(Photo: The Peace Corps Chad evacuation class of 2006 in Yaounde, Cameroon)
Frustrated, exhausted, relieved, guilty, thankful, confused, empty... go ahead, ask me how I’m feeling right now. --- It’s strange to think you have something figured out, a ‘plan’, and then to have it all thrown out the window. It’s strange to simply walk away from someone in the middle of a conversation. It’s strange to feel like you’ve taken advantage of someone even though you really never meant to (who can really bear saying the words ‘it’s not my fault’). It’s strange to be forced to look at yourself, to have that invisible force field of privilege suddenly exposed (how embarassing), and to have to exit the stage sheepishly. It’s strange to be shown a ‘life menu’ and from that menu you have to pick whether you’ll be flying to Cameroon, Benin, or Nyack (you can tell the waiter you need a few minutes if you’re not entirely sure which one to choose). It’s strange to ask yourself if the last seven months of your life actually happened. It’s strange to feel cold. It’s strange to be browsing the internet searching for a ‘summer internship’. Ask me how I’m feeling... I’m feeling strange. --- The Peace Corps program in Chad was suspended on April 14, 2006. The 29 current volunteers were emergency evacuated (it wasn’t quite as dramatic or as exciting on the ground, as it sounds in words), and were all taken directly to the capital of Cameroon, Yaounde, for a ‘transitional conference’. At this conference we were given a few options. With my back pushed entirely against the wall, I decided the ‘right’ thing for me to do (for me) was to take the plane ticket being waved in front of my face, and to come home. On April 22, 2006 I completed my service with the Peace Corps with a note of ‘interrupted service’. I have the option to directly re-enroll into a new program for the next two years. On April 23, 2006 I landed at Newark Liberty Airport in New Jersey. So I now find myself sitting at my computer in Nyack, feeling strange (how ironic). And of course, I keep asking myself the unoriginal question of ‘what now?’ --- I sat down a little while ago to write the final posting for ‘Livin Large in Chad’, but I now realize I’m not ready to do that. More than anything, I’d like to be able to create some sort of closure for this little episode of my life, but I’m not yet sure how that’s to be done. I’ll be thinking real hard, and I’ll be sure to notify you when I get some idea. I’m home in Nyack, safe and sound (I honestly never felt otherwise). It’s great to be with my parents and dogs. It’s great to sleep on a real matress. I’ll continue to try to process what just happened in my life, and what that means for the rest of my life. My first meal back was a big plate of chicken parmigiana, with a side of linguini. In hot pursuit of ‘what now’, Zach 
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(Photo: The 'getaway boat' that took all of us from Chad to Cameroon)
...and then I woke up in Cameroon. But I woke with a dream so vivid. I dreamt of loud knocks at my door with cries of "WE'RE GOING" and "EVACUATION" that cut through my grogginess with such force, in a way that is only possible in a dream. And then I dreamt of a river bank, and another country on the other side. And in my dream I stared at that river, and that other country, and those other people for a long time, and I wondered what it all meant. And then there was waiting. Waiting for a boat, for a man, for an important call. Waiting forever, like falling down an endless abyss. And when forever finally ended there was moving. Moving across that river, across that land. Moving away with blinding speed. My dream became so confused, and so exhausting that it forced me to wake up. But I am fairly certain when I went to sleep I was in Chad, which is weird because I just woke up in Cameroon. ----- Yesterday, (April 14th) the Peace Corps program in Chad was evacuated out of the country due to 'political unrest' and put into a state of 'suspension'. At the time I was gathered with the other 28 volunteers (2nd and 3rd year volunteer's included) in a town not far from the Chadian capital for a five day training seminar. It just so happened that this seminar would coincide with a rather substantial attack from rebel forces on the presidential regime operating out of the capital. This attack was not unforseen. It is the result of many months of military, political, and social maneuverings, and is thought to be somewhat of a start to what is some form of prolonged civil war in Chad. With the situation as it is, PC Washington and PC Chad decided to evacuate and suspend our program. In action, this meant crossing the Chari River by boat at the Chad-Cameroon border, where we were aided by PC Cameroon and brought inland. What this all means for me and the other volunteers in the program is that we were taken out of Chad and we will not be returning there as PC volunteers. The next steps are somewhat complicated and entirely overwhelming. PC is organizing a 'transitional conference' for all of us, to be held in Cameroon, where we will have all of our options detailed and explained. But in short, I will have to decide whether or not I want to return directly home, with the option to enroll within one year to a new program (and a new two years), or whether I would like to transfer directly into a program and service that has already begun (and hit the ground running). I don't know what I will do. ----- I, and all of the volunteers and PC staff are safe and healthy. However, everybody is quite shaken up about being uprooted the way we were. I told my host family that I would see them in ten days and took off with a small backpack; I will never see them again. There was no easing into this, and no preparing. It was dropped onto us like two tons of boule falling from the heavy African sky. It will all take a while to process. I believe major international news sources are carrying stories about the current situation in Chad... check it out. I am safe, and I will write again when I have some idea what is happening in my life. All my best, Zach 
(Photo: Adoum, Abdraman, Malumah, Me, Khadidja Petit, and Khadidja Grande in my room in Moussoro)
I see a man I know from around town in the street. He's a French teacher at the middle school and he used to come to my English class. We go through our usual routine of greetings, and I ask him the usual question, "Any news on the strike?" The usual reply is a half smile and a shake of the head, followed by a short speech about how he hasn't been paid in five months, how this happens every year, how the Chadian government doesn't have its priorities straight and what it means for the future of Chad....But this time he nods his head and says softly, "The salaries have arrived. School will begin tomorrow, or maybe the next day." And I think excitedly, "Here we go." _______________________ I show up at the lycee on what is meant to be the first day of school. I'm not completely sure, seeing as I was told a man would walk through town beating a tom-tom, announcing that school would resume; and I never did hear that tom-tom. But still, I had heard from fairly reliable sources that school was going to begin. Looking around, I am doubtful. There are not other teachers to be seen and only a handful of students (who are looking quite skeptical themselves). The classrooms however are opened so I step into one. The room is trashed, bench desks turned on their sides, papers littering the floor, the chalkboard covered in rambling grafitti. Every room is the same. I step back out into the sand courtyard to wait and see if anybody else shows up; I think disappointedly, "This was meant to be the first day of school." The proviseur (principal) of Lycee de L'unite calls a meeting for all teachers. He gets to his point rather quickly.... "There are meant to be 29 teachers at the lycee but at the present time there are only 9. This means a couple of changes will need to be made. Most notably classes will need to be condensed. Instead of having three separate sixieme (6th grade) classes, there will be just one. Instead of two separate cinqieme, just one. Instead of.....This way all students will be taught and teachers will still have a normal amount of hours. It will only be like this temporarily.....we will change back when we can find some more teachers." With the new schedule I have two different grade levels. A sixieme class (roughly 6th grade) with about 95 students, and a cinqieme class (roughly 7th grade) with about 65 students. Each grade will have 3 hours of English a week, so I will be teaching a total of 6 hours a week. ______________________________ My sixieme class is big, 95 students are too many for one room. The back four rows of bench-desks (benches that are welded to skinny desktops, and seat a squished four students across) go straight across the room and cut out any hope of an aisle to walk in. Students climb over the desks to get to their seats....for me, they're simply inaccessible. Definite fire hazard. The first day of school I get the entire class to sing the ABC song. Although they were probably only about 65 strong at the time, that's still a pretty powerful choir. The ABC's resound throughout the land.....the Proviseur later tells me, it sounds like my class is going very well. I smile and think, "We'll see...." My sixieme class on Saturday is from 7:30 to 8:30 (students have classes scheduled Monday through Saturday). One Saturday I show up at 7:30 to find 5 students waiting. By 7:45 there are about 25, and by 7:55 there are about 45. That's when I do my best to 'shut the doors' (except that the doors don't stay shut unless they're padlocked). As the other half of the class gradually straggles in I try to be firm in telling them, "Sorry, next time please come before the class is half over." For some, this is sufficient. For others, a better answer is to climb in through the windows, to make breaks for empty benches when my back is turned, and to heckle me from the oper door. I bite down, shout the sentence written on the board, ALI IS THE BROTHER OF MOUSSA, while simultaneously grabbing a late student's notebook and flinging it outside into the sand. Students are shouting at me in French.....students are shouting at each other in Arabic.....and in English I think to myself, "How am I ever going to teach this class anything?" ________________________ Class has been under way for about a month. Some students seem to really take to English. Grades on the first test were really high (attributed to a mix of studying and top-notch cheating), and English on the street has really picked up. Everywhere I go I hear kids yelling, "Teacher, how are you?" Quickly followed by, "I am fine" or the popular variation of, "I am five", whether prompted or not. And I think to myself, "Maybe they're learning something...." School's been under way for about a month and the Proviseur calls a meeting. Everybody knows what's up and he gets right to the point: "The salaries have failed to 'come through' once again, and something must be done." The teachers come to a consensus; they'll wait two weeks and if the money's not there, they're going on strike. I think in frustration, "This country is on the road to nowhere." _______________________ And so goes my first month of teaching English at the high school in Moussoro. Conditions are not good, and students are not wholly receptive....but some students seem to learn something, and that will have to be good enough. To a certain extent students don't take school seriously, and why should they be expected to when their national government doesn't take it seriously either. Teaching strikes are an annual occurence, and this school year has been no exception. It looks almost inevitable that another strike will set in shortly, meaning that this past school year the students had about 4 months of class in all. This is just the beginning for me.....there will be more to tell. 
We refer to them as 'moments'. Or rather, we would say, 'it was one of those moments'.They're a culmination of things, where one factor builds on top of another, and the situation just becomes so ridiculous, or random, or hilarious, that you pull into yourself briefly and you try to appreciate that moment for what it is, because you swear that never again will you experience a moment that is so damn ridiculous, and random, and hilarious. Of course, it is not lost on me that these moments very much rely on place, time and context. They're the kind of things that after being told (or heard) are most likely followed by the phrase, 'I guess you had to be there...'. And while these stories are usually the most embarassing (or at least awkward) for the storyteller, I'm going to go ahead with it. Enough of an introduction; these are a few of 'those moments' I've had in Moussoro.
About 8:00 pm I hear three claps at the curtain of my hangar. The hour is significant here because 8:00 pm is the unofficial time where it becomes 'late' in Chad. During our training the female volunteers were specifically told to think of this as 'the hour of love'. If a guy came to their door for a 'visit' after 8 it probably meant he was looking for a little more than talk of the day's heat or a cup of tea. Abdraman at my door was just kind of weird. It was 'late', I was in bed reading, I certainly wasn't in 'visitor mode' (where you try to stretch the dozen or so words you know in Arabic into a conversation of any substance), but what can I do...Salaam alekum! Faddal! (What's up?! Come on in!) Abdraman is a well known chauffeur, or taxi driver, who makes the 7-hour ride to N'Djamena in his Toyota pick-up three times a week. He's a good guy to know; he's also the best friend of my host father, Ali. So he pops his head into my house and asks if I want to join Ali and him on a visit up to the chateau de l'eau. Roughly translated into 'castle of water', the chateau de l'eau is an enormous silver water tower that sits up high on a plateau overlooking Moussoro. At the time I couldn't imagine what the hell we were going to be doing at the water tower, but I know enough that if something is 'happening' around here, you go with it. So I locked up, jumped in the back of the pick-up, and we're heading up the hill. Next thing, we're entering the gates that surround the water tower and we're walking up to a big room that is directly below the looming structure. It's weird to be walking into this room that feels as though it's part of this oversized thing. It creates the effect to make me feel as though I've shrunk (or the world has enlarged) and I'm going to visit James upon his peach, or the old lady inside her giant shoe... Anyway, I enter the room, which is large, lined with bright pink fabric wallpaper, illuminated by fluorescent white light, and dominated by a satellite television that blares from the corner. The room is empty of all furniture, but there are pillows scattered along the walls. A pillow and 'prime spot' are offered to me, and I take my place among the 7 or 8 men in the room. The room and connecting house belong to the man who is in charge of water and electricity in Moussoro. Exactly what his job entails, I have no idea. He too is a good friend of Ali's so we are welcomed and made comfortable. First thing is to make sure the programming is to our liking. Because I'm there somebody starts looking for something, anything, in English. They quickly come to 'Pretty Woman' in English with Arabic subtitles. Then a kid comes in with a tray of cold goat's meat. The meat is cut off the bone and I am told to 'akul' (eat). As I'm finishing, the same kid returns with a tray laden with glasses and a frothy white pitcher. Ali asks me if I drink camel's milk...I respond that I never have...he pours me a tall glass, and as I'm raising it to my lips and I can smell it a little sour and smoky; that is the moment: I'm in a bright pink room, underneath a giant water tower, with a group of Chadian men, watching Pretty Woman, full of goat's meat, about to drink a tall glass of camel's milk, and damn is it late. __________ It"s about 5:00 pm and I'm sitting on a plush, shiny black leather couch. It's without a doubt the most comfortable thing I've sat on in Moussoro, and thank god for that because I've been sitting on it for the last 6 hours. It's the kind of couch that makes you think to yourself, 'Well, I'm not in Moussoro anymore', and in a way I'm not. There are very few things in the Prefet's living room that can be bought locally in the Moussoro market. The wall to wall rug, the glass coffee tables, the tea dispenser, the entertainment system...like the Prefet himself, all of these things were sent by the Chadian government in N'Djamena to be 'installed' in Moussoro. The Prefet is the highest ranking official for a long ways, and his gated, barbwired, guarded house is as much of a mansion as exists around these parts. So it's strange in the first place to be sitting in this room, drinking sodas, Guinness (the first drop of alcohol I've tasted in Moussoro), and tea out of a dispenser, enjoying the consistent breeze from an overhead fan, watching 'Euronews' (which I've memorized by this time becuase it runs on a loop, repeating itself every 30 minutes or so for the past 6 hours) and making small talk with a group of Chadian men. But this is not just any old 'group', this is a 'who's who' of Moussoro if it ever existed. The company has built as the day went on. Michael (my sitemate since early January), Ali, and I arrived to find the Prefet, secretary general, and police commissioner. As we sat and drank, the room collected: the mayor, the Sous-Prefet, the chief doctor and some intimidating military type. The reason we were all there and sitting around waiting was because 'en principe' (or 'supposedly') representatives from the American Embassy were coming into town. It was quickly becoming apparent that we were waiting in vain, and that we better start and finish this party on our own. So an entire sheep, roasted and intact (much like the sheep pictured at Thanksgiving) is brought out to the dining room table and all chairs are pulled out of the way. The VIP list of 'who's who' (now including two nasaras) all gather round, and as the Prefet reaches in to rip a hunk off the sheep's flank, I look over to Michael and that's the moment: After almost 7 hours, we're gathered around a polished wooden dining room table, with pretty much the top 5 or 6 of Moussoro's all-important bureaucracy, and we're about to reach in (with our rights) to feast on roasted sheep, prepared solely in honor of 'the Americans'; who are now us. __________________________ Jump forward two weeks, and do it all again, except this time the American Embassy rep and his small crew have arrived; and they come bearing gifts. One of the things the embassy does in this country (and in most countries, I guess) is public relations. They try to make it so that America is understood, or should I say 'liked'. Arguably (and this is certainly up for debate) the best way to do this is to give away all kinds of cool stuff.* Cool stuff like really nice wall calendars of Yosemite that were handed to different officials and Moussoro community members. Cool stuff like French-English dictionaries and other books that can be used at the schools. Cool stuff like a brand new 17-inch flat screen G5 iMac and laser printer to be used at Moussoro's (now) state-of-the-art radio station. Giving this thing away was a pretty big deal (as far as I'm aware this is the only computer in Moussoro) and I've learned that Chadians are not likely to pass up the opportunity for a formal ceremony. As is fitting, the presentation and initial set-up and 'training' on the computer were to be at and on the radio. The whole thing was the embassy guy's deal, but seeing as he's an ex-peace corp volunteer himself (and seeing as Michael and I are the only other two Americans for over 100 miles) he did a great job of including us. He made sure we were there on the 'big day' and he suggested that we could offer ongoing support if anybody had questions about their new toy. (We now go up to the radio station two times a week to teach the guys different things they can do on the imac...it's a lot of fun), After our Embassy friend said a few words on live air, and the Prefet said a few words...and the President of the Parent's Association said a few words...and the DJ said a few words...we were ready to get the thing juiced up. We all crowded into the radio's 'technical room' where the computer was to be installed. This computer looks about as out of place among the rest of the station's equipment as I do among the crowd eagerly awaiting the oncoming show. From the moment the little power button began to glow a room full of eyes began to glow along with it (including my own...this computer is really cool). The first steps you must take are to register your new piece of equipment. En principe, this information is stored somewhere, I assume relying on internet capabilites, but in reality I really don't think any information you enter is of any consequence; tell that to a roomful of first-time computer owners who have to decide on one 'official' telephone number to enter as the computer's. After a lengthy discussion that settled on the Secretary General's cell number, we were ready to move on. After moving through several more 'ridiculously important' registration screens we got to the point where we (or 'they') had to decide on the computer's password. This began a whole new heated debate. The first suggestion was 'gazelle', but this was quickly countered by 'chameau' (camel) and as these weighty words were passed back and forth I smiled and closed my eyes briefly; I was crowded into the 'live' room of Moussoro's one radio station, which was currently on the air, staring at their first ever computer, a brand new G5 iMac, while about 6 men passionately (and quite seriously) discussed whether the computer's password should be 'gazelle' or 'camel'.** __________________ These are the types of moments I have here in Chad....maybe you just really need to be there.... __________________ *To be fair to the American Embassy here in Chad, who have been amazingly kind and supportive to us volunteers, I feel that I should explain a little more about what they do besides promoting America as the land of abundant wealth and materialism. On this particular visit, the embassy man met with all kinds of officials and community members (including politicians, the grand imam teachers, and the president of the cultural center) to express 'America's' interest and support in the community's affairs. He also facilitated screenings of 'Hotel Rwanda', 'Malcolm X' and a movie about women's rights in Africa, which were very well received (or at least well attended). A couple of weeks later, people still talk about the nice Embassy people, so they are definitely doing something right. **The nature of passwords being what they are, I really don't think I can post their final decision. But I will say it's neither gazelle nor camel. 
(Photo: Road in Moussoro)
On Mondays and Wednesdays I teach a "pickup" English class at 4:00 in a borrowed classroom at the main primary (elementary) school in Moussoro. The students are kind of an "eclectic" sort of crew, different every time; a couple of guys I've met at the market and told to come around, a woman who teaches at a lycee (when the teachers aren't striking), a bunch of lycee students who aren't going to pass up the opportunity to take a shot at a real life English teacher (and from America to boot! - They haven't had an English teacher for the last 4 years), a couple of younger kids who saw me walking into the classroom and followed me curiously. They're about 20 in all. The class lasts an hour, everybody seems to have a pretty good time, they'll probably never look at the notes they've taken, they might come back the next time. But really, I'm not into writing about my class, not right now. I think you'd be better off reading about how I get to class, that 15 to 40 minute walk. The walk is a straight shot. I take a right out the door of the concession and I just walk tout droit down a wide, dusty, "2-way" road (I don't think I've ever seen 2 motorized vehicles on the road at one time). It should take 15 minutes to reach Ecole Centre, but sometimes it takes longer; a lot longer. 3:00 (when I leave the house) is a popular time to be hanging out in the street. The sun is not quite as hot, work has slowed down, night time activities can wait....let me tell you about who I might meet. Waiting for me when I step out the door (and then lining the roads of Moussoro) are the kids, the "petits" as they call them here. But of course not all petits are the same. Some petits know my name, either because they live with me, have been to my hangar, or were told by another petit. They're proud of this knowledge and will yell my name at me repeatedly (sometimes Jack, Sack, or Yack) until I acknowledge them. Some petits will see me and will immediately take up a chant of "nasara chewy" ("hey white guy") and will stick by their chant for an impressive length of time, well after I've passed them. Other petits prefer the chant of "chef cadeau" ("hey buddy, give me a present") and will keep it up for just as long, even more impressive because they'll be chanting to one another well after they have any chance of actually getting a present from me. Some petits are playing and shouting loudly and then catch sight of me and instantly become silent, eyes huge, until I pass and they shout to one another again. Some petits run away as fast as they can. Some petits are squatting on the side of the road, shitting, and silently follow me with their heads as I walk by. Some petits are all riled up and energetic, covered in dust head to toe, and come running straight toward and around me. Often I'll stare straight ahead and then suddenly yell "boo" and for all their boldness they scream, all terrified and excited by the crazy nasara. There are slightly older kids too, maybe 11 or 12, who are a bit more mature, know more French, and are a bit cooler. They'll walk alongside me for a few paces, exchange greetings with me, and then throw in (almost under their breath), "chef cadeau". A young teen rides up to me on a bike way too big for him and asks me for a present. I tell him I don't have any (mafi cadeau), and he suggests I give him the plastic water bottle on the outside of my pack. I suggest that he gives me his bike; he rides away. There are 5 or 6 teenage boys sitting on the corner, in the shade, listening to a radio. Some are wearing bubus, others are wearing "western clothes" pants and a shirt, all have dark sunglasses on. They all follow me with their heads, doing their best to keep their straightest and most serious face. I yell over "salut" ("how are you") and their facade falls apart. All at once they're yelling over each other, "I fine fank you!, Manam is Abakar!, Hey hi!, Where go you?....anything English they can think of (since they know I'm "the English teacher"). There's a group of old, weathered men lounging on a mat in the shade. I call over "salam alekum" (peace be with you) and they all mumble something in response, half to themselves, and watch me pass. There are three women sitting on the side of the road with a little stand of goods that they are selling (matches, soap, crackers...). I greet them in Arabic or in Goran and they all start cracking up in unison, repeating what I said as if they had never heard it before; one of them greets me in response once she has caught her breath. There's a man, 20 something, who walks straight up to me, shakes my hand and wants to be my friend. He wants to know everything about me, he wants to learn English, he even suggests that when I return to the states he comes with me; I nod and say "peut-etre" ("maybe") and try to break away. And then there's a man of about 40, a patron, in a grand bubu, and he cuts right to it; "Do you have a wife?". I tell him no, I'm too young, I don't want one, the Corps de la Paix won't allow it (that sometimes works), but usually he tells me that he has two and he can find me one no problem. I nod and say "peut-etre" and try to break away. And then once, (on a really tough day) I wasn't paying attention and stepped (squish) into a pile of cow (or was it camel) shit. And then three women were calling me over with a plastic kettle of water for me to wash off with. And then, 15 to 40 minutes later, I'm ready to start class. (Your) Nasara chewy, Zach 
(Photo: Zach's host brother, Abdoulaye, in blue shirt)
(Photo: Zach's host mother, Fatimah, on left) -Saalam alek.____________________Peace be with you (Hello). -----Alek saalam._____________________And peace be with you. -Inta afe? ______________________Are you well? -----Afe, allahamdulillah._______________I am well, thank god. -Barkallah. Nas bet afe? ____________Praise god. Is your home well? -----Afe, allahamdulillah._______________Fine, thank god. -Barkallah. Abukafe?______________Praise god. Is your father well? -----Afe, allahamdulillah._______________Fine, thank god. -Barkallah. Ammakafe?____________Praise god. Is your mother well? -----Afe, allahumdulillah._______________Fine, thank god. -Barkallah. Akuyanak afe?__________Praise god. Is your brother well? -----Afe, allahamdulillah._______________Fine, thank god. -Barkallah. Aktak afe?_____________Praise god. Is your sister well? -----Afe, allahamdulillah.________________Fine, thank god. -Barkallah. Watirak afe?____________Praise god. Is your car well? -----Afe, allahumdulillah.________________Fine, thank god. -Barkallah. Kelibak afe?_____________Praise god. Is your dog well? -----Afe, allahumdulillah.________________Fine, thank god. -Barkallah. Kikef minalwati hami?______Praise god. How's the heat? -----Afe, allahumdulillah.________________Fine, thank god. -Barkallah. Kikef minalwati barid?______Praise god. How's the cold? -----Afe, allahumdulillah.________________Fine, thank god. -Barkallah. Agod afe.________________Praise god. Stay well. -----Amchi afe._________________________Go well. And then, do it again.....This is not a joke or an exaggeration either (maybe the dog and car are a stretch), but greetings are a serious business around here. Agod afe, Zach 
(Photo: Zach's Hangar - blue curtain entrance)
For the entire day of January 2nd I spent a total of 40 CTA (on 4 pieces of chalk I needed for a ragtag sort of English class I'm teaching). At 500 CTA to the dollar, that's less than 10 cents. Granted I do contribute 20,000 CFA (40 dollars) to the family for food and incidentals each month, but still, I'm getting by on not much. So how can I possibly convey the idea that a year at my "university" in the states (when I say "college" they think I'm talking about middle school) costs 40,000 dollars? Sure, I can write down the number as a visual aid (20,000,000 CFA), but that's just a number, not really the "idea". It's difficult because the number's just not really logical over here...I can see them thinking, "I really wish Zach would learn his French numbers, he's messed up the translation again....I mean, 20,000000 CFA, what we would do with money like that!". OK, but this is a cliche example of the cultural chasm that exists between the U.S. and Chad. I knew that I was going to be the rich, wasteful American long before I got here. I knew that the indulgent way a portion of the world lives is a complete and utter enigma to the majority of the world's population. Fine, enough whipping myself on the back. But this is just where the gap begins. As I talked about a little once before, I spend a large portion of my day trying to "explain" myself and my culture in contrast to the Chadian way of life. It's great, it's part of the reason I'm here, but I constantly find that I'm talking myself down paths that have rather abrupt and unsatisfactory endings. A couple of days ago I was talking about New Years with my oldest host brother, Abdoulaye. He wanted to know what the holiday's like at home. I started to talk about Times Square...."a huge party, with tons of people and live music, and they need all sorts of security".... and then I started to explain the ball dropping and I could see his eyes start to wander...."a huge machine of a ball that's covered in lights, what the hell is he talking about?"...and so I stopped. Or the other day they were commenting on how I have a hard time eating the meat (you should see me, I take a piece of gristle and bone, and graw on it and graw on it, and finally put it down on the mat pretty much exactly as I found it), and they wanted to know, "don't you have meat in New York?" And so I started to answer, as tactfully as possible, that of course we have meat, but it's a little different....different cuts....well, really we just eat a lot more chicken....And while not completely accurate, this kind of satisfied the discussion. But then my host father, Ali, wanted to know if there are many animals (like cows or sheep) where I live. And I started to explain that not really, it's more that the animals are elsewhere where they're killed and then transported in big refrigerated trucks....and his eyes start to wander and search....and I stop. And then there's the heavier stuff. That I'm used to eating meals with my mother and other women, and that it's difficult for me to see women treated as inferiors. Or that I don't like it when they smack small children with reeds to get them out of my hangar. Or that I'm OK with the fact that I'm 22 and I don't yet have a wife and a child. I skim over this stuff now, but I will come back to it all; all in good time. I feel like my life has become one long badly dubbed movie (which by the way are all the rage here in Moussoro), where acting is pretty decent, but you just know the words that are coming out are not at all what the person is "actually" saying. Oh well, for now I don't think I really have any choice but to let the movie run and hope that they realize how bad the dubbing is. Hopefully, with time, as my French improves, things will get easier to explain, but I'm pretty sure there are some things which will stay lost in that gap forever. 
(Top Photo: Khadidja Petite)
(Bottom Photo: Malumah, Khadidja Grande) Its 6:15am and I hear a sharp, loud thwack coming from just outside the hangar and closed door of my house. I'm already awake, staring at the wooden beams that cut across my ceiling, but that thwack gives me a jolt, and then again, and then again. That's Malumah. She's got her sandalled foot on a chunk of wood, and with the entire length of her muscular body she's raising and felling a steel tool, a poor excuse for an axe; and creating this harsh, rhythmic wake up call for the days work to begin. I picture her shrugging her headscarf back onto her shoulder, raising a finger to close off a nostril, and then I hear her blow a snot rocket, and then thwack, grunt, thwack, woodchips flying; that's Malumah. And then a softer sound kicks in. A sort of shwift, shwift; the sound of reeds brushing sand. That's Khadidja 'Grande'. Tall, gangly, with her left foot slightly withered by polio, she shuffles along bent at her waist, a handful of reeds gently smoothing the sand floor of the concession. I know she's smiling and doing her own little jig as she trudges through this tedious chore. She's always kind of in her own place; that Khadidja Grande. And then a shrill 'Khadidja' cuts through the morning, and the high pitched response 'Naam" (yes, I'm here), and little footsteps running across the halfswept yard. That's Khadidja 'Petite'. The youngest of the three women-children who live in the concession, and the only one who's an actual daughter of the parents, Ali and Fatimah. She's presently running to her mother, grabbing a 500 CFA piece, and heading down to the boutique to buy sugar for the morning's tea. As she passes my house she's adjusting her headscarf so that it covers all of her hair. She hears me opening my door and she yells over 'Salaam Alekum'! Everything about her, 15 year older than her actual age; that's Khadidja Petite. These three young ladies are the rhythmic heartbeat of the concession. The thumpthumpthump, thumpthumpthump, in carefully spaced triplets that rises as all three simultaneously mash millet for the day's meals. Or the glug glug of the water as they poor bucket after bucketful into the concession's holding containers. Or the whit whit of a fan on the fire... or hsst fwap as a reed whips through the air to land on a young one's bare ass. They are the cooks, the cleaners, the babysitters, the shoppers, the gardeners, and the launderers. Heads covered, working steadily throughout the day, these are three of the sassiest, most capable young women I've ever met. - Its 7:00pm and I've finished eating dinner with Ali and the boys of the family (or any male that happens to be hanging around). We're all lounging in my hangar, the younger boys fighting for turns to crank my 'crank-powered-shortwave-fm/am-radio'. We're listening to the one local Moussoro station (simply called 'FM') which broadcasts local news in Goran, Arabic, and French, as well as a crazy melange of music anywhere from marathon jam sessions of local drums and flutes to Kevin Lyttle singing 'Turn Me On'. Tonight, Ali (the father and patriarch of the family) has to visit friends across town. He leaves silently, but its as if a beacon's gone off. With Ali gone the girls see no reason to stay away, and they come running. Khadidja Grande run-trip-dances through my hangar curtain saying, 'Zach, Pappi-pappi...' (Pappi-pappi is this stupid techno type remix of a song, all in Spanish, that for some random reason has become unbelievably popular in Moussoro). I can't tell if Khadidja is asking me for the song (as if I control what they play on the radio) or is simply singing. She's got a goofy grin on her face, her body frozen in a pose that looks like she's either about to fall or breakdance, and she just stares at me waiting, smiling, shaking her head... and then she laughs hysterically and dances into the corner of the hangar. Khadidja is not all there mentally, she can't take on the same responsibilities as the others, but she's always smiling, always dancing. Khadidja Petite yells something at her older sister, shakes her head laughing and struts into the hangar. Head back, arms spread apart, fingers clicking, chest pressed forward, her look is striking. She could be 25 if she wasn't so much younger. She struts into the middle of the hangar. She doesn't ask for attention but she gets it. Malumah follows behind her and sits quietly on the edge of the mat. An out of control dancer steps on her headscarf which is trailing on the floor, she yells something and slaps him on the head, everyone laughs. She seems so serious, but then a song comes on, maybe in Goran, maybe in Kanembou, but she knows it and is up and dancing. Her step is serious, but also polished and fun. And then everyone is dancing (to some marathon drum and flute jam session), and Khadidja Grande is doing some wild dance that defeats all likelihood considering her stricken left foot, and Khadidja Petite has her eyes closed and is snapping, and Malumah is clearing her way with swift slaps... and suddenly everyone scatters. I have no idea how they heard it, but Ali comes walking into my hangar. Its just me and my radio, and a couple of boys sitting quietly by my side. - Khadidja Ali Petite: (8 years old; Daughter of Ali Abdoulaye and Fatimah Suleyman) Khadidja Ali Grande: (13 years old; Daughter of Fatimah's sister's daughter, Kuka, who is deceased and Adoum who lives in Nigeria) Malumah Ali: (16 years old; Daughter of Fatimah's sister, Fatimah Suleyman 'Grande', who is deceased and Mahamat Youssouf who lives in the Lake Chad region to the west) 
(Photo: Some of the family hangin in the 'backyard' of the concession)
There are two rules that stand in my hangar: 1. You may not rip reeds from the walls of the hangar to beat and shoo-off smaller children (both because it ruins the aesthetic appearance of my home and it makes the children cry); 2: You may not stare at me for more than 5 minutes without saying anything. Other than that, pretty much anything and everything goes. Life in Chad, which from here on out is life in Moussoro, is... well, so-very-good, but also so-very-hard. After my first three weeks at site I have fled to N'Djamena to meet up with 7 other volunteers, and also to breathe. I have taken a few days to reflect on what my life is like and about here, and I offer these thoughts to you all. But keep in mind that my time is just beginning, and these are all most definitely first impressions. While completely legitimate in their own right, they represent the experiences of three weeks of a two year process. - Most mornings I wake up at about 5:30. That's actually not true. Most mornings I wake up with the first prayer calls that are blasted from the speakers of the mosque down the street at 4, and then again at 4:30, but after both those times I can usually fall back asleep. Its at 5:30 that the morning light starts to come angling through the slats in my door, and the concession starts to hum. I can usually hear one of my sisters filling up buckets of water from the tap in the middle of the concession, another smashing away at a giant limb of a tree with the dullest and poorest excuse for an axe you'll ever see, and all the rest starting to run and fight about. I then lie in bed for an hour and either stare at the ceiling, read my book by headlamp, or reply to text messages I may have received over night. I cherish this time, in my dark room behind a closed door, because once I let it swing open and I step out into the brisk Moussorian morning (seriously, its actually like 'polartec-necessary' cold), I'm stepping out onto the stage. From that point of the early morning until I shut my door again around 8 in the evening, I can feel eyes on me at all times. I'm an over-night celebrity in Moussoro; because I'm the only white dude (my sitemate has decided to return to the States for personal reasons), because I'm American, because I throw a frisbee, because I have the uncanny ability to sit in a chair and stare at a book for hours at a time, because I am very simply 'different'. Well let me tell you why I think being a celebrity in Moussoro is so-very-good but also so-very-hard. So-very-good: People want to know me. They want to shake my hand, and sit in my hangar, and look through my pictures, and soak up every word I try to tell them about me and my life in the exotic U.S., albeit in broken half-comprehensible french. This part of it is a lot of fun. It's good to feel 'wanted', or at least like people are interested in you. And its an exciting challenge to try to jump over the many obstacles (linguistic, cultural, physical, etc) that separate me from them and to try to explain to them what is was like the time I went skiing at Tucks, or what the chimney on my house at home is for, or why I have a picture of Stegner (my brother's dog) sleeping under his head on his couch IN his home, or what our hangars are like (What?! you don't have hangars?!), or...the list is endless. And this part is great, because its actually one third of my 'mission' as a volunteer here in Chad, to share my good-ol American self and culture with the people of my new community. Its also so-very-good because I have a seemingly endless supply of helpers (predominantly under the age of 10, although some who are older as well) who love to show me how to find things at the market, how to light my genoun (iron-frame charcoal stove), how to make tea (you'd be amazed how many chadian children it took to accomplish this task the first time), how to... again, the list is seemingly endless. So the exchange is there. They want to know me, and I clearly want to know them or I wouldn't be here, and in that sense really everything is exciting, interesting, and fun; but... So-very-hard: Like so many things in Chad, celebrity life presents itself as a double edged sword. It wears on you to have questioning eyes following your every move, even if they are absolutely and genuinely sincere and innocent. Children often gather around me when I take a book out to read, and this is by no means 'sit around on a mat and read aloud time'; I'm reading 'Crime and Punishment'. No, they're simply content to watch my eyes move across the page. But it wears on you. And questions, questions are great, but its frustrating for everybody when you don't yet have the linguistic ability to comprehend or answer the questions. Its essentially a daily occurrence that Ali will bring by a couple of his friends from the community, good interesting and interested people that I would like to get to know, and they start asking me questions, and all I can do is stare at them blankly with my mouth in that half open I haven't a clue what your asking me kind of way. And so they ask again, and maybe a third time, and finally I just nod and answer yes even though I haven't a clue what I am agreeing to. Day in and day out, this wears on you too. And then there are other reasons that life in Moussoro can be so-very-hard. Like the fact that my primary project (my job) and the thing that I have been working up to for the last three months is to teach English to high school students, but all of the high school teachers in Moussoro have been striking since I arrived because they haven't been paid in three months; there is no school. Or the fact that breakfast every morning is rice, and lunch every afternoon is rice with meat gravy, and dinner every evening is boule (a play-doish dough made from millet) with okra sauce. That consistent of a menu will also wear on you. But here I go, this just sounds like I'm complaining, and no one likes that. What it comes down to, is that my life has changed drastically and I know that I am still in the preliminary stages of adapting. Ways of life that are so new are exciting, but can also be intimidating or overwhelming, and that is what I'm currently dealing with. Every single day at site I laugh and smile (genuinely), but I also have moments where I feel like the weight of being who I am where I am is going to suffocate me. I will say that my host family is amazingly helpful, supportive, and fun, and I am infinitely thankful that I wound up living in the concession that I did. Most nights I sit out with all the kids under the Chadian moon and stars (like no sky you have ever seen before), wind up my crank radio, listen to music from the local station, and dance until the little ones fall asleep and the older ones leave to find a house that has a TV. This is probably my favorite time of every day. My host father (Ali) has called me 4 times in the 3 days I've been gone, each time to see how I'm doing and to wish me a bonne fete. I think I'm going to be alright. Happy holidays, Zach 
(Photo: Becky, Mark, James, Becca, and myself at the swearing-in ceremony, decked out in the capes we had custom-tailored for the event)
Swear in Date: December 2, 2005 I stood up, I raised my right hand, my cape billowed behind me, I repeated ater the words of the American Ambassador to Chad, and I said I do... swear to protect my country against all enemies... something about foreign and domestic interests... something about representing the United States of America... I'm actually not exactly sure what all I said that morning. My ears kind of rang as we said this heavy and official oath in the backyard of the Ambassador's oasis of a residence. I was becoming 'the real deal', dropping the 'T' (as in 't'rainee)and taking on a 'V' (as in 'v'olunteer). Letters, candy, and cash donations can now be mailed to 'Zach Center, PCV'. Really what we were all doing, myself and 18 others, was saying that we were serious about doing this thing and we were ready to get started. Since I'm writing this entry three weeks later, with all the insights of a three-week old volunteer, I can say that my ears were ringing for good reason. Becoming a volunteer undoubtedly marks the most drastic change in 'path' that my life has ever taken. It's what I set out to do, and I'm unbelievably excited to get started, but I'm also scared and overwhelmed; 'summer-camp' is definitely over. Your favorite pcV, Zach 
(Photo: Our thanksgiving 'bird': a sheep, roasted and stuffed with cous-cous)
Teaching is weird. After about 17 years of looking at the blackboard suddenly I'm on the other side, and its eye opening. The past 3 weeks of teaching english in N'Djamena brought my past years of schooling rushing back at me in waves of revelation. I now understand that when Mr. Herbert dragged my desk and chair out of class (with me in it) and left me in the hall, what he really wanted to do was club me over the head with a textbook and scream SHUT UP. And when Mr. Foret didn't appear to know that we were all cheating in bio, he actually just didn't have the energy or the drive to police us. And when teachers had us playing corny 'learning games' that made me wince, they were actually just trying really hard to make learning 'fun'. Point is, these past three weeks made me realize a whole lot about both sides of the education game, and that there are just some things about 'school' that are universal. I've been teaching at the Lycee Sacre Coeur, a private combined middle and high school (in American terms) that is considered to be at the very high end of Chadian schooling. (It's actually considered to probably be the best Chadian lycee.) To give a quick overview of the Chadian educational system: It's the French educational system. Adopted or imposed, however you want to look at it, it's the system that prevails. They start with 6 years of primair, then move on to 4 years of college (called 6eme through 3eme) then 3 years of lycee, then they take the BAC which is a big standardized test that determines whether or not they can go on to 3 years of university. For model school I was teaching 2 classes of 3eme and 1 class of 4eme (Sacre Coeur is actually a college and lycee combined). To translate, I was roughly teaching 8th and 9th grade which was respectively their 3rd and 4th years of learning english, for a total of 10 hours per week. The way it worked was that for these three weeks I was just taking on one of the english teacher's (Mr. Guerdjibaye's) classes. Good experience for me and good deal for him. Each class had 50-60 students who for the most part wanted to be there (as you have to qualify to get in to Sacre Coeur). To say the least the classes were all quite active (at times riotous) and both the students and I seemed to have a good time. The students here actually have textbooks at their disposal (to be used at school) which is a huge leg up on the schools we will all be teaching at out at site where resources will most likely be limited to chalk and a blackboard. In truth, textbooks are a bit of a mixed blessing, because while its great for the students to have the written words out in front of them, it also curbs any creativity on the part of the teachers. This is to say, on the first day when I asked Mr. Guerdjibaye if I could see his lesson plan he looked at me like I was crazy and just said, 'we're on page 38'. Most teachers just progress word by word, trusting that 'Go For English' will do the job, when in truth 'Go For English ' is both a poor and bizzare representative of the english language. We question whether it makes sense for chadian children to even be learning english, does it really make sense for them to spend three days learning about the cornea, retina, optic nerve, and the anatomy of the human eye? I decided 'no', and took the initiative to skip that lesson. Some things we did cover: A text on AIDS; nouns, verbs, and adjectives related to the 5 senses; using verbs in the 'simple past' vs. the 'present perfect' (do you know what that means?); a text on bullies; how to use question tags. WEIRDEST PART: So I'm a teacher now and teacher's have authority. That's weird because other than growing up in the states (and speaking english as a native language) what have I done to earn authority? When I walk into each classroom 60 students simultaneously stand up, greet me with an echoing GOOD MORNING TEACHER, and won't sit down until I tell them to... that's weird... ok, it's kind of cool too. SURPRISING MOMENT: I gave each class the opportunity to ask me any questions they wanted. The first question is invariably, 'are you married?', and from there its usually fairly predictable, 'where do you live?', 'what do you do?', 'what is your favorite singer of pop?', 'who is your favorite food?'; but then I called on a boy who stood up, glanced pensively at the ceiling for a second and asked, 'you are American, so, are you for or against the war in Iraq?' I looked at the boy for a hard 5 seconds, gulped, thought about 'my' answer, though about the 'right' answer, realized I didn't even know if there was a 'right' answer, stalled another 15 seconds by commending the boy on his phrasing of the question, finally I mumbled some ambiguous answer about being opposed to ALL war regardless of its nature, and then moved on quickly to field 'what kind of car do you run?' SOURCE OF FRUSTRATION: Just about every current volunteer has told us that their least favorite part of teaching is giving tests, solely because students put 5 times the energy into cheating as they put into learning the material. How do they do it? Well it doesn't hurt that on average they speak 3 to 4 languages that I don't understand, but beyond talking they reportedly will: sneak in cheat sheets, write answers on the desk, write answers on clothes or body parts, write answers on the ceiling, change answers after the test has been returned, add answers after the test has been returned, change grades... their ingenuity and communal spirit is really admirable, but its still really stressful to deal with as a teacher. I gave a test in each of my classes and seemed to observe the norm; steady hum of talking, papers being passed and thrown, classwide answers (both right and wrong) that were suspiciously consistent. The advice we've been given is, take a hard line, don't take it personally, and move on. Apparently cheating is deeply ingrained in the educational system and is something we'll have to get accustomed to. UPSIDE: The last three weeks have been a blast. Teaching feels a lot like peforming, and I think I did a pretty decent job as Curly (the lead) in our 5th grade rendition of Oklahoma, so maybe I'll do a decent job here as well. I gave my audience all the energy I could muster and for the most part they gave it right back to me. Moussoro's going to be a world apart from model school, but hopefully I can still keep the audience interested... we'll see. Nearly a Volunteer, Zach 
(Photo: Ali Abdoulaye and his concession...my new home)
Abba Ali's technical title is 'PC Driver', but I don't think that title does him justice. I see 'Master and Commander of the Unruly-Chadian-Terrain' as being more fitting. The man's about 45 (although the concept of specific age doesn't really exist in Chad), 6'6", and he's been driving a PC Land Rover for years (he was with PC Chad in the 90's before they closed). I'd say it was about 4 hours after we left anything that even faintly resembled any road I've ever seen, that I truly became greatful that Abba Ali was taking Chad and me to Moussoro. For about 5 hours we wove through sand dunes, palm trees, small oases, nomadic villages, and hobbled camels; and somehow after driving through hours of minimalist landscape we came upon the small (but still sizable) city of Moussoro. Let me try to put Moussoro in perspective (an impossible task). If you check out a map of Chad (there's a link provided) you can see the city in the central-west, about even with Lake Chad. Moussoro falls squarely into the 'Sahelian' climatic region, and is probably best characterized as such. The entire city; roads, houses, and (as a result) people, are the color of sand. Camels and donkeys are the principle means of transport; there are cars, but they only had a fighting chance of getting here if they have serious 4 wheel drive. Population figures are impossible to get (I've heard everything from 5,000 to 100,000) but its certainly bigger than a 'small village'. The city streets are set up in a pretty straight forward grid, although this doesn't necessarily mean its easy to get around, as every road looks exactly the same (at least to my untrained eye). To walk from my house at one end of town, to the lycee where I'll be teaching at the other end of town, takes about 35 minutes. The city has a sizable daily market which is supplemented by outside traders (many of them camel traders from the north) every thursday and friday. It has a hospital (which I haven't seen yet), a police station, a military base (out a ways on the outskirts of the city), a sketchy post office, about 2 churches, about 102 mosques, and 5 schools (of various sizes). The predominant languages spoken are Chadian Arabic (in the marketplace), Goran and Kanembou (in the concession), and French in the schools. Unfortunately I speak English. Its estimated that about 95% of the population is muslim. A cell tower was built here last year. There are several large generators owned by the city that (sometimes) power street lights as well as providing power for the water tower which (sometimes) delivers water to the spigots within individual concessions. The mayor has a satellite television. Those are the broad strokes. On a more personal level, I live in the concession of Ali Abdulaye. Ali and his family seem really great; alive,active, and involved. Ali's a representative for a taxi-brousse cooperative as well as the treasurer for a market-place garden cooperative. Fatimah, his first wife, is the president of a women's cooperative (very rare from what I've seen and heard of women in Chad) that works together to process crops as well as provide for infant care. The various kids, cousins, aunts, and uncles that live (or float) in the concession are always running every which way, doing a hundred things (starting at 5am); makes your head spin. I have my own one-bedrood pad within the concession with its own (all new) locking door. I also have my own outdoor hangar with roof and walls constructed of reeds which will double as a living room,a nd triple as a kitchen. Next to my house is a freshly dug latrine/shower room. The latrine itself is fine as Chadian toilets go (its tough to screw up a hole in the ground) but we need to do a little work on the walls, as the wall between me and the neighbors is about 2.5 feet tall, leaving me rather exposed as I awkwardly attempt to take my daily bucket bath. But the awkward bucket bath I must endure, because one must look his best when he is going to meet important people. In the span of about one and a half hours I met these important people listed in order of most important to less important (note the importance of 'importance' hierarchy in Chadian society): the Prefet (governor-type maybe?), the Sous-Prefet, the Mayor, the Inspecteur (I can't figure out what he inspects), the Delegue, the head of the APE (Parent's Association, kind of like a PTA), the Proviseur (Principal of my school),the Censeur (Vice-principal of my school), and the Surveillant (couldn't tell you his role at this point either). The point is, I shook a lot of hands, tried to show a lot of respect, and did my best not to inadvertently piss anybody off (left hand in pocket). All went well, I think I can go back. I spent a great week in Moussoro, but it was only a taste. Give me two years and I should be able to tell you a bit more. Its now back to N'Djamena where I'll be teaching classes for three weeks. Stories should abound. Best, Zach 
(Photo: A typical cross-street of dusty Moussoro)
October 29, 2005 So somehow I've managed to squeeze a bit of logic or rationale from the strange path my life has taken of recent. Somehow it made sense when I received a packet of information 5 months ago that said I'd be heading to Chad for 2 years. I guess it made sense because the packet was awful offical, endorsed by the US Government, and personally addressed to me 'after carefully examining my application'. And somehow it wasn't strange that once in Chad I'd be sent to a northern city called Moussoro, where camels are the primary mode of transportation, and temperatures regularly reach 130 in the hot season (or so I'm told). I guess it makes sense to me that I'm here because the Associate Peace Corps Director, a man with an official acronym (APCD), a man who interviewed me personally about two weeks ago, decided that this would be a good fit. So Moussoro it is. Well all logic, all rationale, and all semblance of anything reasonable was thrown to the camels this morning as I stood next to my Peace Corps Volunteer (PCV) sitemate (named Chad) and watched the mayor of Moussoro flip a 100 CFA coin into the air to decide who my family would be for the next two years. If the 3 antelope heads came up I would be living across town, in a different house with a different father. As it is 'tails' was the winner and Ali is my new host father (pere adoptif), his two wives Fatimah and Zahra are my host mothers, and their ten children Kadija, Usuf, Mallumah, Abdraman, Ashta, Abdulaye, Nidah, Ousman, Adum, and Abakar are my new host siblings. I guess it was as the mayor (rather officially) prepped us as to what the meaning of the flip was going to be, and I desperately struggled to translate his Frabic (French-Arabic) statement in my head, that I realized how arbitrary this all is. There is really very little rhyme or reason as to why I am sitting on the veranda of my first very own house, as part of a concession of huge family of 15 plus, in a sandy city at the edge of the Saharan desert. I'm not complaining, nor am I trying to be melodramatic; I'm just trying to give you an idea of where my head's at right now... my head is spinning. But of course I have gotten way ahead of myself, I inevitably do when 'the next 2 years' are laid out in front of me. To back up a bit, the last couple of weeks we've all been back at Darda keeping to our regular training schedule of language, TEFL, cross-cultural learning, and bad food. It's been great, the group is good fun, but I think we're all getting a bit anxious to move on. Training is a bit like summer camp in the sense that we're kind of held in a little bubble, surrounded by a bunch of people 'just like us', and lights go out at ten (actually all of the electricity is shut down at ten). Point is, it's not what we signed on for... ...So I was quite excited when we had site assignment interviews about two weeks ago with the APCD Djimessa. In the interview we talk a little about what what the different sites are like, what we're looking for personally, and any specific requests we might have. My only specific request was that I be at my own site (not with a sitemate), but we also talked about the fact that I haven't had a chance to study arabic (like the trainees who are already proficient in French) so it would be best if I went South (where they speak more French), and also that I was looking for something on the smaller side; a village not a city. So jump forward a week; I'm sitting under the trees at Darda for site announcements. All the PC staff as well as several current volunteers have come out for the big day. There's a giant map of Chad placed on a stand in front of us. One by one our names are read along with a site name, we stand up amidst raucous cheers (even though we have no clue what the names mean), and we place a pin on the map. Me; I place my pin on the name Moussoro, a small city in Northern Chad (actually its central, but its northern in terms of habitable land), right next to my sitemate Chad. Right... so not exactly what we discussed, but as I've come to learn that's just the Peace Corps way. The remainder of training looks like this: We have 5 days at site for a visit (where I am hand-writing this entry from right now), then we return to Darda for three weeks of Model School. For those three weeks we'll be commuting into N'Djamena to teach full size classes at schools in the capital. We'll each teach about 10 classes a week as well as observing quite a bit, and on our days off we'll continue our language instruction. After that we have a couple of days to wrap-up, swear-in's on December 2nd, and we're off to site around the 4th. And I'm ahead of myself; to come back I've prepared two brief lists of things I love and hate (thus far) about Chad (Darda really): I LOVE: Daily games of volleyball (Americans vs. Chadians); the unobstructed stars and moon; the energy, smells, and colors of the market; Chadian pizza made specially once a week for the nasaras (foreigners); Nido (powdered milk) mixed with sugar in warm water; mosquito nets; bugs that smell like green apple and wild cherry; eating with my hands; burps are polite; minimal cell phones; houses made of mud; Chadian clothing (incredibly comfortable and colorful); Darda bird calls (I've come to love the melee of sounds I once hated); poker in Africa (I'm the big winner in the group), as I'm up 7000 CFA. I HATE: Fish-head sauce; okra sauce with the consistency of snot; frogs that jump out of the turkish toilet; sweating profusely... doing absolutely nothing... in the cool season; bleached water that tastes like its straight from the pool; green lumps of stagnant water; the way kids throw rocks and bricks at dogs; turkish toilets; the incessant whine of mosquitoes; feeling trapped in a little part of a big country. Much more to come about Moussoro shortly. 
(Photo: Kind of like Abbey Road but dirtier, taken in N'Djamena)
I think I should probably say a little bit about why the U.S. and Peace Corps (PC) are in Chad, because while I did my best to answer the questions asked of me at home, I did so rather clumsily and with little information backing my statements. Since we arrived in Chad there has been an ongoing dialogue throughout our "group" (trainees,volunteers,directors,nationals) about why we're here. So let me offer a slightly more informed viewpoint: Our second day in Chad we asked the American Ambassador, at the American Embassy in N'Djamena, what the U.S. is doing in Chad. He awkwardly, but efficiently, answered by summarizing the "4 D's". 1. Doba: This is the name of the region in the south of Chad where oil fields are being developed. Exxon-Mobile (Esso) is the primary player in this development so the U.S. has considerable interest in the project. 2. Darfur: Sudan and the city of Darfur are directly to the east of Chad. Because of the war and genocide that are taking place in the region, many people are crossing the border into eastern Chad. The U.S. is involved with relief efforts as well as keeping an eye on the Darfur region (although I don't know to what end). 3. Defense: In the ongoing "war against terror" I guess you can never be too careful. That said, by all accounts the Chadian people, and Chadian Muslims specifically, could care less about America. Well, I take that back; I've met a bunch of people who think Michael Jackson is really cool. 4. Democracy: We want to spread American ideals throughout Chad.....right.....please refer back to #1. So,that's the U.S. embassy. The PC itself doesn't really have anything to do with the 4D's. Our official "mission" is 3-fold. 1. To share American culture with Chadians. 2. To share Chadian culture with Americans. 3. To meet community development needs as defined by the Chadian government and by our site specific communities. Officially, the Chadian government has requested that the PC would place volunteers in communities throughout the country to " teach English as a foreign language" (TEFL). Whether or not the Chadian government actually drove this request is probably questionable and I will really never know. The PC is often criticized for pushing their own agendas or projects on countries and communities. This may be, but I can see no reason why the Chadian government would object to the TEFL project seeing as English is in the official school curriculum anyway, and we are teachers that they won't have to pay (apparently they often don't pay their teachers anyway). The question I was asked at home, and the question that we have been asking here is, why is English a part of the required curriculum and why are we teaching English in a country where the two official languages are French and Chadian Arabic (and where there are countless other development issues to address)? The answers we receive from current volunteers as well as our Chadian teachers (here at training) are varied, but usually follow these lines: The government has made English part of the curriculum for a number of reasons, but at the forefront is the "great goopy hope", the oil fields in the south. Everybody here talks about it. The oil is really the only thing Chadians can see that will pull their country out of the bin in this lifetime. English speaking Chadians could help in this process, but again, to what end is yet to be seen. On top of this is the fact that foreign language is taught in the schools as a pedagogical subject (just as I studied French in high school) and it may as well be English seeing as it's the language of international communication. The volunteers we've talked to have expanded upon this answer with the insight that they often feel that they are just trying to teach Chadian children to learn, and that the subject is incidental. They feel that this is important and warrants their time and effort in a place where learning is rarely prioritized and children are routinely told "you're stupid", or beaten when the teacher detects a wrong answer. On top of this, the TEFL project offers volunteers understandable or identifiable roles within the community that can act as gateways to secondary projects (I'll explain in a minute). It's easy for Chadians to understand what the "nasaras" (foreigners) are doing in their communities if we are teaching at their schools. It would be far more difficult for them to understand our role if we were working as agricultural or small business consultants (other PC projects). The reason it is important to be understood and integrated in our specific communities is because TEFL is only the primary project! During the months when school is not in session, or during the months when the teachers are striking (apparently I'm not exaggerating) we have the opportunity to work on secondary projects. These projects are extremely varied and are meant to meet specific needs that we have seen in our communities. This is when many volunteers apply for grants or raise funds from the U.S. to help back an initiative here. Some of the secondary projects we have heard about from volunteers in Chad are: funding and building extra classrooms onto a school, funding and building new latrines, funding and working on community gardens, teaching English classes for adults, running a "girls camp" called "camp respect" (gender inequality is a HUGE problem in Chad). In more than one instance we have been told that the secondary project has been more fulfilling - as well as draining - for the volunteer than the TEFL project has been. Bottom line is, in some cases it's just important to find an "in" in the community. Teaching is a definite "in". I apologize if this has been an overly dry entry, it does kind of read like a PC manual with bad grammar, but I thought that as I developed a deeper understanding for what the hell I'm doing here, I should share it with others. Of course, more to come on this topic in the years to come. 
(Photo: Party in Madjiri for Ramadan)
Since my last posting we've moved on to homestay - we'll be living with local families for the next two weeks. Fourteen of us, myself included, are living about thirty minutes walking from our class center in a tiny town called Madjiri. Madjiri is a Muslim town, down a single dirt road, made up of a number of mud houses and concessions. Think stereotypical Africa, National Geographic, Epcot Center.... that's our homestay. My homestay "pere" (father) is named Adji. It's a little weird to call him my father because he's 22 and looks about 16 - kind of like me. Unlike me, he is married with a 3-month old child. Adji lives in an extension of the larger family's concession and I live in an extension of Adji's place. I have my "own" (house) room with a lockable door and my "own" hangar, which is kind of like an outdoor covered patio. To say "own" is relative because culturally speaking Tchadians have little to no concept of the "personal bubble". So far, most of my time at homestay has looked a little bit like this: I am sitting on a mat - chairs are not used - in my small hangar area. There are 2-20 men gathered around me, the closest ones basically forehead to forehead, the farther ones pushing in from behind. The number of people depends on how entertaining I'm being. Two people means I'm breathing, 10 means I'm talking, 20 means I'm playing music - they've especially enjoyed Tupac and Michael Jackson, but I only have 3 Jackson-5 songs which we've listened to A LOT. Anyway, this is to say that my time thus far has been intense. Madjiri is a small, quiet village with no electricity or running water; when 14 Americans come trooping in with all their accessories, the circus HAS come to town. Adji is great. He is young, with a new family, his own part of the concession, and he is very proud. He also takes pride in me as his guest. He doesn't leave my side and he tries to get me anything he thinks I might want or need. Dinners are the only meal I have at homestay. Because Adji now has his own place, he no longer eats with any of his older relatives, and because women and men always eat separately (at least in Muslim homes) the dinner "mat" is just Adji and me. Meals look like this: one big plate between the two of us, on which he places a huge heap of HOT rice. On top of this he pours an oily sauce with either a little meat (goat, fish, beef) or some vegetable (potato, onion). The rice is kind of sticky, as is the sauce. This is key because the meal is eaten entirely with the RIGHT hand. My strategy for eating as of right now is to ball up the food with my hand by squeezing it together and then pushing it to the ends of my fingers with my thumb. Then I just shovel it into my mouth trying to drop as little as possible (which is usually quite a bit) into my lap. I emphasize HOT because I've burned both my fingers and my mouth. I emphasize RIGHT hand because the left hand is reserved for wiping one's ass. I kind of see this as the ultimate irony here. They're insulted if I do anything with my left hand, but little do they know, I do everything with my right - including wiping my ass (with toilet paper of course). Anyway the hand thing is good to remember if you happen to be in Tchad anytime soon. The food itself is good but it's a lot. About half way through the food I have to say the dreaded word "kalas" (I'm full/done), Adji then protests "no Zach, c'est pas possible" (a favorite phrase of his) and he begins a sort of chant of "pour manger, pour manger, pour manger"....(eat, eat, eat)... all the while pushing food at me. I get through meal time though, the food is good, I shouldn't complain. A bit about trying to stay clean and healthy in Tchad. Our PCMO (Peace Corps Medical Officer), Chad - that's his name - ran a session yesterday titled "Diarrhea". The short of it is, there's no avoiding it, but there are things we can do to lessen the frequency and severity. Chad's way of explaining things is to think of everything in Tchad as being covered with a thin (or thick) layer of fecal matter. His motto, "Cook it, peel it, or forget it". They apparently have some organisms and parasites around here that you just do not want in your system, so it's really important to be as vigilant as possible when it comes to cleanliness. That said, it's impossible to stay clean in Tchad. When we walk back to Madjiri in the afternoon we are mobbed by children who've been rolling in the dust all day, kicking goats around, and playing in the Chari River (and you should see the Chari). I eat off the plates and drink from the glasses they provide me. I wash with untreated well water. All of these things are risks that as Chad says could lead to "the rhea". What I do do, is treat ALL of my drinking water by running it through this awesome filter Peace Corps gave us (the water is filtered through porcelain candles). I wash my hands enthusiastically before every meal, I think Adji thinks I'm a little crazy, and I try to refuse food that looks like it's more than sketchy. So far, so good. This posting could go on and on. It's impossible for me to tell you everything, because there is no everything. The details are infinite, you'd have to be here to know what life is really like. Know that I'm really happy, and excited for each new day. 
(Photo: Training group, taken at Darda)
On Friday, September 30th, we left for our training site. Darda is about an hour south from N'Djamena along a (mostly) paved road. I was in the lead car, things were going along nicely, I was going to be the first to arrive....then we pulled over, there seemed to be a hold-up, the staff car passed us by, we had to wait for the others...It turned out to be a set-up. We all drove into a full blown ticker-tape parade - Tchadian-style - in honor of our arrival. All the PC (Peace Corps) staff, a number of past volunteers, and just about every single member of Darda - very young and very old - were gathered behind big signs, clapping, singing "Bonne Arrivee" and dancing. It was pretty overwhelming, but amazing. We then all proceeded to dance for an hour or so (broken up by welcome speeches) while losing about five pounds from sweat in the process. Darda is a tiny village, made somewhat notable by the fact that there's a large (we take up the whole thing) conference center here. The place is very comfortable, electricity shows up for a few hours each night, there are dorm-style rooms for all of us, and there is a big shaded yard where we hold all our classes. This is going to be our headquarters for the next ten weeks or so. While we are here our schedule looks a little something like this: language class every morning from 8-10, break from 10-10:30, morning session 10:30-12:30 (either on medical, teaching, or cross-cultural), lunch from 12:30-2:30, afternoon session from 2:30-4. At 4 we are done for the day, free to go home when we are in homestay, or hang out when we're not. But that gets a little ahead of myself. I should first talk about our first night here in Darda. Some have called it "legendary", others "epic", to me it was just "ridiculous"....Chad is freakin' hot outside....if you go inside it's just stupid. Sleeping indoors, in a room without a fan, is like sleeping in a sauna. So we all decided to sleep outdoors. First you have to deal with the mosquitos, they're everywhere come nightfall, hordes of them, whining in your ears. Of course we all hang mosquito nets, but you can't keep them all out, and then they're trapped in; a single mosquito can drive you crazy all night; horrible. Then come the "Darda birds". They move in shifts, the shriekers, and trillers, and warblers, and hooters, but all of them make a freakin' racket. Then come the hippos, who moan from the nearby Chari River (we didn't know they were hippos at the time). Then come all the stray dogs who bark and fight everytime they hear a hippo. Then came the rain, and the rain really sucked. We are at the tail end of rainy season and we found out what that means in Chad. Our first night; I don't think anybody got more than 1-2 hours sleep. 
Photo: Trash heap and standing water in N'Djamena, taken from the PC office.
"If you want to go to the moon but don't have a rocket, go to Chad. -Some dude who wrote about Chad on the internet This is the best I can explain walking down the street in N'Djamena (en-jamana), the capital of Chad: There's a main road, it's paved (mostly), and there are many, many side roads. Since it's our first day here we stick to the main road. I say 'we' because out of the 20 volunteers in our group (10 male, 10 female) probably 18 of us are out on the street. We don't blend in, we can't blend in, we stick out like 18 Americans with wide eyes and stupid grins in a sea of hundreds of black Chadians. Most people look at us, some grin and wave, many laugh, and a couple of people yell things (in Chadian Arabic, we can't understand a thing) but nobody hassles or harrasses us. The road is packed with honking cabs, cars, and minibusses, who are all desperately trying to avoid (or not) mopeds, motorcylces, bikes, goats, and people that are walking and riding everywhere. On the sides of the road people have stands set up. They're selling cloth, pills, mattresses, shoes, fish (where are the fish coming from? Look at a map), gasoline in little water bottles, used bike tires... everything, they're selling everything and anything they have. Beyond the stands is garbage, heaps of it, rising above stagnant, green, chunky water. N'Djamena is poor and dirty, not like any place I've ever been, and not a place I want to frequent. That said, everyone we've interacted with has been very nice. The PC staff (who are headquartered here in the capital) seem awesome, and the PC office is very comfortable (air-conditioning, DVD's, computers...) We're just here in the capital for a few more hours before we head about an hour south to a small village called Darda. We'll be staying in the village for the next eleven weeks learning French (intensively), Chadian Arabic (not-so-intensively), cross-cultural skills, and how to teach people the English language. Much more to come about all that. Other Briefs: Local brews: 'Gala Beer', brewed in Southern Chad since 1965; nice malt/hops balance (and quite cheap too). Local wildlife: Many lizards, some as big as about a foot long. Millions of bugs who flock to any light source come night. Dozens and dozens of frogs who flock to the bugs who flock to the light sources come night. Shot count: 1 polio, 1 yellow fever, 1 rabies, 1 typhoid, 1 meningitis, 1 hep B; Still to come: 2 more rabies, 1 tetanus, 1 hep B; and of course I'll be taking Malaria pills (Larium) once a week for the next 120 weeks or so, mostly exciting because each pill carries the potential side effect of 'hallucinatory dreams'... I'll keep you updated. 3 days in, I'm overwhelmed, happy, and really excited about what I'm getting into. Nowhere in Africa, Zach 
My Peace Corps ('PC' from now on) experience will officially begin tomorrow morning when I arrive in exotic Philadelphia for what we in the Non-Profit sector like to call 'staging'. I gather that 'staging' is actually short for 'name-games-ice-breakers-hideous-shots time', but I agree that 'staging' is a far more agreeable title. Anyway on Tuesday (Sept. 20th) after returning from my 7:30 am appointment at the clinic I will be flying Air France into Paris, and then from Paris directly into N'Djamena (the Chadian capital). I will then be training for the next three months in Darda, a Chadian village just outside of the capital, on how to be the best French and Chadian Arabic speaking English Teacher that I can possibly be. And just to put it out there, I do have my mailing address for where I will be over the next three months (training). If you were to be mailing me something know that mail takes about a month to arrive, and that there is a distinct possiblity that someone somewhere (and possibly multiple someones) might go through whatever you send... Anyway:
PCT, Zach Center Corps de la Paix B.P. 1323 N'Djamena, Chad Central Africa And I probably will be able to check email every now and then over the next few months so if you like you can reach me at zachcenter@gmail.com. Continuing: I'm excited and nervous. I really don't have all that much to say when people ask me how I'm feeling. It's pretty tough to know what to feel because I have very, very little idea of what life is going to be like for the next two years of my life. I know that it is going to be hot (more to come on that in a bit), that I most likely won't have regular access to electricity or running water, that language is going to be a serious barrier to communication, and that I'm going to be rather isolated from all other... from pretty much everything 'I know'. But I just don't really know how I'm going to react to any of these things. Should be interesting. Stay posted. I'm excited and nervous. What I can say a bit more about is the situation I am going into as far as Chad, PC, and their historically tenuous relationship; and I will try to be brief. Chad, for those who don't know (and don't be embarassed, A LOT of people don't know) is a sizable country (roughly the size of Alaska) landlocked in central-northern Africa. If you check out a map (check out the 'map link') you'll see that more than half of Chad is actually Saharan desert, and is therefore quite unproductive and thoroughly inhospitable. As a result, the Chadian population of about 9.5 million are heavily concentrated in the south of the country. Chad was taken as a French 'colony', 'sphere of influence', 'stomping ground', (I forget the exact wording they used) sometime around 1900 when everybody was trying to collect as many colonies as they could. But because Chad is rather undesirable (from the colonial perspective) it was never really developed in terms of infrastructure, industry, technology, etc., the way that many other colonies were (for better or worse). So when Chad was granted its independence in 1960 it would seem that they were left with very little. The country as a whole is extremely poor. Infrastructure as far as roads, electricity, plumbing... is very basic or nonexistent. And like many countries in Africa the politics have been extremely unstable. So PC first set up projects in Chad in 1966 (check out 'official PC' link for more). But did I mention the point about political instability? The Chadian PC record looks like this: Opened in '66, withdrew in '79, returned in '87, withdrew in '90 (very briefly), returned in '90, withdrew in '98, reopened in Sep. '03. But it would seem that for the last few years things have been good. All PCVolunteer's in Chad are now working on a primary project of teaching English in secondary schools, and many are also working on secondary projects focusing on water and sanitation, and AIDS control and prevention. Oh, but I get ahead of myself; what I know about Chad: Chad has three seasons. The hot, where temperatures average around 110 and can get up to 120. The rainy, where it rains a lot. And the dry, where temperatures ease up to a cool and comfortable 80-90. There are two languages spoken in Chad, French and Arabic, although I believe there are hundreds of dialects of Chadian Arabic spoken, all dependent on where you are. I will be learning every single one of them. Islam and Christianity are the two primary religions of Chad, but there are many other indigenous religious and spiritual beliefs followed. The currency used in Chad is the CFA (some sort of Franc)... Yeah, and a whole lot more. Check in over the next two years to find out what life is like in Chad. Also, just an interesting note, National Geographic just came out with a 'special edition' all-Africa issue this month. One of the feature articles was all about Chad and the oil enterprises that are entering the country. They expect about 6 billion dollars to enter the country in the near future as a result and the question is who is the money going to go to. Check out the link to the article above, it's pretty interesting. Still on the homefront (Nyack home that is), Zach 
I got the idea to post my packing list from another PC member who is leaving for Chad. While at first it seemed like a bit much (to list every item I am taking) it turned out to be quite an interesting read. So if you're at all interested about what I'm taking away with me for the next 27 months, peruse through the list below:
Clothing and accessories: -Shirts: 11 T-shirts, 2 long sleeve wicking T's, 1 light-weight fleece, 4 short sleeve button- downs, 2 long sleeve button-downs -Pants: 1 pr. jeans, 1 pr. carharts (single knee), 2 pr. khakis, 2 belts -Shorts: 2 pr. cargo shorts, 1 pr. mesh shorts, 1 bathing suit -Shoes: sneakers, chacos, flip-flops, dress shoes -20 pairs of boxers -6 pr. ankle socks, 6 pr. dress socks -1 raincoat -1 windbreaker -2 baseball hats (1 with snap on neck shade) -2 bandannas -3 pr. prescription eyeglasses -2 pr. sunglasses -~100 disposable contacts Gear: -Knives: Leatherman micra, Leatherman Wave, Spyderco trail knife (3.5'' blade, half serrated), 5 carving knives w/ sharpening stone, 6'' chef's utility knife -Bike tools: Crank Bros. allen wrench set, tire changing thingies, bike pump -2 watches -travel alarm clock -2 head lamps (petzl Tikka and Myo) -Super-thin book light -Batteries: 16 AAA Alk., 16 AA Alk., 16 AA Lithium -First Aid Kit -1.5 rolls of duct tape -Bottle opener -Eyeglass repair kit -Mini sewing kit -3 Nalgenes -7 carribeaners -2 pieces of webbing (10' and 20') -4 Luggage locks -Lighter -Pens: 4 ball point (black), 3 sharpies, 5 color pens -1 pr. of scissors -Back massage/scratcher thing -Double wide mosquito netting Fun/Entertainment: -Cameras: Nikon Coolpix 3100 w/ 256 and 512 mb mem. cards, Nikon 35mm SLR (N50) w/ 13 rolls of film -Portable speakers -Sony Psyc Mp3 Discman w/ 5 cd's containing about 1600 songs -2 pr. headphones (Big and small) -Handcrank shortwave radio (Grundig FR-200) -2 Frisbees -5 Harmonicas (2 good, 1 ok, 2 crappy) Toiletries and Such: -2 bottles of moisturizer -2 bottles of 30 SPF sunscreen -15 Mach-3 razor blades, 2 handles -3 Deoderants -2 tubes of toothpaste -3 Toothbrushes -3 things of floss -4 Bars of soap -Nail clippers -Hair-cutting scissors -Pocket mirror -28 Tablets of Ciprofloxacin Paper Stuff: -1 Journal -2 Pocket spiral notebooks -1 3-subject spiral notebook -Small photo album -2 Michelin maps (NW Africa and The World) -Tropical stationary -20 Passport photos -Books: Rock 'n Blues Harmonica, Mel Bay's Complete Classic Chicago Blues Harp, Woodcarving Basics, Son of the Circus, Nobody's Fool, Gandhi's Autobiography, Crime and Punishment, Watership Down, English Passengers, Suttree, Outward Bound's First Aid Handbook Food Stuffs: -6 bottles of cooking spices -1 bottle of Tabasco -Candy: 2 bags of starburst, 2 bags of jolly ranchers, 2 bags of creme savers, 1 bag of gummi bears Gifts: -2 2006 Wall calendars (New York and National Parks) -Postcard book of New York City -2 Kid's Yankee's T's (Matsui and Jeter) -Yankee hat -2 pen knives (Courtesy of Howie Reiss) Packed in: -1 Large Kelty duffel -1 Mountainsmith lumbar pack -1 Large frame pack (Gregory Whitney) -1 Midsize frame pack (Gregory Banshee) -47 Ziploc Bags (20 1 quart size, 15 1 gallon size, 12 2.5 gallon size) -1 8 Liter wet bag All said, it's two bags to check with a combined weight of 80.5 pounds, and one carry on. If you can think of anything I've forgotten that I'm not going to be able to live without, please do not hesitate to mail it direct to Chad (Mailing address can be found in the previous post titled 'Upon Departure'). With a heavy load, Zach 
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