Moto

It feels good to be on the road again. I never thought that a trip to N'Djamena would be something to look forward to, especially without my own car. However, after practically never leaving the hospital in the month I've been back in Tchad, it's good to be going anywhere.

Besides, it's a relatively cool morning, the desert is starting to be transformed into the green, African Sahel and I'm on the back of a moto with the wind blasting my face bringing tears to my eyes. The humid, fragrant smell of freshly rained on earth and grass rushes into my brain bringing back memories of calmer times.

Sarah and I are accompanying our Swiss volunteer, Esther, to the airport and then hope to bring back enough medicines and supplies to make it through the rainy season when the road to Bere gets really bad. Esther was the first to be off, followed by Sarah. They are no where in sight.

The overcast sky starts to lift as a few rays of sun pierce the clouds. The red clay road already has a few mudholes that the moto taxi man zigzags through like a professional slalom skier. It seems that my driver is a little more aggressive than most but I notice that we seem to be accelerating even more than usual. We skirt the potholes and dodge the goats, chickens, bikes, kids and women carrying goods to market on their heads. Our speed steadily increases.

I'm trying not to worry or think about what will happen to my helmetless head if we slip in the slimy clay or hit a hole or something worse. We go faster and faster. I notice the taxi man fiddling with a cable coming out of the handlebar. It hits me: the accelerator is stuck. He wiggles, pushes, twists and turns the cable as our velocity steadily increases. I now truly feel like I'm in the Olympic downhill as we caroum at ever increasing angles in our now deadly slalom course.

At about the same moment as I ask myself why he doesn't just turn the engine off I see him reach for the ignition. My gase follows his hand to where the key should be, but isn't. Apparently, the bouncing of the dirt road has shook the key out of the ignition and it is flapping in the breeze attached to the handlebar by a cell phone SIM card and a small wire.

We aren't slowing down.

All my hopes rest on the coordination of this stranger as the key places keep away from his desperately grasping fingers. Finally, he has it. Now, as he continues his slalom moves with one hand, he plays target practice with his other trying to fit the key into the jiggling, wiggling, shaking ignition.

The key enters, and is quickly turned to off. The moto slowly decreases it's velocity as we cruise around the mudholes and finally come to rest, like Noah's ark after the flood, on the side of the road.

My taxi man apparently is also a "mechanic". He pulls off a makeshift, crudely welded tool, uses his hand as a hammer and hits the tool against the cover of where the accelerator cable enters the engine until it slowly unscrews. He fiddles with the cable that had some gunk in it keeping it from releasing. When he's satisfied it's back to "normal" we get back on and continue on our way.

Now, I'm starting to feel the uncomfortableness of wearing a heavy backpack that is forced up onto my shoulder blades by Esther's hard suitcase that has been strapped vertically on the back of the moto with some strips of old innertube.

About 8 km from Kelo, 35 km from Bere, the back wheel starts to make some serious grinding noises. We stop again. The bearing is shot. So, we get back on and start to move forward at about 10km/hour. It feels and sounds as if the wheel could fall off at any time.

3 km from Kelo, we run out of gas. Coincidentally it seems, at the same time I notice that all the clouds have disappeared, the sun has moved higher in the sky, the humidity has increased and I'm starting to seriously sweat.

Even before we start to push the moto the last three kilometers to Kelo.

Despite the weight of the moto and the grinding of the back wheel, we still manage to pass a lot of people on foot. My hands grip the top of the suitcase and my thighs start to burn. As the women whisper and giggle to see a tall, skinny white dude passing them pushing a moto (they are easily entertained), I start to wonder if my out of shape body will make it the three kilometers.

Miraculously, 45 minutes (it seemed like hours) later we arrive on the outskirts of Kelo.

My guy calls another moto taxi over and he says he'll take my across town for 500 FCFA. I laugh and tell him I didn't just arrive here yesterday. I'd already agreed to pay 3000 francs to go to the bus station (such as it is) and if my moto can't make it then it's up to my taxi man to arrange other transport. The crowd that has gathered (as it usually does around unusual and interesting things like a white person) laughs in approval and the two taxi men smile begrudgingly and work it out amongst themselves.

Finally, I arrive at Kelo, 43 painful kilometers later, and just the beginning of my journey to the grand capital of Tchad.