Moundou

I think my hand is stuck. I've been sticking it up the pipe trying to clear out 30 years of junk in the drain but I couldn't get it up far enough. Now, I'd managed to twist and angle my arm just right but now I can't get it out. I almost panic, but I twist turn and finally, scraping the skin off my knuckles on the rough cement, my dirty hand pops out.

Jamie and I are in Moundou putting the plumbing in the new surgery center. Everything has had to be redone.

We go to the local Quincaillerie or hardware store. Everything that you thought you could never find in Chad is stacked from floor to ceiling in a dusty, brick warehouse. We spend hours hunting down all we need. A large Arab in a simple white Jallibiya and a well trimmed gray beard walks in. He is the owner, Mahamat.

"As-salaam alekum. Wa alekum as-salaam. Inta afe? Afe, taybin? Al hamdullilah. Mashallah." And the greetings are over. He walks behind the counter. We continue shopping. After early afternoon prayers, Mahamat returns.

"You...eat..." he starts in broken French and then switches over to Arabic. "We want to you to eat with us. What do you think?" He almost seems sure we'll refuse. He is pleasantly surprised by my profuse response.

"Shukran, shukran, it would be an honor, thank you."

He calls outside to the others and ushers us into a tiny side room under the overhead office built high in the corner of the warehouse. We are seated and a huge platter is slung on the table before us. Piles of fluffy rice fill one huge bowl. A cast iron pot from Nigeria holds the steaming goat meat sauce while a shallow bowl to the side is bursting with a fresh tomato and onion salad. Surprisingly, we are given spoons to eat with as generous portions are heaped into our bowls. Jamie, the vegetarian, digs right in ripping the goat meat off the bones. Our host comes in last and there are no more chairs. We try to rise and give him ours, but he insists. A special bowl of cumin flavored yogurt sauce is placed in front of him along with a plastic bag filled with fluffy flat bread the size of large crepes.

Mahamat wishes us "bon appetit" and grabs a pancake. He bunches the whole thing into his hand leaving the ragged edges pointing out with which he mops up some yogurt sauce and shoves the whole mess into his hand. When we are all finally able to resist his efforts to get us to eat more he reaches outside the door and pulls a plastic bottle of wild honey off the shelf. He dumps some more rice in a bowl and covers it with honey. He tells me to dip in and try. When I say I like it and go for more he shakes his head and pulls the bowl over to him. Then he motions to one of his workers to pour me some of my own. I can't figure out if he just really wants to eat it all himself or doesn't want to have too much direct contact with an infidel.

Mahamat rises and thanks us again. "The French are always too busy. The Chinese sometimes take a snack or something, but this is the first time I've eaten a meal with a client here in my shop. Vraiment, merci beaucoup. Merci, merci, merci." He continues to thank us. He is quite pleased and so are we to be so honored.

We return to the job site.

I'm in the new operating room. I grab the jackhammer with the drill attachment. I lean into it and as it engages a puff of cement dust bursts out of the floor until it turns red when it hits the compacted earth beneath the slab. I slip out the drill bit, put in the small chisel bit and feel the vibrations up my arm and shoulder as the chirping and cracking of cement fills the room.

That night I find myself sitting on a hard stool under the stars in front of Antoine's house. The moon is 3/4 and provides enough light to eat the tiny, twisted potato like tubers covered with cabbage and peanut sauce. Antoine seems discouraged. The junior high that he runs has a drop in enrollment. I try to encourage him. We have brought some building materials that are still piled in the shipping container. Once we finish with the clinic, we can maybe help him with a couple of new buildings. Also, I hope to get a volunteer to help teach English to give his school an edge over the competition. I tell him that God has a plan and won't abandon something He has started.

The ladder is a little unsteady as I get to the top rung. There was no attic hole left in the new ceiling but one angle at the corner of the roof has been left open. I think I can squeeze through. I reach my hands up and grab the truss. I pull up as my feet kick out in mid air. I get to my waist and my tiny butt almost gets stuck but I slither through. I hop from truss to truss dragging the loops of plumbing pipe that I punch through the holes down to the sterilization room and consulting rooms below. The sweat makes the cobwebs stick easier as I try not to fall through the fragile ceiling below.

We pull up the van outside a brightly painted wooden shelter. Their are cartoon images of fish, chicken and millet painted garishly on the corners. Inside a crowd is loosely seated around a selection of differently sized rickety tables and wobbly benches. There is a tiny one open right in the middle. Someone, maybe a waiter, quickly wipes off the plastic mat covering the wood with his bare hand leaving a mixture of spilled beer and salad juice on the surface. Jamie and I sit down and nod hello to those sitting at other tables just a few inches from ours. Most seem to have liter bottles of Gala beer in various stages of consumption. The two men dressed in suits next to us are dipping their hands into a common bowl of lettuce and tomatoes covering some kind of meat.

"What's good to eat here?" I ask one of the men.

"Mutton ribs and salad's what we're having, c'est tres bon!"

"Merci."

We order two servings from the overweight Tchadian woman in charge of the kitchen carved out of one corner of the room. The sounds of popping oil and the smells of wood fire smoke waft out from the clatter of cast iron pots and cooking utensils.

A man approaches selling watches and cheap sunglasses. In the far corner, a man is stretching a piece of cloth between his hands to show a woman how strong it is. Several other woman are looking on eagerly as they sip their beers. A large man who looks more Nigerian than Tchadian comes up behind me and holds out a package of medication over my shoulder and in front of my face. There is a picture of a smiling black man on a yellow and red backdrop with "Super King" emblazoned boldly across the front. In small letters underneath I see the generic name for what is known in other circles as Viagra. I turn to look at the man who raises his eyebrows and winks.

"Super King?"

"Non, merci, I'm deja un Super King," I joke with him as I shake my head.

Disappointed he moves on to greener pastures.

Our meal has arrived. The cook holds out the traditional plastic basin with a plastic pitcher and brown soap for hand washing. I rip off pieces of tender, savory flesh off the sheep ribs, topping it off with lettuce, tomato and onion drenched in a vinaigrette. A small pile of grilled yellow chilies adds some spice to the mix. I was it all down with some Top pineapple soda and then help Jamie finish off the last of his meat.