BACK

The flight has been uneventful. We spent the night in Paris and now are descending towards N'Djamena. Only a few scattered lights in the darkness of the desert remind us that we are coming into a capital city of a million inhabitants. The warm blast of air that hits me as I step out of the plane and walk down the steps to the tarmac remind me that I have left Scandinavia behind. Despite the fact that we could get there faster by walking as there is only one terminal about 100 feet away we are forced to ride in a bus. As we stand in line in one of the two passport control points I spot David who points us out to the man with him who comes and takes our passports directly to the booth where he stamps them himself. The one conveyor belt in baggage claim is broken so the bags are dumped on the floor as everyone scrambles to reclaim his and mount it on a rickety cart, most of which have broken, missing or twisted wheels.
Our bags are near the end and meanwhile David introduces us to his cousin. She works in Customs and I remember her from last year when she told the other customs agents to stop bothering us as we were in the medical work. She is happy that I remember her. With David's friend leading the way we breeze through all the controls and are soon in David's Land Cruiser heading to his cheese factory.

Suddenly, I hear a screech and the crunch of metal on metal. The UN mini-bus in front of us stops and puts on it's hazards. In the intersection is a mangled motorcycle and a body laid out straight on the pavement showing no movement at all. A small crowd quickly gathers and tries to shake the limp form. He was killed instantly and the car fled the scene. As we move past, turning right at that intersection people stare in our windows shaking their fists and yelling "what are you looking at?"

Down some dirt roads and a metal gate opens to David's horn. He jumps out and starts the generator as we haul in our heavy bags. Two mattresses await us on the living room floor as the fan tries desperately to remind us we are not in an oven. We open the double door to the courtyard where two dogs wag their tails furiously as they cautiously wonder if we'll beat them or pet them.

"How's N'Djamena?" I ask David.

"Things are changing. They no longer allow those small plastic bags in the markets. You get heavily fined and they're strict. If someone offers you something in a plastic bag, everyone will refuse as they don't want to be seen with it either. So the women have been taking the empty cement bags, cleaning them out well and making small bags to put vegetables, sugar and other things in it for their customers."

"That's amazing, is it happening all over the country?"

"Yes, they're strict everywhere."

"That's great!"

"Yeah, and every Saturday from 7 to 10 am no one is allowed to open their business and everyone is supposed to be out sweeping and cleaning things up. In fact, the President of the country was out the first Saturday with his ministers to lead the way. The President was well dressed in a jogging suit and got right to work. The ministers were all in suits thinking it was something symbolic for the TV. But the President kept sweeping for like an hour or an hour and a half. It was hilarious. FIrst the ministers took off their jackets as they wiped the sweat off and tried to keep up. Then ties were being untied and sleeves rolled up. It was NOT what they expected at all."

I fall asleep to the buzz of mosquitoes. It's good to be back.