Sans Peur

I am starting this entry because I am locked in, or am I locked out? It’s Sunday morning in Abéché, after a rather bizarre Saturday evening, and I’ve found that the door to the rest of the house is closed. While it’s not locked, nobody has bothered to put a handle on the door, so it can only be opened from one side, namely the side that I am not on. I reasoned that at least I have the kitchen on my side, but it dawned on me that I do have a door to the outside and next to that door is a pile of keys. I’ve gone through every key several times, but cannot open to the outside world. So now I’ve resigned myself to sit with my $2 coke and pass the time until my colleague comes through – I slipped a note under the door, declaring my precarious situation.

Hummm, Abéché. Desert, sand, donkeys, children pushing huge carts filled with watermelons, men in horse-drawn carts, women wrapped head-to-toe with eyes averted, the most spectacular stars, but then huge white SUVs transporting the “humanitarian community” to and fro (yours truly included). Abéché is the home of le President Deby – he was in town when I arrived attempting to negotiate with army defectors who’ve apparently crossed into Sudan. I’ve seen his home from a distance, but warned to never drive or walk there, and after the incident with the US Ambassador’s wife in N’djamena, I’ve no need to tempt the gods. Biggest downfall are the horrible allergies I seem to be debilitated by – apparently Claritin has not made it to the Chad market yet…

It’s been a couple of good days here and I am not sure if anything can beat a Saturday night out in Abéché. It started with a Cameroonian dinner with colleagues and then off to the French Army base. I am not joking. The French Army base is where to be on a Saturday night and what a strange scene it was! I took it for a little anthropological experiment, but I admit quite enjoyed myself. Do humanitarians and military mix? Well, no, but they were rumored to have the only Heinekens in town, and as I find myself saying all the time, “When in Tchad…” So I arrive a little suspicious with my colleague and am immediately amused by the strange scene. Within minutes, a cold beverage in hand, I am putting my stellar Franglais to use, and in no time, on the dance floor showing the French soldiers what’s up to 80s French music. I think you had to be there…

So here I am, still attempting to get my feet beneath me. Tomorrow I will finally be heading to the field, catching a tiny World Food Program flight to Iriba (not a fan of little planes!), and settling into my home base. As Ramadan ends this week, it probably will not be the most productive. My colleagues contend that it is somehow cold and winter-like there, but I just cannot fathom it from where I now sit. Oh, did I mention that it is hotter than hell here? That I take three showers a day (and will have NO shower in Iriba)? That I’ve moved my bed to the center of the room to be directly under the fan? That a cold water is not cold for long? That washed clothes dry in minutes or that the moisture is all too quickly sucked from my beloved baguettes, leaving me with a dry, stale rock to smear my laughing cow cheese?

I am happy for a chill Chadian Sunday and being freed from my room would help immensely. I even left me cell phone on the other side. Doh! My luggage has yet to make its way from N’djamena and I’ve now been told it will travel with our organization’s radios by road. I cannot even tell you how many descriptions of “banditry” I’ve read about central Chad, so I am not counting on my bag ever arriving, though I am in dire need of that peanut butter, box of wine, some clothes, and a razor!

Ah, I finally made it out! Domestic Sunday, washing clothes, and after fasting the day away, attempted to make eggs in a pot over the gas-cooker device. As one colleague described our situation in Chad: it’s like camping, only with a house.