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