A typical day at work in Abéché….

(warning: this is a LONG blog entry!)

I wake up at 5:30 a.m. because of the bright sun piercing though my shutters and the crickets at their loudest, but the sound fades in and out of my awareness because I’m still have paralyzed with fatigue. Eventually at 6 a.m. my alarm goes off, and I press the snooze button about six times until I absolutely have to get out of bed, quickly take a shower with my little hand bucket, stand in front of my very basic-looking very old wooden closet, incapable of making any decision, eventually pull out a blouse and a pair of pants, get dressed and at 6:45 a.m. join my three colleagues at the breakfast table who are already talking about truck loads that have to get to our refugee camps out east that day.

Actually, I don’t sit down yet because I decide to say hi to the house staff. There is the lovely Fatimé who dutifully prepares our breakfast while her 13 year-old daughter takes care of her little boy outside, and Ahmat who manages the staff that work in our two guest houses, i.e. cleaners, cooks, and security guards. I’m responsible for making sure he and his team have everything they need for the day. We also talk about how many people there will be for lunch that day, what Fatimé could buy at the market that morning, and I give a few suggestions and recipe tips and off she goes. Ahmat tells me the man who does our laundry doesn’t feel like working anymore. I ask him why. He says he’s tired and his back hurts. Ok, so we need to find a solution then because indeed he is old and my back would hurt too if I had to do everyone’s laundry. So I tell Ahmat that we will meet up with Ibrahim at 7 a.m. the next morning to discuss. I think I might ask our young cleaner Hassan if he can take over some of the laundry tasks, he looks like he has a lot of energy. Insh’allah he will agree...

I finally sit down at the table. My French colleague complains that the bread is hard and he crumbles it onto the table. I tell him it’s 30 degrees and what does he expect. Then he tells me the bottled water is frozen and he can’t pour the water into his glass. I tell him to transfer two or three bottles of water from the freezer into the fridge the night before and that that would solve the problem. He mumbles something. I eat my bread and my Togolese colleagues starts talking about the state of affairs in Tchad and then asks what soccer teams are playing soccer tonight. My Rwandese colleague (by the way, they are all men) is silent. He seems tired and he has just taken an aspirin. I ask him how he slept, and he says fine. He works too hard.

I’m the last one to get up from the table and by 7 a.m., we’re all sitting in the truck en route to the office which lies about 15 minutes away. We pass a group of women riding on donkeys and bringing their goods to the market for sale that day – they’re wearing colourful head scarves and their faces are wrinkled from the hard work and the intense sun; further ahead two men in turbans riding on camels that are slightly galloping leaving behind thin clouds of dust; a young man riding his donkey and talking on his cell phone, goats with itchy backs rubbing their bodies along a brick wall, two kids riding a motorbike – I could swear they’re no older than 9 years; children, men and women crossing the dusty road filled with potholes carrying baskets of vegetables, and tires; men carrying bushels of sugar cane on bicycles, someone’s sack of rice just fell of his bike in the middle of the road and he’s not sure how to mount it again because the strings broke; people are honking to get past him. A truck of militants passes us at 70 kms and I look into the faces of 14-year-olds holding dangerous guns and I wonder what the age limit is for joining the army. Unofficially, there is none.

We make a left turn onto a road that is named after the president himself – Avenue Idriss Deby – and we pass two women fighting, pulling at each other’s clothes and hair, and kids standing around screaming with delight and I’m told that Chadian women are known for fighting, and it’s worse than watching men fight. I’m not sure I believe that, but it is rather comical to see women fighting like that. Like cats. Further down the road, a group of kids is walking to school, each child holding a little exercise booklet.

We make our final turn at the mosque with the big white tower, and our office is just 30 metres ahead to our left. It’s 7:15 a.m. and already hot. Luckily my office has air conditioning. I sit down at my desk just about to turn on my lap top, but Ahmat (the house staff manager) needs money for the next few days to buy food. We take a piece of paper and calculate how many visitors will be with us that week, multiply that by a daily per diem and by the number of days, I unlock the safe where I keep the per diem cash and give him the calculated amount. We also decide to order new glasses for the house because we only have about 6 left, so we fill out a requisition form so he can go to finance and ask for money. That takes about 5 minutes. Someone looks through the glass door and comes in. It’s the head of the drivers who needs me to sign fuel coupons to buy fuel for the day. I realize at the same time that the contract we have with the company that provides us with fuel is coming to an end in a few days so we have to renew. I add a little note to my to-do list. Ahmat leaves with the cash and the requisition form.

Another knock on the door. It’s the radio operator who just wants to let me know that she has started her shift, I thank her and ask her if she slept well and she smiles and says yes and leaves. I open up my laptop to turn it on. Another knock on the glass door. It’s two staff working in our refugee camps in the east who will be leaving soon to return to the camps, but their CARE ID cards have expired and they need new photos so we can make another badge. So I open up my drawer, pull out my camera (I’m the only one with a camera here) and take a close-up of each and tell them to come back the next day to pick up their badges. They leave.

I finally press the on button of my lap top. It takes a long time to start up, what a pain. Too much on there I think. It’s old too. I have been without e-mail for three days because my Outlook is not working and there is not a single IT person in Abéché who actually knows what he’s doing. Our IT man is in N’Djaména, and he only comes up once per month if that. I’m desperate because I need to get through to my colleagues out east, and the sat phone connection is terrible. I have followed all the steps as listed on support sites regarding configuration from Yahoo to Outlook Express, but I still can’t send mail.

It’s 8 a.m. My assistant arrives. He is a calming presence. We briefly talk about the day’s priorities and mark them down on our big white board and then he gets to work. Door knock. A man walks in and shakes my hand and asks me how I am. I tell him “bien, merci” and then I look at him because I’m not quite sure who he is and he is not saying anything, so finally I ask him “quel est votre nom?” He is the representative of a company that is about to start with the construction of school walls in one of our refugee camps, and he’s here to pick up the 5% advance of the total, as it is noted in his contract upon signature of the contract. The contract was signed before I arrived and I wonder why nearly two months later he still hasn’t been paid. I ask another admin person who used to be in charge of contracts, but he has no idea. We also can’t find the original contract, which is even worse, but we don’t tell him that of course. I’m sure we’ll find it eventually. I tell the man to give me his phone number and I will call him once his cheque is ready. He leaves and is a bit annoyed. Understandably.

I ask the admin guy to find the contract. He insists he has no idea where it is. I tell him to look through each one of his classifying folders and I leave. A few minutes later he comes back with the contract and I tell him that maybe next time he should look before confirming that the contract is not with him. He agrees. So now I have the contract and we have until tomorrow to get everything ready for payment. The other document we need is the original requisition form without which the finance department will not proceed with the payment. This form should always be in the same folder as the original contract, but in this case it is not. I ask the admin guy to look everywhere. He says it’s not with him. I tell him that all original copies of any single document HAS to be with the Administration department and that he is responsible for ensuring we have all original copies, but he says he doesn’t know where it is. Somebody else has it, or so and so needed to make a copy and then didn’t return the original. We return to his desk and go through the pile of papers on his desk and find the original requisition form. I have just wasted an hour of my time. We sit down and I explain to him the importance of classifying documents. He says he was without a boss for over a month before I arrived and things got too much for him and he lost track. I don’t blame him, but I’m still frustrated.

I need to have a training session with him and give him a proper job description so he can focus on specific tasks, but I have absolutely no time during the week because of the already existing state of the office, so I add this point to my already very long to-do list so I don’t forget. I can’t forget. Another knock at the door. And another man who enters and shakes my hand and asks me how I am. I say “bien, merci” and then ask him for his name after he sits down and doesn’t say anything. (How on earth am I supposed to know all of these people’s names?!). He tells me he’s from the Inspection des Domaines and he his here to collect property taxes on our two staff houses and the office and he wants to have a copy of all rental contracts we’ve had since CARE first arrived in Abéché in 2004 because, he says, no property taxes have ever been paid. I ask him for his ID card, and indeed he works for the city. But I want to make sure this man is legit so I go to the finance department and ask my colleague there if he recognizes the man and he confirms that he is a representative of the Inspection Domaines. So then I tell this man that we would be happy to provide copies of our current rental contracts, but that we cannot provide him with contracts that have already expired. We’re talking 4 years here. He insists that he has the right to all contracts. Then I tell him that we pay the official 15% state tax on all payments and I show him a contract to prove it, but that the property tax is the responsibility of the property owner and not CARE. He insists that CARE has to pay the property tax. I ask him to please provide me with a copy of the article that states that property tax is the responsibility of the locataire (I forget the English word for that). He says he’s not obliged to give me a copy and that he knows what he’s talking about and he tells me I’m young and perhaps don’t know how things work here.

One of those typical struggles between women and men here. I insist he send me a copy of this article otherwise we cannot proceed. He’s annoyed at me but finally agrees and leaves. (I never get that copy.) I ask my finance colleagues again about this property tax and they confirm that property tax is not our responsibility and that he just wants to intimidate us. We decide to write a letter to our lawyer so he can look into this matter because this is beyond my scope. Door knocks again. My colleague Hassaballah who is responsible for the transport of national and international staff between bases comes in to tell me who’s travelling today. I have several piles of mail that needs to go to the bases so we prepare envelopes and I list the content of each envelope so that the recipient can confirm that all has arrived. Another knock on the door. I signal to the person outside the glass door to wait. Hassaballah and I get the mail ready and I sign and stamp the list of CARE travellers leaving from Abéché so that UNHCR will let them board the plane. He leaves and the new person enters. A colleague who wants to return to studies and who wants to know if he can change his working hours, i.e. start earlier and leave earlier and work Friday afternoons even when everyone else leaves for prayer at the grand mosque. I tell him to write an official letter so I can discuss it with the programme director who would be directly affected, but that in principle we support continuing education and that as long as he works his hours it shouldn’t be a problem, but we will discuss later. He says thank you and leaves.

By now it is 11 a.m. and I still haven’t managed to get my darn e-mail to work. I’m really desperate now. Door knocks. Another man who shakes my hand and this time I recongnize him! His company had been selected to build latrines in the IDP camps up north (IDP stands for Internally Displaced Persons – they are Chadian nationals who were chased from their homes by force) and he now wants a letter stating that he dutifully completed his work. I tell him I first need to get in touch with the programme manager at the camp to make sure he did actually complete the construction on time and at the level of quality we had requested in the contract. I tell him I need at least two more days to get that information because there is no Internet or phone up there so I will have to send a letter to my colleague up there via the next person travelling into that region who will then deliver the letter to him. He guarantees he did a good job, and I tell him I believe him but that I still need that written confirmation and to please give me his phone number so I can call him once I have that info and written the letter he’s requested. He says ok and leaves. I add another point to my to-do list: tell all field officers to send letters and confirmation documents to me once work or delivery of items is completed. I really need to have a meeting with my staff to set up better procedures, but for now I’m still struggling to hold my head above water.

I go back to my computer. And I visit another help centre for Yahoo users who want to configure to Outlook Express and I try various options and redo the process three or four times, but still no luck. And because I didn’t click ‘keep copy of messages on server’ I have lost all my messages in Yahoo because I transferred everything into my Outlook Express. I continue to receive mail, but I cannot send anything. I call our IT guy for the 7^th time in N’Djaména but he has tried everything over the phone to no avail. I’m very desperate now because I can’t respond to any of my colleagues e-mails and this is our only form of communication. I visit one other help centre page and discover a different SSL code for users who are not able to receive mail. That would be me!! So I replace the one I have with that new code, and hallelujah! my outbox is slowly emptying out! I am thrilled and relieved. So that’s dealt with. I now have functional e-mail.

It is nearly the end of the month and I a few personnel contracts are coming to an end, and I have to renew about 10 of them. I also have to finish the payroll, which is the biggest challenge because it contains complicated calculations for all the various state taxes – there are many here… There is only one person who can help me, and he is swamped with work. We will have to work overtime on the weekend to get it done because it’s impossible with all these interruptions. On top of that, my head of mission is leaving for 10 days, so that will add work to my. My admin assistant comes in. A distributor of blankets has just arrived with samples of blankets he’s agreed to deliver to our three refugee camps out east. So now we have to test them to see which one is better quality. My phone rings, it’s a colleague of mine at UNHCR: the governor of this region has just extended the state of emergency for another 45 DAYS! I think I’m going to lose my mind. Nearly two weeks ago, there were rebel attacks out east so the governor decided to impose a 6:30 p.m. curfew on the city of Abéché and several towns east of us and to set up military check points to protect the city from attacks. We were told the curfew would only last 12 days, and that was bad enough because for the past 12 days we’ve had absolutely NO time for social freedom, and on top of that I work all weekends. And now I’m supposed to survive another 45 DAYS of this? I’m close to tears. I haven’t had a day off in one whole month, and I work 12 hour days every single day in high stress and it’s slowly starting to get me down.

I step out of my office and greet the blanket man who then hands me the two samples. He seems to be particularly keen on delivering the first sample. He says it’s soft on the skin. But I take a close look and pull at the weaving and the strings start coming apart so I tell him this blanket won’t last and that the second sample is much better. He tries to convince me that the first sample is better and I don’t understand why he is so insistent. I finally ask him if he’s having delivery issues and he admits that there are not enough good quality blankets on the market in N’Djaména at the moment and that is why he was hoping that he could deliver the other type. I say no and that in the contract he signed he promised the good quality blankets and that we would rather wait. He understands and leaves again.

I’m starting to feel really hungry. I look at my watch, it’s just after 13h. I ask my driver if he’s ready to take my colleagues and me home for lunch. We leave shortly after. I remember that at 3 p.m., a group of 5 candidates will come to my office to write a test for a supervisor position out east in one of our refugee camps. We have to get another room ready for them and I hope the two colleagues I had asked to be present for the test haven’t forgotten because I definitely can’t sit there for two hours, watching.

The ride home for our lunch break is bumpy as always. Here in Tchad, you drive on the right side of the road, but here in Abéché, you drive on both sides, depending on where the potholes are. Oncoming traffic is not a deterring factor, not even for my driver. I’m used to it now, although I don’t trust the other crazy drivers in the street, least of all the military trucks that cruise through the city as though they were king sh…

The table is already set and we sit down. On the menu today is couscous salad and beef stew. I’m excited about the couscous, but the beef stew… hmm, I’m not so sure, so I pick out the vegetables and have a piece of baguette and cheese. Yes, we have cheese this week! I’m totally wiped and can hardly sit straight. I drink half a litre of water and feel better. The table is a bit quieter at lunch because we’re all tired. My German neighbour’s dog is howling next door. I finish my lunch without any interruptions and go to my room for a short siesta. Siestas are common here because of the heat, and I’m very happy about that. I take a quick shower and lie down for 10 minutes. I think I must have fallen asleep because suddenly there is a knock on the door and we’re already ready to return to the office. I’m paralyzed with fatigue.

Back at the office, we start getting one of the rooms ready for the test; four of us carry tables and chairs into the meeting room and I get the test and attendance sheet ready for the candidates. My satellite phone rings. It’s my Canadian colleague calling from the refugee camp saying that the truck that was supposed to deliver the chalk boards for the schools has broken down in the boonies, about 350 kms south of Iriba and what to do? They desperately need those boards. The candidates are arriving in 3 minutes and I have no time to deal with this right now. I tell her that I will call her back in 30 minutes. I walk out to the gate and invite the candidates into the CARE office compound and lead them to the test area. One by one, I ask them to show me their ID cards to make sure they are in fact the candidates we had short listed. One of them is a fake and I send him home. I collect the cell phones of the 4 remaining candidates. The test begins and luckily one of my colleagues can stay to watch.

Back to the truck problem. I call the contractor; his brother answers the phone. He assures me that they have sent out a replacement piece to the site where the truck has broken down, that the truck should be repaired in the next few hours and that it will be able to continue to Iriba. I hope this is true because that would make my day a lot easier. I call my colleague out in the refugee camp and tell her to wait another day and that the truck should arrive soon, insh’allah. I go back to my office and start renewing contracts for my staff. One of the drivers comes in and tells me about tensions between him and another colleague. Oh man, I really don’t have time for this right now. But he’s really upset, so I listen and then we decide to call in the colleague and the three of us talk and we resolve the issue and everyone feels better again. That has just taken 30 minutes of my time. I check on the 4 candidates writing the test. Everything is ok thank goodness. I go back to renewing the contracts and manage to finish 40 minutes later. It’s 5 p.m. and time for all the local staff to go home, but my international colleagues and I stay on for another hour and leave just in time to make it home before the curfew starts. I hate this curfew. It would be so nice to go for a drink at the local restaurant right now.

I go to my room (crossing paths with at least 7 frogs on my way) and take another shower. The air has only slightly cooled down. I feel better now and go to eat dinner, my hair still dripping wet. I guess my pet chicken must be dead because we’re having chicken for dinner… I try not to think about it because the meat is really tasty, especially with the tomato sauce the cook prepared. I drink another half litre of water and am starting to relax. My body re-enters a state of paralysis, but I keep myself from fully relaxing because I just have one more hour of work on my laptop before I can go to bed. I go back to my room, turn on my lap top and prepare all the emails responses for tomorrow. By the time I finish it’s 8:30 p.m. and I can no longer sit straight and go to bed. It takes me about 2 minutes to fall asleep despite the heat and I wake up in the same position the next morning at 5:30 a.m., ready for another typical work day in Abéché….

I have been here for nearly two months now, and I can’t even tell you how incredibly steep the learning curve has been for me, not just professionally but also personally. Every day I’m faced with challenges from learning new aspects of administration to managing staff to controlling my frustrations with staff and the lack of personal freedom and ability to express myself. Never in my life have I had to put aside my personal issues the way I’ve had to do here, and although it is a very important experience to have, it’s also important to balance out that kind of environment with uplifting moments like going on holiday or spending a weekend in N’Djaména. I still haven’t managed to visit the refugee camps out east which is frustrating, but with all the work here it has simply been impossible and now that my head of mission is gone for 10 days I’ll just have to wait a little longer. Soon, soon I will go and I can’t wait!

Anyhooooo, I know this has turned into a marathon blog! But I hope you’ve enjoyed reading it and that it has given you an idea of what my days look like here. I know many of you were wondering. Off to bed now. (A frog just hopped into my room…)

Je ne comprends plus rien!

Abéché, 6 octobre 2007

I just heard our cook kill a chicken in the kitchen, and let me tell you, it’s not a pretty sound. I don’t understand why they can’t just chop the head off with an axe. It would be so much less painful. Anyway, and now I’m supposed to eat that chicken for supper tonight. I think I might have lost my appetite…

So I meant to tell you all about my market experience in Cameroun last weekend. What a zoo! And what a complete contrast in atmosphere compared to Chad which, as you might already know, is a military state. I didn’t see a single weapon; people were more relaxed and I was allowed to take photos (something that is strictly prohibited in Abéché, unless you pay an exorbitant amount of money of course). We were five women – my friend and colleague Jenn, her cook, the cook’s (very pregnant) 15-year-old daughter and cousin. The drive over the border was a non-event. I was hoping to get my passport stamped, but they didn’t even stop the car… and then it was just a maze of donkey-pulled carts, cars, motorbikes, people on bicycles, men pulling carts, women carrying baskets of goods on their heads, children selling phone cards, goats running around, women selling goods on the side of the road, music and clouds of diesel exhaust. Ahhh diesel. It’s all they use here, and yearly check-ups for vehicles don’t exist, so you will see cars in any stage of their life span driving on the streets of Chad and Cameroun.

The day was so hot, I don’t think I have ever sweat this much in my life. The water was pouring down my back so that it looked like I had urinated into my pants. In the 4 hours that we were there, I drank about 3 litres of water and went to the bathroom only once. The rest I discharged through my pores… We started off at the fruit and veggie market. My intention was to purchase small loads of mangoes and avocados, etc. – things you can only get at outrageous prices up in Abéché – but I was so distracted by the heat that my brain stopped functioning and I lost all desire to buy anything. But I did observe the whole commotion with great interest and asked many questions. Kids kept on coming up to me: “donnez-moi un cadeau, donnez-moi un cadeau,” but I just smiled at them and shook my head. The concept of giving a present here is very different from what I consider it to be in my culture. I like to give when it’s not expected of me… But that is something I can’t explain to them.

My favourite part of the morning was our visit to the fabric shop, even though it smelled very potently of moth balls. I decided to have something tailor made for me, so I bought two beautiful large pieces of material and found someone in N’Djaména to make me two dresses. While I was waiting for Jenn to choose material she liked, I sat down on a bench just outside the store totally exhausted from the heat, holding on to my water bottle as though it were a gift of God, watching people go by, and I noticed that nobody was sweating. How is that possible? I look like I’ve just come out of the shower and peed in my pants and these people are wearing jeans and long garments and head scarves, it’s just incredible. And here I was thinking about where to get my next bottle of water… A grandfather sat next to me on the bench with a black plastic bag, and after straightening out his Muslim dress, he gently opened the bad and pulled out two very, very tacky baby dresses, one pink, one yellow, unfolded them, looked at them admiringly, then pulled out two very tiny matching pairs of underwear, unfolded them, looked at them admiringly, folded everything again and placed them back into the bag, smiled at himself and left again. I hope I’ve painted the picture vividly enough… I just loved the sight of this conservative looking man in Muslim dress unfolding and folding bright pink and yellow girls underwear. So sweet.

Eventually we got hungry and made our way to a local hangout where they served fish and chicken with plantain or fries, and dole. For those who have never had dole (it was my first time), it looks a bit like spinach when it’s cooked and tastes like it too, but is a bit bitter. I couldn’t finish my dish, it was simply too much, and then I was so ready for a siesta – we all were – that we decided to call it a day and returned to N’Djaména. I did manage to buy things like olive oil and vinaigrette and canned coconut milk to make a curry. The others came back with a much larger loot!

Jenn and I were invited into her cook’s compound when we dropped her off at home and we had a chance to meet her family, which was such a privilege because it’s not that often you get to see what goes on behind those brick and mud walls. She has 9 children. Three of which are hers, and the six others are of her deceased sisters and one brother. I’ve stopped asking for the cause of death, first of all it’s not polite, but second of all nobody never really knows. I presume that 50% of the time it’s either malaria or AIDS. Both diseases are a major problem here. Speaking of malaria, I had my first taste of it this weekend. The symptoms vary, and I was lucky because I’ve been taking Malarone - a preventative medication – since my arrival, so I suffered only mildly and all I experienced was total exhaustion to the point where I couldn’t talk anymore and intense muscle pain and head ache. A nurse came by yesterday and gave me pain killers and then I slept all day yesterday and all night and most of the day today and don’t have any pain anymore. Am just very tired still.

Back to N’Djaména though. The next day, Jenn and I went to the pool at the Meridian hotel which is a whole other world for me because there are no pools in Abéché, and we ordered martinis and lay in our chaises longues overlooking the river that separated Chad from Cameroun. It was simply heavenly. I know I’ve been in Chad for only a month and I shouldn’t complain, but the sensation of feeling deprived happens very quickly here in the desert, so going down to N’Djaména for the weekend is seriously like going to Paris.

We decided to go dancing that night at a club called Le VIP. Not only were we the only white girls there, there were maybe 10 other girls there in total. The ratio men/women was about 20 to 1, and I’m not exaggerating. Contrary to all my other club experiences, we would have been hit on immediately, and although we did get a lot of attention, it was the girls that came dancing with us, one of them being a very pregnant girl who proceeded to imitate my very basic dance moves, which I thought was cute because I think the way African women dance is a lot sexier. She danced in front of me for some time, all the while smiling at me. And it was only when she went behind me and placed her hands on my belly (and her pregnant belly piercing my back) and she started kissing my neck in utter delight that I realized that this was not just a simple and friendly way for African girls to dance with one another, but that she was flirting with me! So I gently took her hands off my waist and managed to avoid her for the rest of the night. Jenn and I left fairly early because people started getting drunk and we could feel tension rising in the air. I’m glad we went because the music was absolutely amazing – mostly from Cameroun and Côte d’Ivoire – but it was good we left when we did.

Only one week left until the end of Ramadan, and let me tell you, everyone is counting the days, including I. It hasn’t been easy seeing people so hungry and thirsty all the time, and working under these conditions is nearly impossible. I arrived in Abéché just two days before Ramadan started, so that is all I know and I’ve had to really lower my expectations because hungry and tired people just don’t work well. I know that from myself. It’s been a very difficult time, also because I had no assistant to help me, but that situation has now thankfully changed because my new assistant arrived on Thursday and has already has lots of admin experience with CARE. This means I now have the freedom to go out to the refugee camps, which I have been looking forward to since my arrival. I want to see what CARE is doing and how these people are living and what their stories are. It will also be nice to see other parts of the country, especially the mountains out east and in the north. A few of us are actually planning a little day trip to a village 50 kilometres north of here next Sunday for my (30th!) birthday, and we might see some nomads on the way. And apparently the mountains are spectacular. The town (I’ve forgotten the name) used to be a thriving little municipality with a glorious mosque until they ran out of water a few years ago and completely deserted the place. What remains are mostly ruins, but some say the feeling is still special. I want to see.

I try to learn a bit of Chadian Arabic every day, but it’s not exactly the easiest language. I love it though and I would love to be able to converse in another language aside from French. Speaking of French, I still have a hell of a time understanding some of my colleagues! I can confidently say that I am fluent in French, but it happens not exactly seldom that I simply not understand a single word that comes out of their mouths. When that happens, I let them talk on for a while hoping that at some point I will be able to get the sense of what they’re trying to say to me. I’ll even repeat words. But then comes that silent pause, and I know I’m supposed to comment on what they just said, and I just smile and then say: “je m’excuse mais je n’ai absolument rien compris de ce que vous venez de dire.” And instead of getting impatient with me, they just throw their heads back, give a little giggle and repeat, sometimes up to four times, what they had just said. And even then, it’s not unusual that I will still only get the very basic gist of what they just said. The problem lies mostly in the difference of accents, but it also lies in the sequence at which the sentences come out of their mouths. They probably think the exact same way about my way of speaking and I swear sometimes I can have a full conversation with a colleague of mine and we talk totally past each other the entire time. As you can imagine, that adds a whole other level of difficulty to my work.

I know I’ve already mentioned how lovely my colleagues are, but I just want to say it again because they simply are! I missed one day of work because of being sick and I don’t know how many called me yesterday and even today to see how I was. Even the guy who fixes our computers called me today to see how I was! And some showed up at the house this afternoon to ask about my health, and all of them told me that they were sending me good health: “je vous envoie de la santé.” So so sweet. That would never happen back home… It really moved me. You know, health here is the most important thing. When you meet a friend down town, you always ask how he is, and how the family’s health is, and the father and the mother, etc. Nobody ever asks about money.

I feel tired again, so I think it’s time for another nap! Will write again soon, I promise…