Mamans of Altonodji

Meet: Deoulemgoto Marie
Marie is one of the ten "Mamans" who live here and take care of the 120 orphans at Altonodji. She was born here in Moundou and was raised in a family of 8 children, though one sibling died while she was still young. Marie attended school for a full ten years in Moundou and in another town called Bangor. I'm amazed by the amount of English Marie has retained since she studied back in the 70s.. She often tells me she wants to learn and the first time that I tried to teach her some basic phrases such as, "I am preparing the boule for dinner," I was impressed that she could do it with little instruction. Marie was married in 1976 and the couple had one daughter, but today both her husband and her daughter have died. In 2007, when Marie heard that there was a school being designed for orphans and widows, she applied to come live with the orphans. She likes living here. "At our homes," she says, "we have many difficulties. But here, it is calm. Despite all the work that we have to do, there are not the same difficulties." Marie values her role here at the school. Her responsibilities include preparing food, giving advice, and educating the children on subjects of how to be obedient, to work hard, and to be respectful to others. I asked Marie if she had a message she would like to send to America and she said,"A number of years ago Americans came here to the school with gifts for the orphans and the widows, but they haven't come for a while..." I asked if she was saying they should come bring gifts again and she just nodded!

Meet: Mandebeye Marthe
What a sweet woman! The first thing I want to say about Marthe is that I love her smile, and it feels like such a shame to me that when I pull out the camera she quickly wipes it off her face. (I feel bad but I'm  using a picture where she turned away to laugh.) I will remember Marthe as one of the Mamans that came into my living room my first night here at Altonodji and immediately hugged me and started dancing with me.
Growing up, Marthe had 8 brothers and sisters. Unlike Marie, she stopped school after only a few years. Instead, she decided to take up a trade. According to Marthe, she ordered a dress to be made, and upon seeing the quality she lamented that the
tailor had done such an awful job, saying, "You know what, I can do this myself!" She began apprenticing at the tailor's shop and by the age of 18 she was working herself. Marthe has been working here at Altonodji since 2012, but she has a full life off campus as well. She has 8 children in school, 2 of which attend here, she continues to sew dresses, and she teaches Sunday school at her church.i also just learned that Marthe is the official "chief" of the Mamans. I love that title. Marthe loves children and has a particular love for orphans and feels called to help take care of them.

Meet: Toualeyo Debora
Debora is a maman I was happy to get to know a little better because, like many of them, she doesn't share a language with me unless you count a handful of Ngambaye phrases. However, after my first two interviews, I was told that she was excited to participate too.
Debora was born in the town of Koutoutou (my spelling) in 1953. This means that she spent her first decade living under the French colonists, but she was too young to remember how things were different due to that. Debora had a very large family, with 10 brothers and sisters. Her parents were farmers, and instead of attending school she learned from a young age how to help them in the fields. The fields were far from their village, but each day she walked with her family and worked cultivating sorghum, millet, and other grains. She loved working in the fields, and during our interview she spotted a gardening tool and promptly grabbed it to start demonstrating. When it was time to get a picture of her, she marched straight out of the kitchen and into the garden where she bent down and started breaking apart the soil.
Eventually Debora stopped working in the fields to get married and move here to Moundou. She had 11 children of her own and worked to raise them. Now, she is here at Altonodji where she is very happy. When asked why, she listed the things that make her happy in the same way someone might rave about their recent Caribbean cruise. With a big smile she said she is at peace here... She eats BOULE, she drinks BOUILLE (water, sugar, flour, rice) she SLEEPS, she has a good HOUSE... she is happy. She made grand gestures as she listed each of these things and had everyone around us smiling and laughing with her.
When Debora found out the meeting was over, she seemed like she wasn't finished. I asked what else she would like to say and she said she didn't go to school, but she went to church and there she learned to read and write in Ngambaye. She is thankful to God for her education through the church. I'm thankful for Debora!

Selected Snapshots

For a preface to these January snapshots, check out my previous post.. The one that was GOING to be called "Christmas: the Musical."

January 4- I see dozens of people wearing masks to protect them from the dust, which today made the world a dream as I could not see clearly 50 feet in front of me. People have asked me to tell them the word in English for dust that floats so heavily in the air that it creates a fog. I can't say that I had an answer for them. Also, it's creepy to see people walking around with medical masks like doctors, miners, or nuclear bomb survivors, but I think I'm mostly envious as I take in the thick, chalky air.

January 8- I went out to fill up on water at the pump. It's about a minute walk from the guest house. Before I'd even gotten off my front porch with my two buckets, two little boys intercepted me and insisted on fetching me water. They are allllways together, and I get the sense that the slightly bigger boy, Calis, is the other's protector. He appears to be about 6 but is a natural mentor. Even with me, he always speaks to me slowly and in Ngumbaye, as if he were a kindergarten teacher speaking to a student. The younger boy, Semplice, is half his size and the kind of kid that makes you want to constantly say "awwwwwww." For my first week here he said not a word, but smiled from behind his bigger friend whenever I saw him. I forced him to be my pal the other day by sitting down and coloring with him, putting markers in his hand and guiding his wrist to draw smiley faces and stars until finally he was drawing enthusiastically on every surface he could find. Since then he has been following me around, miming a drawing hand. Anyway, I gave them my buckets and let them go. A minute later, I saw Calis on his way back with the bucket on his head, and tiny Semplice still at the pump, being assisted by an older student who was gently positioning the bucket on the little boy's head. I met Calis and deposited his bucket in my living room. Then I turned to Semplice, who was painstakingly making his way towards us, being positively showered with water from his bucket. His friend went to relieve him, and by the time the bucket had changed hands, the second boy also had a huge dripping wet patch in his belly, the bucket was 1/3 full, and both of them had eyes dancing with laughter! I thought maybe he would be embarrassed, but both seemed nothing but pleased with themselves for helping me out.

January 9- I was just minding my own business outside when the same two boys and a little friend started following me around saying stuff in Ngumbaye. First I thought they were telling me I needed a shower. Then I decided they were trying to teach me how to talk about needing to take a shower. Eventually I realized they were imploring me to give them buckets again, so I sent all three off to get water that I didn't actually need.

January 11-  I've realized that when my host mother talks about food, she rates it based on how filling it is. Whereas at home we might marvel that a meal is delicious and low-calorie, or high fiber, or locally grown, she will brag about how you can eat a little and not be hungry all day, which is not exactly what I want to hear. The main staple, boule, is made by mixing different kinds of flour or ground meal with hot water. As I have been learning to prepare it myself, I'm learning that certain types of flour go better with certain proteins, whether you are eating little fish or big chunks of beef. When trying to discern why we were using sourgum verses corn flour, I though some talk of flavor would ensue, but the explanation that I received was that sourgum makes you soooo full so it's the best option!

January 14- This morning, during a lovely bike ride out of the city into Village Altonodji, I passed several students walking to class. As I passed one little boy, it was clear he was going to be very late- I still had about 10 more minutes of biking- and he asked if he could ride with me. I agreed just to see what would happen. Before I could slow down my bike, I heard his steps quicken behind me and swiftly he swung up on the bike rack. He had clearly done this before. It turns out that with my ever-flattening tire it was doubly difficult for me to bike with a second passenger, even a tiny boy. We went for about five minutes, with me pushing with all my might on the slight incline, before we passed some friends of his and practically without my noticing he slid off and joined them on foot again.

January 16- Women here are so incredibly tough! It's not only that they can carry enormous loads of anything on their heads, or stir massive vats of boule, but they seem to be able to tolerate unbelievable degrees of heat. Rarely do I see women in my house use any kind of pot holder to lift heavy, hot metal pans from red flames. I often marvel at this aloud, and on Sunday Mama Kiri announced to me that it is only a matter of habituation, and it is about time I learn. So as we prepared lunch she would nonchalantly announce to me that I was to go over maybe lift a scalding hot lid to check on the sauce, or take something off the flame, and then she would look at me out of the corner of her eye to see my reaction. Both she and Béné would then laugh as I would try, either playing hot potato or half-throwing/half-dropping whatever hot thing I was supposed to be holding. My goal is to be able to walk on hot coals by the time I return to the States.

January 17-  The boarding students at my school do not turn up their noses at the idea of eating rodents and other wild creatures. Young boys tote slingshots and traps with every intention of eating their kills. I've seen many a rat being carried across campus towards the open kitchen. What was remarkable today was peering into a pot which held the biggest lizard I have ever seen in the wild! I don't know who found it or where, but it had to be shaped into an "o" to fit inside the large pot. I regret that I didn't take a photo.

January 21- There is good news and bad news. The good news is I'm not afraid of mice or rats. The bad news is that mice and rats have been trying to terrorize me, mostly beginning this month, in both of my abodes. The list of things that have been eaten entirely or nibbled significantly in January include: three rolls, a tomato, a banana, an onion, the outside pocket of my backpack holding a fully wrapped granola bar, half of the granola bar, the change pouch in my new handbag that held a few peanuts, the peanuts that were contained, a tablecloth that had been hiding my fruit overnight, and now, most recently, a big patch in the belly area of my nice shirt. I guess I'd spilled a bit of sauce on it or something... (Edit: two weeks later, this list ought to have several more things on it, including two bowls of poisoned tomatoes. Still, it haunts me..)

January 22- I was just biking from town to Altonodji and, amid unrelenting cries of NASSARA!! (white person..) I heard one that made me smile a little extra. A small voice, filled with breathless awe, gasped at me, "Chinoise!" I hope he never finds out the truth that that girl racing by on her bike was not Chinese, because it truly sounded like his life would never be the same.

January 23- this week I KILLED THE CHICKEN! It felt like such a coming of age moment, seeing as how my first exposure to the ordeal elicited it's own epic blog post. I still made a cultural faux pas by naming the chicken (Paul the Poulet) when I first met it, which you don't do to something you're about to murder. But yes, I announced I was going to do the butchering, and since Mama Kiri has decided I'm Chaddian enough to hold scalding metal dishware, she also didn't hesitate to give me the knife, holding down the chicken's wing with her foot. It was only after I'd made the first several sawing motions that I remembered that this particular knife so dull and not serrated so you can hardly even cut carrots. So here I was, utterly inexperienced, barely breaking the skin of poor Paul's neck with the realization this was going to be a really unpleasant death for him, so then I started crying out for someone to take the knife, but I didn't stop my undirected sawing for fear of prolonging its suffering anymore, and nobody was taking the knife, so I just continued to shriek while desperately pushing the knife harder and harder while blood started ever so slightly trickling down its neck. Finally, FINALLY, it was cut enough for someone to snap the neck back, and then Mama Kiri grabbed the knife and slashed its jugular in two. So maybe it wasn't 100% me and maybe doesn't demonstrate that I've come particularly far in 5 months, but there it is.

January 29- Today I walked in on a few teachers having a serious discussion in the break room. One of them turned to me and said, "these girls in the orphanage.. many of them..They are very sick." Later from my house I could see dozens of kids crowded around some bedrooms. I heard wails. Outside, I was met by a group of small students who warned me against going over there. What they told me is that four or five girls are filled with bad spirits, demons. I started asking all kinds of questions and they just kept repeating "spirits! Bad Spirits!" Then a passing student offered to try to translate but I had to insist that I did in fact understand what they were saying but I just wanted to know more. They were completely floored that this was new information for me, and suddenly it felt bad of me to let on that, for me, the belief in demons and possession is a fascinating cultural illustration. It would be akin to telling a child, "Who is this Santa that you're talking about? Hmm, I've never heard of him and he doesn't bring me presents, but that's interesting." Like everyone on campus, I would like to go over and see for myself, but after that initial conversation with the boys in which I just felt like an insensitive spectator, I haven't asked any more questions, but rather avoided that side of campus.

February 1- Rough English translation of part of a song we are learning in church choir, "Driving in your car, you can die. Sitting in the kitchen, you can die. Washing yourself in the bathroom, you can die. Laughing about your exploits, you can die."

February 8- I've been preparing tomorrow's course in my room, but it finally became too dark to continue. I stepped outside to watch the fading light, and noticed that through the space between our house and the trees, I could see a parade of bats heading across the sky in the same direction. Not a flock really, but definitely not by accident that they were passing by at the same time. I sat down in a chair and began to count. 1..........2........345......6..7......................8. It was soothing... like counting sheep. I heard the safe sounds of a radio to my right, water being drawn from the well to my left, crickets beginning to sing all around me. 25.... 26 27 28 29.......... 30. For a few moments I forgot all about myself and my students and thought just about the bats. Where are they all trying to get to all of a sudden? It was like they had a curfew.   101..102. I sat until it was just dark enough that I couldn't see the outlines anymore. 511.

The one that was GOING to be called "Christmas: the Musical"

This blog post is primarily an admission of failure. For the last days of December and a large part of January I had every intention of writing a post entitled, "Christmas: the Musical" and it was going to include all sorts of cute tidbits about my very song-and-dance filled holiday season. It was to start with the paragraph: "Have you ever had that dream where you are on stage, facing a large audience, and you realize that very soon you will be expected to recite the lines of a script that you don't remember having rehearsed? Maybe sing a solo? That dream where everyone else is adequately prepared, and they seem to expect the same of you, but for the life of you you can't remember ever being through this before? Why am I even asking this? Of course you have! And that's why it shouldn't be too difficult for me to convey to you the events of Christmas Day. I think I'll back up a moment."

From there I was going to regale you with tales of a 24-hour church choir rehearsal, a concert planned seemingly by chance for Christmas Day, technical rehearsals held in a bedroom inside of a bank, choreography performed with a group of pre-teen girls donning matching dresses, evenings filled with cramming French and Ngumbaye song lyrics into my head by lamplight... all of this leading up to 4:00 on Christmas Day when I came out on stage with my worship group, "Les Semeurs," nervous as if it were a final exam to evaluate how much I had retained after all the whirlwind weeks of cramming. And the first thing that happened was we started singing a song I had NEVER heard before. And of course I was standing at my own microphone and of course multiple people were standing at the foot of the stage filming me exclusively. After illustrating that, I might have included some positive moments from the concert to redeem myself, and probably some thoughtful "meaning of Christmas" conclusions to tie it all together.

That was what I was GOING to write, but I don't know. Maybe it was too painful to relive for you (probably not, because Christmas was actually quite a good time!) or maybe I was just too busy having new experiences to spend too much time dwelling on old 2014. In fact, while I was adamantly not finishing my blog post, I was already throwing myself into documenting 2015. My New Years resolution was to, "for each day of January, note an observation, thought, or experience that might otherwise go unrecorded." There are so many little quotidian happenings that, for me at least, do a better job of capturing the special parts of my Chaddian life than the big Headlines. For that reason, in the following post I present you with some selected January snapshots. If you are members of my family or close friends, which you probably are, you have already received these in weekly installments, but you'll find a couple February snapshots at the bottom because this habit of daily journaling has been hard to break. 

Chapter Two

If my year in Tchad was a book, the events of this past month would definitely warrant a page turn. The biggest transition has been my move from living full-time with the director of Village Altonodji to spending the majority of my nights on campus. It is an opportunity that I had been excited about since before I flew to Tchad, and this month all of the details were ironed out and cleared, so life at school is my new reality!

 My first evening here, I was scheduled to begin leading some English clubs. I came in time to arrange my bedroom and familiarize myself with my surroundings. I sat in my big living room in the guesthouse, of which I am the first guest in a long while, hearing the sounds of screaming, laughing children coming from all directions and I thought to myself, like a new kid in school, "Will I fit in here?" Up until now, I'd always loved being at work, and I'd spent quite a bit of afternoon time hanging around with the students, but now that I was here for good I wondered what there really was for a teacher to do among one-hundred rowdy children all the time. I wondered if I should anticipate overwhelming company at all times or, rather, isolation at being the one foreigner bolted up in this big guest house while all the others were living as a family on their side of campus.

 I knew answers would come sooner or later, but the questions and slight jitters lingered as I grabbed my ukulele and some chalk and wandered over to the academic side of campus to begin my first English club. Consistent with the way I have seen a lot of things organized over my past few months here, English club was officially announced after I'd set up camp in an open classroom. Some older boys took the responsibility of combing the campus to inform the primary school students that there was a club. Within 15 minutes, the classroom was packed with boys and girls blinking and giggling at me anxiously. We introduced ourselves, sang songs together, and persevered through the chaos of being so numerous. One of the aforementioned older boys did his part by marching up and down the aisles with a tree branch, waving it in the faces of the noisier kids. This is something I want to have qualms with, but truthfully I was thankful to have a willing assistant to help me keep the order.

After my hour with the primary students, and then another with those in the older grades, I was met at the blackboard by half a dozen students who hadn't gotten enough. One girl, who knows Selena Gomez songs by heart and wants to marry Justin Bieber, proudly joined me in singing an encore performance of Lean On Me. Another boy named Caleb asked me to translate the words that he scrawled on the board: "God, I am sorry for your love." As is so often the case with requests such as this, I translated it for him but was unable to discern the source of this unusual phrase. Other students had requests for dialogues and discussions we could pursue in our club. The Activities Coordinator eventually had to shoo everyone out of the classroom and personally shut me in my house to ensure that I was left alone to eat dinner.

Shortly after eating, I heard a knock on the door. There were three or four girls from my English class who plopped themselves down on my couches and started chatting as teenaged girls do. Before too long, I heard another knock at the door and in came three Mamans- big gregarious women who greeted me with giant, tip-you-over bear hugs as if I was a long-lost daughter. And just like that, my fears about being an outsider here were dissipated. The mission of Village Altonodji is to provide educational and humanitarian support for orphans and widows. Not only are the students who live here children who have lost one or two parents, but all of the dozen women who live and serve as "Mamans" are women who have been widowed. Therefor, the community here is one that has been forged of individuals who have lost the people most important in their lives and have come to this place to be another kind of family. Through different and much less tragic circumstances I have also found myself in this space and I have been greeted with as much hospitality and care and instant status of "family" as I could dream of.

So, these three women strode into my abode, wrapped me in hugs, and then proceeded to raise their eyebrows challengingly at me and pump their shoulders in the beginning throes of what I've identified as the "Chicken Dance." It is a physical feat truly remarkable to witness and a fairly impossible to imitate after 22 years of non-exposure, but that doesn't stop people from inviting me to try on a daily basis. It involves shrugging one's shoulders up and down in a way that makes them appear detached from one's body, while subtly flapping one's elbows, popping the chest in and out, and taking little steps to the side and then back again that make one appear to be on a tiny broken escalator that moves you up one step and down another just as soon.

So that happened, there in my living room, but it was just the beginning. Then we progressed to the next stage of the evening. We stood up and I followed the group outside. I was taken by the hand and led across the dark campus to the children's lodging, to the growing sounds of drums and shouts. We came upon an open space in front of the buildings where children and mamans alike were dancing like their lives depended on it. A line of little children perched on the porch, banging at buckets and pans with the finesse of professionals. In the dark, I found myself being tapped and yanked from all angles as children and mamans alike gave me dances to imitate. As soon as I would try anything, it was met with screams of delight and often hugs. Then they would take pity on me and tell me to sit down for a while. During one break, as I dangled my feet off the porch, sandwiched between two tiny pupils who were flapping their arms at me, I took a little inventory of all the things around me. There were the stars above me, winking happily. There was the welcome cool air that arrives after the sun departs, and the lovely smells of nighttime. There were people young and old dancing and ululating and laughing and clapping. There was a huge, beautiful makeshift family with people who lived with and looked after each other. Not one of them, no matter how young, had been spared significant hardship in their lives, but here they were delighting in the evening and in the company of others. I got a little choked up as I realized without a doubt that this is why I flew halfway around the world into the unknown. This is what I had been hoping to find.

 Eventually I realized my presence was keeping the kids from going to bed, so I left with a little posse showing me the way. Flushed, I asked the girl next to me if this was something I should expect every night and she laughed and said, "No. We are just happy that you're here with us!" Again that night, my heart skipped a beat for my new home.

That was just the first day. There have been weeks' worth of delightful days since, and my enthusiasm has not diminished. As I've become wrapped up in countless activities and blossoming friendships with people young and old here at Altonodji and around Moundou, I've experienced a kind of satiation that I can't attribute to only one thing. It's a cocktail of things that are filling me in so many ways. I am busy with meaningful work that offers constant challenges and rewards. I am met every single day with hundreds of warm smiles and people who greet me by name. A day doesn't go by that I don't meet someone new, go somewhere new, try something new, or learn something new. And as much as I am resisting being cliché, I can't deny that there is something magical about being with so many children. I'm so easily and deeply charmed by their uninhibited enthusiasm, curiosity, and affection. Indeed, Village Altonodji is a special place, and a wonderful setting for a new chapter!

A Holiday Weekend

So, Turkey Day has come and gone. We Moundou SALTers were treated to our own marvelous Thanksgiving Day celebration, held in the home of Pastor Sem, and in the company of other MCC workers who were visiting Moundou for the weekend. We had a lovely evening chowing down on chicken, couscous, plantains, stewed carrots, rice and beans, French fries, and more. All were festively displayed on a red, white, and blue table cloth brought from Texas. As we ate and shared stories- people that I had known for a range of three months to one hour- I experienced that wonderful phenomenon of being at home away from home. I'm thankful this year that family can be found almost anywhere.

 The holiday did not stop here. In fact, in Chad, the following days contained two big national holidays. Friday was Independence Day, and today, December 1st, was Presidents Day. Both were celebrated in Moundou with parades in front of the Mayor's office. Friday was more understated. I watched while a small military group put on a display involving kicking up their feet and turning sharp angles, and a marching band played the occasional anthem.

Monday was the big show. I arrived at 7:30, with hours before the excitement on the street. I was fascinated just to sit on the curb and watch people mill around me. Chad is an extremely diverse country, and while I sometimes feel like I live in a small, well-off, evangelical Christian bubble, I delighted in seeing others who live in Moundou. There were as many people of Arab descent as there were people from the South of the country. I heard as much Arabic as French. I saw young women prancing around in skinny jeans while others revealed only their eyes from beneath their sheer fabric dress. I saw children carrying large buckets on their heads, and others carrying around boxes of shoe-shining supplies and a tiny bench that they used to plop down and work. I saw men who looked as if they could have been walking to an office job in the States, while others wore long white robes and caps, held hands, and squatted impossibly low to the ground as they chatted.

 Unfortunately, I have been on an impossible quest to find functioning batteries here in Moundou, and was not able to take a single picture. Again and again I regretted this, especially as the parade went underway and I had the amazing opportunity to see all of Moundou proudly march past me, carrying signs that clearly labeled who they were and what they represented. And wow, there are so many groups that I never suspected existed here in this city! I took this as a challenge to take as many vivid mental photos as possible. 

First we were passed by dozens of primary and secondary schools. All private schools have uniforms, and so each group was clearly distinguished by a different set of clothes and a song that was all their own. The children marched past, feet in step with the songs that soared from their mouths. I saw Franco-English schools, Koranic schools, schools for the Deaf, Arabic schools, a nursing school, a technical school (where all of the participants yielded wrenches, hammers, pliers over their heads) and even my dear Village Altonodji walk by.

 Then we saw businesses and organizations. There were the Scouts of Moundou, dressed in familiar Boy Scouts-style uniforms. There was the Moundou Tai kwondo Academy, with children of all ages carrying themselves with great dignity in their robes. They were followed immediately by a tai-chi school. There was a Young Democrats group, an art school, a soccer team, a women's union. Past me marched a troupe of local comedians represented by three individuals who looked like something out of the Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. One man had painted whiskers, a short stumpy tail coming out of his pants, and stuffing in his clothes that gave him an ample belly and derrière.

 There were representatives from each quartier, or neighborhood. The most fun to watch were those people who dressed in what I assume were traditional costumes. Some boys wore nothing but long colorful necklaces on their chests, and grass skirts. They wore headdresses and covered their faces with long veils of dried grasses and danced to traditional instruments that I had never seen before. Another man was dressed as a bull, with large horns sticking out of his head. He was tied up and his friends pretended to lead him with a short rope. Suddenly, as he passed me, he went out of control and launched himself at the unsuspecting crowd, a hair's width away from ramming them with his sharp horns! People screamed, scattered, and then came back delighted and laughing.

I saw dozens of businesses. There were men from the Mondou cigarette manufacturing company and workers from the brewery, wearing outfits made of fabric that was a collage of pictures of Castle Beer. Assala, the well-known local bakery came by on a truck, yielding huge pastries and occasionally throwing a baguette at the crowd. There was a single man carrying a sign that said, in hand-written letters, "homme d'affaires" (businessman). People thought that was uproarious. Then it was our turn to join. Oh, did I forget to mention that I pretended to be an employee of Mama Kiri's work? She works for Sotel Chad, a telephone company, and I was here today because her boss had laughingly suggested that I dress up with them and march in the parade. So here I was, donning a matching wrap skirt, oversized t-shirt with the Sotel Chad logo, a baseball cap, and my own rotary phone. There were ten of us, and when our turn came we jumped right into the middle of the parade. As well-camouflaged as I thought I was, it wasn't enough to prevent people from immediately noticing that one of the people in this parade looked a little different from the thousands of others. I tried to march seriously, carrying my phone with dignity and earnestly answering it from time to time, but it was difficult with people calling NASSARA! (white person) and reaching out to touch me. Things got more out of control when some unseen hand grabbed the hat from off my head, and my fellow "colleagues" turned around to chastise them. I was almost knocked in the head by the sign that my neighbor was carrying as she swung around to shout at the person. By the end, many of us were collapsing into giggles and clutching our belongings dearly. I realized that I was also holding a big piece of cotton, which someone had managed to give me without my noticing as a souvenir from the workers of Coton Chad.

We arrived back at Mama Kiri's work and relaxed with sodas and grilled beef. (And one of the aforementioned baguettes.) The rest of the day was reserved for visiting and lounging. And I needed the time to process all that I had seen! What I really loved about the parade was the chance to see Moundou in all of its diversity coming together to celebrate what it is comprised of. Even in a country ravaged with poverty, insecurity, and mistrust, people take joy in many activities and memberships, and it was a lovely chance to see these things on display.

12 (thousand) Angry Students

What a time to be a schoolteacher in Tchad...

 I want make clear at the onset of this blog entry that I am super super safe and sound, describing events that have, fortunately, been brought to a halt. But it was an interesting couple of days!


 On November 3rd, the public school teachers of Tchad went on strike, demanding that they receive their proper wages. I wasn't even aware of this until last week when the private school teachers joined them in a week-long strike of solidarity. For the children of Tchad, it was an uninvited vacation. I may be incorrectly speaking for the children when I say this, but I got the sense that the students, especially girls, who didn't have the excuse of school to get them out of the house just came back home to do household chores for much of the day. And I am majorly placing my own judgment on this, but it just didn't seem like a great deal for them. It doesn't have quite the same feel as an unexpected snow day.

 I hung out patiently with the rest of the students and teachers. Then we started up again, the solidarity strike having served its purpose, hopefully. On Tuesday, I didn't actually have class so I was puttering around home in the morning. I thought I heard a commotion at my window, so I stood and looked through the shutters. I heard the swelling of voices, many of them the voices of children. We actually share our small side street with a primary school, so it is not at all uncommon for me to hear children's voices, but these seemed to be growing. Soon, I saw children running past my window. First a few, then more and more, a dense herd of little figures in their school uniforms. There was something happening, but I couldn't gage the nature of it because some students were laughing, others crying, and more in hurried conversation with their neighbors. Furthermore, people weren't all running in the same direction, as they would if being chased. I heard our gate open and about 5 young children came in to our compound to sit with our cook. Everybody only spoke Ngumbaye so I was not yet able to get an explanation. Mama Kiri called twice to ask if me if Béné had returned from school yet.

What I learned throughout the day was really saddening. As all of the private schools were settling back into classes- all around the country- older students from the public schools had planned a protest of their own. They had barged into the classrooms, shouting at the children to get out, and making all kinds of a ruckus. I don't know if they were all bark and no bite, or if any had used real force, but it had done the trick of petrifying kids. Some, like my sweet cousin Chance, had left all of their books behind and scrambled over the courtyard wall in panic. Tiny children who didn't know their way home were left searching in vain for their families.

Things were even worse than that. That day riots developed across the country. Somehow, the sibling of a fellow SALTer had his arm dislocated. 3 or 4 people in my city, students mostly, were hit by cars and killed. At my school, people managed to burn down the guard house, which was not a particularly difficult task, as I remember it being just basically a thatch roof.

So, classes were cancelled again, and we went back to waiting.

Then, yesterday, I heard that the government had begun paying its teachers. Today, most of the private schools went back to business. When I taught my pupils, they seemed excited to share what had happened, thrilled by the scariness of it rather than traumatized. I was just glad to be with them again. Maybe I'd feel differently if I was a student, but I've been reminded of what a privilege it is to be able to go to school. And even though I am saddened and perplexed by the way students and others have chosen to express their frustration, I'm also awed by their emotional reaction at having school taken away from them for this long. I am happy to hear that teachers are receiving their pay and that school can go back to usual.

To display to you all that things are not as scary as I may have painted them, I've included some photos that I took this very day of my happy coworkers and students. I was so pleased to spend time with their smiling selves today, and I dearly hope that very soon all of the schools in Tchad can enjoy their own reunions. *And an aside: I actually have no idea how many angry students there were this week. It could have been 12,000, but I also made that up.

A Blackboard Under the Mango Tree

About a month ago Mama Kiri and I were lounging in the gentle light of my solar lamp when she informed me, "Maurice came over again today for an English lesson but you weren't here to see him. Maybe he'll try again tomorrow." Maurice is a young cousin who I had met briefly twice. He seemed a little guarded towards me, but I could tell he had a goofy, class-clown personality behind that aloof visage. I had not previously spoken with anybody about giving him English lessons, or at least not that I'm aware of... though I'm sure I have a lot of conversations that I'm not fully tuned into. Nonetheless, the plan had been drafted and conveyed to him, and I was pretty enthusiastic about the prospect of giving private lessons to counter the stress of managing 40 students at a time.

 A few days later I was heading to the shower when I saw a familiar young face. I greeted Maurice and, noticing his eager and kind of nervous expression, I said, "you are here for...?" He replied, "anglais." Well let's get started, I figured! I had just heard a rumor of a blackboard that was hidden somewhere on the compound. I remembered playing school back in the day with a sturdy, mini board that stood on its own. I thought how much fun it would be to relive those pleasant moments with a young student in the comfort of our compound. I asked Béné, who was hovering to the side, if we could take it out, so she and Maurice ventured into our storage shed to retrieve it. I went into my room next door to prepare some materials, and I could hear the sounds of shuffling, scratching, dragging, tumbling, etc. I wandered in to find them unearthing this behemoth of a blackboard from behind piles of lumber and tools.

They managed to haul it outside and I directed us to a shaded area underneath our mango tree. The board was covered with Algebra problems from its last use, so there was a wonderfully energetic to-do about how to clean it. A variety of methods were used, and it took about half of our allotted 45 minutes to wipe it down to everyone's satisfaction, but honestly I was as enraptured as either of them. I mean, is there really anything more gratifying then giving a cluttered, dusty blackboard a good wash-down? I think not.

Finally, with moments to go before my next obligation, it was time to begin the lesson. Maurice pulled up a chair while Béné took up her hovering again. I prompted her to join us, because of course she wanted to join. Also, I just wanted her there because Béné is wonderful and makes my time here twice as lovely. She and I have been teaching each other things from the first days. We've spent hours each week pouring over French textbooks, English picture books, song lyrics, math problems, ukulele chords, you name it. She loves to learn, she loves to teach, and I love to spend time with her. So, already, our little group had grown.

 That day I taught them the very basics: "I am, you are, he/she is," etc. When I left them, they were dutifully copying into their official English notebooks. I couldn't help but feel endeared towards them and snap some pictures as they worked diligently under the hanging laundry. I knew right away that this was going to be one of my favorite tasks for the year.

 The next lesson, we were four. Another niece of Mama Kiri's, Chance, had joined us as well. She is an enthusiastic and focused learner who had just taken a semester at CENTRAM English school. Between the four of us, we determined to have three lessons a week, beginning in the mid-afternoon, and usually lasting until the light begins to fade. Almost every day we have a guest student or two. Maybe more cousins, or someone sent to look after the house. Today was a young man about my age who seems to only speak Ngumbaye, but he requested that I read everything on the board for him to repeat, and then copy it down on a sheet of paper.

 The students clamor for homework and are disappointed when I forget to begin each lesson by grading their work with a red pen. They love activities like charades, and it's a blast for me as their teacher to be flexible, to enjoy laughing with them and answering random individual questions, which is not usually possible with my other larger classes. I get a kick out of their enthusiasm, and even their sometimes unkind competitiveness. They laugh together when a word like "thirteen" is impossible to pronounce well, and they will happily knock each other over in the effort to correct another person's spelling on the board. The goal is to learn English, and I can detect no degree of self-consciousness among the three cousins. I love that whenever I decide to end our lesson and retreat to my room, if I look out my window I can count on seeing them sitting there together until dark, copying the homework assignments and practicing their new knowledge.

 At night, when there is no electricity and there is little to do but lay on the carpet and sleep or chat, Béné and I will practice. I specifically teach the kids words that I know I can practice with her. "Béné... are you sleeping?" "No, I am not!" "Béné, is Patrick a dog?" "Yes, he is!" "Béné, what are you doing??" "I am cleaning!" It's gratifying and comforting to hear these fragile English words come out of her mouth. Also, it highlights the wonderful nature of this assignment which is that at every moment I am both teacher and student. Between my time at work, at home, and in other formal and informal settings, roles are constantly being reversed and rewritten as children become my teachers, cousins become my students, students become my guides, supervisors ask me to teach them, and so on. I know I am here to teach, but I feel like it is only right to do so in exchange for all that others are teaching me. My life right now is just a huge stew of ideas and language that everybody wants to taste. It's pretty wonderful to be mixed up in.