanging on by a thread (or wire).
My dad and two other "nasara" climb in the back and we pull out of TEAM with a rattle, squeak and roll complimented by a grinding at the level of the right front tire and a stuttering turn of the steering wheel.
Bumping along the dirt road we find the round-about and hit pavement which turns out to be about as jarring and filled with potholes as the dirt part. Turning left at the French Embassy we pass the typical N'Djam�na midday scene: Turbaned men struggling with overloaded pushcarts carrying anything from plastic jugs of water or fuel to 10 meter long metal poles to dirty arabic rugs going to the river to be cleaned; a horde of bicycles weaving in and out usually with something on the back whether another person or a bundle or a live goat tied up waiting its fate at the market; people walking anywhere and everywhere--mostly uniformed students, fatigue-wearing soldiers with guns, robed and turbaned Arabs, and ragged kids and common laborers; Muslim philosophers sitting under trees and outside shops trying to conserve energy during their Ramadan fast; women selling anything and everything from pineapples, watermelons, and bananas to cell phones and cigarettes.
I weave in and out of the myriad bicycles, motorcycles, pedestrians, yellow Peugeot taxis and pickups trying to avoid the potholes as well. With a sharp eye, a lack of road markings and police and a heavy hand on the horn I find myself on both sides of the road and sometimes "off road". I pass the US embassy and then one of only a few actual gas stations (the rest of the fuel is sold on the side of the road in various glass bottles). Next comes the Catholic school where I am slowed down temporarily by the glut of school kids with their light blue and maroon uniforms and all their various forms of transport causing a mild traffic jam.
I hit the Chagoua round-about with it's gas station, entry-only bridge across the Chari River, and its bread, fruit and boiled egg vendors. On the other side of the round-about is a small mini-bus stop and then a stretch of firewood vendors with their bundles of sticks brought down-river in wooden log canoes. We finally get to the main bridge and cross the rain-engorged river.
Descending to the other bank I see the police. My first reaction is to keep going but unfortunately one catches my eye and waves me over. I should've kept going.
The policeman sidles up with a mocking look on his face. I know what's going to happen. I rebel. I'm tired of being seen as a source of easy bribe money just because I have a white face.
"Why are you bothering us?" I ask him, "I know what's going on..."
He asks for the cars papers and of course finds out that we haven't paid some tax and haven't had our annual vehicle inspection. Maybe he's right, the chauffeur normally is supposed to take care of all that. But I see all kinds of vehicles passing us in obvious street-unworthiness that aren't pulled over because they prefer to get bribes from foreigners.
I argue some more using all the tricks I think I've learned only to realize that it's hopeless. He threatens to impound the vehicle. I know that even if he doesn't have the right to do that he can do it.
I try to get the car's registration back. I know that if he has the papers he will use that as more leverage to get more bribes. Finally, I ask how much of a "fine" I should pay. He says 6000 francs (about $12). Not nearly as much as I feared, maybe showing no fear did some good. I pay it and we continue on our way as I boil inside at the corruption here and the feelings of helplessness. Unfortunately, it's only the beginning of the bureaucracy.
I turn left and then instead of going straight down the road to B�r� I hang a quick right towards the Cameroun border. Here the typical N'Djam�na scene is repeated with the addition of many handicapped Tchadians in their motorized or hand-pedaled three-wheelers carrying sacks of sugar from Kousseri (Cameroun) to N'Djam�na. Each day they are allowed to bring in one sack duty-free which allows them to sell and make a profit and have a livelihood...of course, with a little "soap money" placed in the appropriate hands they can bring in more than one sack.
I approach the red and white striped heavy duty metal pole that serves as a customs gate. It is slowly raised in front of me and we pass underneath. I pull to the side of the road right before the single lane bridge across the Chari leading to Kousseri. As I step out of the air-conditioned interior I am blasted by the dry heat that defines life in N'Djam�na. The sweat forms almost instantly on my forehead and I can feel it already dripping down my back and legs.
I walk down the dusty slope to the small cluster of dirt yellow block buildings with the red, yellow and blue striped Tchadian flag in front and Emigration-Immigration printed in black over the door. There is the usual small crowd inside consisting mostly of merchants coming and going from Cameroun and Nigeria. There is also one "nasara". The room is dark and consists of a high counter on the right behind which stand three officials and on the left a single wooden bench. The back of the room has a partly open door leading into an even darker room with a desk piled high with papers and documents. The counter has some scattered forms, a circular metal ringed rubber stamp stand with its variety of well-worn wooden stamps and some stains and a few pens.
I have all the passports from our truck and I start to fill out the forms. Pastor Job comes in a few minutes later with the passports for the rest of the group who've just arrived. We are 17 in all. Job and I furiously fill out the forms but they want basically all the passport and visa info for each one. One of the officials, a woman, starts to help out but, since she doesn't read English, requires frequent translation help. Slowly, another official starts to hand copy all the information into a thick bloc-note book. The sweat has now drenched me. The air is suffocating. I see Mickey out the door talking with some other foreigners.
Finally, all is copied. The official calls in an Arab courier, puts all the passports in a paper folder and the courier walks out the door with our documents. I sit down to wait. Sarah walks in and we chit-chat. Time passes. Finally, the man comes back with the stamped passports. Now they need to be signed at yet another office. Job hands the officials 3000 francs "for their trouble." We exit and enter the office just to the right.
A Muslim man is lying down on a bench. He gets up when we walk in a sits down behind a desk. As he signs all the passports I fill out a tiny slip of paper with the trucks info that I am to hand to someone right before crossing the bridge. I take the signed passports and am about to leave when he looks at Job and says "Kikef?" which means literally "What's up?" in English but really means "What, no bribe?". Job hands him 1000 francs with which he is not to happy but Job walks out the door laughing and shaking his head. I follow.
I think we're done. Wrong again. Job leads us across a small ditch and into yet another office. Fortunately, it's one of Job's "acquaintances" and he signs all the stamps yet again and no money is necessary. Finally, we finish. Sarah and I jump into the truck and crank on the a/c. We wait in the line with the group of motorcycles, bicycles and pedestrians waiting to cross. Finally, when the green signal comes, we approach a little straw shack providing shade to some other officials who are in the process of interrogating the driver of another car. Sarah calls him over, gives him our little slip of paper and we move another 10 meters where we stop to pay the 1500 francs toll to cross the bridge. Another officer asks for our passports, leafs through them rapidly, and wants to know if we are with the mini-van that just passed with Pastor Job inside. We say yes, which is apparently the right thing to say as he waves us on.
We cross the narrow bridge and almost repeat the same process except that this time it's only one office and we don't have to wait for him to copy it all into his book, he just takes the info, stamps (and signs) the passports and we are at last, 2 1/2 hours later, inside Cameroun on our way to the National Park of Waza where after all that trouble we see 3 giraffes, 5 foxes, 10 gazelles, 3 antelopes and a bunch of birds...but hey, we only had one evening and one morning of safari...then, after a short detour to Mora to drop off some supplies for the Adventist Hospital of Koza, we return to the border for more laughs, kicks, and giggles...
James
Thursday, October 20, 2005
An Africian Experience
A small group from Markham Woods Church went to Bere Adventist Hospital in Tchad a central African country. We know this country here in America as Chad. Our destination is a remote hospital. There were 14 of us going on this adventure. We were nurses, a doctor, a carpenter, construction contractors, accountant, computer engineer, and others. The primary purpose of our trip was to do maintenance on the buildings, deliver medical equipment and provide in-service training to the staff.
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