Across Africa and Portugal continued

Awakening to a gentle rain in the morning accompanied by a cacophony of bird songs can mean only one thing. In the past, while working for the airlines and sleeping in a different bed almost every night, every once in a while I'd wake up and for a brief moment be confused about where I was. Dubuque? Pueblo? Raleigh? Phoenix? Over the past week its been a bit of the same, I've been all over the place, Lisbon to N'djamena to Abeche to N'djamena to where I awake this morning. There is no mistaking it though, the temperature, the feel, the sounds, and that rain. This rain is unlike the angry, violent yet short lived rain of Chad, which pummels you and everyone around for just a brief while before exhausting itself into oblivion. This rain whispers to you to stay in bed, to stay with your dreams, and just close your eyes for a few more minutes. Yet as I write this I am aware there is angry rain here too, as I found it or it found me on my last visit to Uganda.

It was a busy week in Chad. I arrived early last Tuesday, at 3:30am N'djamena, and as I anxiously awaited the sight of my bag on the decrepit, antique baggage carousel I became aware of something all around me, a sort of cloud. 'Oh, you guys again, kinda forgot bout you in Portugal' and I soon was hard at work methodically inflicting casualties upon the Chadian mosquito population. A quick shower and a 30 minute nap found me sitting aboard another flight, bags both under my eyes and the seat next to me, bound for Abeche for a week's worth of fun and excitement.

The days were hot and full of security concerns. Those rascally, rebellious rebels along the Sudanese border are creating havoc again, and the Chadian military alongside the French were strafing their lines daily. Seems there is a need for something to be continuously falling from the sky in Chad, a kind of queer fact of life. The rains fall from June to late September or October, destroying but also providing the most essential element for life. They wash out the roads and make everything on the ground an arduous task, therefore most military activity ceases and desists. Its revolution holiday time. Then the rains stop falling, the roads dry, the commanders wake from their soggy catonic states and the bombs begin falling in the place of water droplets. Helicopters were constantly taking off from Abeche heading north with shiny bombs and troops carrying bright new black Russian AK47s. While awaiting the fuel truck one day I heard a 'clink..clink..clink..clunk..clink...' coming from behind me. Lacking working trucks, explosive experts were using a rickety bag cart to transport massive yellow bombs across the ramp. Every clink I heard sent a shiver up my spine as I watched the explosives roll into each other, clunking and clinking. Not my idea of a respectable way to go. Death by baggage cart bombs, "sorry bout your son, Ms. Washburn and Mr. Archambault, at least it wasn't a heart attack on the toilet."

Besides flying twice the normal amount, we were constantly 'on call' for a possible evacuation of NGO staff from a few locations in the north, where fighting intensified between the different armies. A constant buzz was heard, a nervous energy excited the air around, and everyone was whispering of what was to come. For it's part the UNHCR was extremely helpful in determining the current security status when queried.

"What is the security status up north around Guerada this week?"
"Oh, fine. Just fine."
"Really...hmmm. That's kinda funny, because I heard differently and have also seen the gunships loaded with bombs and the body bags being laid out on the ramp in front of the French base, there was even talk that the rebels made it to within 15km of Abeche last night..."
...PAUSE...
"Mmm hmmm"
"huh. ok, thanks for your time"

There is a veil of secrecy around everything here. No one will officially tell you that things are detiorating, or that the proverbial shit is hitting the fan, but if you look around it seems quite obvious. Some out there speculate that its because the UNHCR is on an invitational thin ice status with the Chadian government and if it were to start shouting "WE HAVE A PROBLEM HERE!! GET READY TO EVACUATE PEOPLE!" it would endanger it's precarious good standing with the authorities. It would be like stating the rebels are winning and the government (that is allowing our presence to exist) is losing. Yet we are not asking for this, we are asking for a whispered truth, just a glimmer of what is really happening so that we all might be prepared, or at least that's what I'm asking for.

A report recently came out from 'undisclosed sources' regarding an interview with one of the rebel commanders. It soon was circulated around all the NGO's, though few will confess to having received it if directly questioned. In it the commander states that due to the French military's involvement in the conflict, any French national found on the ground, humanitarian or military, will be considered a mercenary/enemy and dealt with accordingly. Sitting on the couch reading this off my laptop's screen, with Fred, our French Program Chief Pilot sitting next to me, I had to chuckle.

"What's so funny?" he asked with an irritated French accent.
"...now you know what it feels like to be an American, buddy! Welcome to the club!"
No response.

A few days later, on Saturday, we ferried the aircraft across central Chad back to N'djamena, and escaped the (conflict generated) heat for a day or two. That night Fred and I trudged around the pattern in N'djamena in the Otter for 6 landings to get night current again (an US FAA regulation) and I shot one of my first 0/0 - window open approaches. While flying the previous few approaches, we had massacred countless swarms of bugs, until finally on my last landing I hit the jackpot of all mosquito columns and rendered the windshield completely useless, it became covered with a thick paste of bug juice and bug appendages of various colors and consistencies. Damn. Down goes the side window, and I had to fly the plane sideways to the runway while getting pummeled, myself now, with small bugs at 85 mph.

A nice humid weekend in N'djamena consisting of dinners with Elizabeth, Darcy and the gang ended at 3 am Monday morning, after only 4 hours sleep, when I arose to fly the Otter with Fred down to Entebbe. Stepping outside it struck me just how peaceful everything was, the crickets, the tree frogs, a light breeze, and a waning moon shining through thin cirrus clouds above. I had to think that, like many places on earth, Chad wouldn't be such a bad place, if only there weren't any people here. We took off southbound for Bangui initially at 4am on the dot, wielding flashlights, headlamps and a thermos full of super sugary watered down coffee, thanks Fred. Crossing the Chari river off the end of runway 23 we flew south over Cameroon initially, crossed back into Chad and then over the border of Central African Republic. The lights of industrialized civilization faded shortly after departure form N'djamena and a black hole loomed below for most of the trip, countered only by the beautiful bright stars above. I was invigorated at first by the thought of being one of only a few people who have done such a trip over this region, but it soon faded into sleepiness, and irritation with the horrible coffee flavored sugar water and the French guy sitting next to me. I began contemplating whether I had ever read anywhere in the FAA FARs (Federal Air Regulations, the 'bible' of US based aviation) stating that there was a limit to how many hours one could fly in the same airplane with a French captain before needing another vacation. Just the thought lifted my spirits and I determined I'd make the suggestion to the NTSB upon my return to the United States.

Bangui came and went in 3 hours time without any arrests for photographic or urinary reasons, just a few ridiculous bribe-payments and some silly debates with the fuelers. We were off again southeast bound across the northern reaches of the Democratic Republic of Congo. Rolling green grasslands with swaths of forest soon gave way to a thick impenetrable sea of dark green broccoli tops that appeared to continue on forever. Not much hope for someone over this sea of vegetation if they were to lose their engines, or in some of our planes cases, engine. Here and there a hole would appear, a spot where greedy, sweaty men dig below, scarring the earths crust in search of gold. Then a bizarre line would cross our path, running on for miles before abruptly turning and continuing off into the horizon. Old roads. Roads that the Belgians had constructed during their time of colonial rule, but that haven't seen attention since their hasty withdrawal in the 60's, and have since been swallowed up by the hungry jungle. After a couple hours of no one hearing us and us in return only hearing scratchy voices of far away pilots we finally stumbled upon Kisangani, which is now one of my least favorite places.



Landing in Kisangani is like landing in a large advertisement for the United Nations. Everywhere you look there is UN stamped on this and that. This airplane, that truck, this container, that guy's hat, this building, that tractor. Its overwhelming. We parked next to a massive cargo plane with Russian registration numbers and watched as they crammed its hold to the roof with random containers. The pilots, fat and shirtless, sat beneath its tail in the shade smoking cigarettes rubbing their sweaty, grey haired bellies as the forklifts loaded the aircraft. 'I hope I don't turn out like that' flashed across my mind as I simultaneously wondered if what they were sipping wasn't vodka. Fuel trucks rolled back and forth between the massive C130s and Antonov cargo aircraft ignoring us completely. I stayed by the airplane while Fred sauntered off in search of an office to pay the landing fees and file a new flight plan. As soon as he was out of sight the endless procession began...

"Bonjour! Ce Va? aaaahhhh....ok, you have to pay to park here."
"I'm sorry, I don't have any money on me right now, the other guy took it"
"ok you give me souvenir then..."
"ummm, what?"
"you give me souvenir, and cigarettes. You have any American dollars?"
"wow. Umm, hold on, I think I might have a postcard of Portugal here...oh look there it is! Here you are....here's your souvenir"
"aaah, Monsieur, noooooo, nooooo. Please, I need souvenir."
"Hablas espanol?"
"what?"
"Hablas espanol? Te gusta conyar los micos? Mmmm? Me llamo es Jesse, y no me gusta pescado del Rio de Congo o las naranjas verde en mi cabeza! Aye chihuahua. No entiendas, no comprendas? Lo siento senors, lo siento."
...wait for it...wait for it...
The classic puzzled look...a quizical look that I smile broadly too, cocking my head waiting for a response.
"aaaaahhh, ok...aaaaaaaahhhh, we come back later...."
Sweet. One down, about 25 more to go.

And so it went, groups of men would come by the airplane as I sat leaned against its tires trying to catch a brief moment's nap in the sweltering heat. I would hear their feet kicking the pebbles and dirt, purposely trying to make noise to wake me, and I would slowly raise my head and smile. It would all go down the same, each one of the encounters. They would greet in French, I'd reply in Spanish, once even in Portuguese just to stir it up a bit. The bribes-gifts-souvenirs were requested, I'd give them the rambling, ungrammatical speech in broken Spanish about how I did not like Congolese fish or the green oranges in my head. They'd look at each other, me, each other and stand around for 4-5 minutes before frustratingly making off for the next airplane, leaving me to my fitful nap. I promise on my return home to learn more Spanish just out of gratitude for what its done for me in Africa.

We took off again into the jungle, flying alongside the Congo River for quite sometime before diverting away from it for the massive tropical thunderstorms that were looming everywhere. I quickly decided that I love the Twin Otter when it comes to thunderstorms. You have a lot of time to decide what to do with a line of thunderstorms sitting in front of you when you are going 80 mph vs. 300 mph in the 1900 or 500 mph in the CRJ. Most of the monsters I just dropped down beneath, cutting between the rain shafts which hung like shadowy, translucent tentacles from the black beast above. We watched as lighting struck the rainforest below, just miles from our wingtips and I began wondering who was down there watching the aluminum dodo bird precariously amble overhead. Pygmies? Drunken Congolese rebels? Or maybe refugee Rwandan Hutus still hiding 12 years later after massacring 800,000 of their fellow countrymen? I voted Pygmies, it just sounded like someone I'd rather meet on the forest floor.

Further on, as the sun began to set we came upon the massive mountains that border Uganda, before giving way to its expansive and beautifully sweeping western plains. I squinted looking at the 16,500 foot peak off our wing tip, towering 5,500 feet above us, trying to discern if it really was snow that stuck to its craggy precipice. Yep. Wow, who would've thought...snow right here, smack dab on the equator, just miles from a misty rainforest. 10.5 hours flight time and we would land in Uganda again.


Portugal continued...
Ok, so here's what I've decided, how bout I save the Portugal stories for later, because I just think I'd be writing more than anyone would care to read in one sitting. I'll just include a few more pictures and captions. I'll try and put a link on the site so that anyone can check out my online photo album. Enjoy....

Country side between Porto and the Peneda Geres Natl. Park on the border of Spain, northern Portugal...


More countryside...


Ancient Stone village on eastern border...


Me in the mountains...



Misty coastline north of Lisbon...

A brief photographic introduction to Portugal...

Phew, so I made it back to Chad, good Lord did I miss this place. (Sarcasm)

I arrived back in N'djamena Tuesday morning, 4am, and had to hop another airplane for Abeche, on the eastern border, at 7am. Goodtimes. Just as I thought, things are really getting messy out here...the rains have let up, only to have the heavens rain other things upon the villages and heads below...bombs and bullets.

So, here's a few pictures from Portugal, and I'll tell more about the place later. We had a great time, the weather was beautiful, the country even more so, the food excellent, the wine superb and the people warm. I'd go back to Portugal in a heartbeat if it weren't for the fact I want to see so many more places out there. So many places, so little time...

The first night...Sintra, just outside Lisbon...



The second day, castle at Sintra...journey up the coast to San Pedro Mont?...



Moorish castle at Sintra


Beach! So nice to see water!






Second night, SPM lighthouse



Third day, swimming then drive north to Roman ruins then on up to Porto, a beautiful old city that is about 90% World Heritage Sight (seemingly)







I'll leave off here....takes too long to upload pictures and I'll write more about our trip. In the meantime...tomorrow we head north, to rebel territory, the other beach...yippee.

A blatent and flagrant misuse of apostrophes plus jaundice(???)

The rain is back.

We had 4 days of uninterrupted sunshine. Tropical, skin searing, blazing sunshine while our airplane was out of service awaiting parts. Now, with the inoperative parts rendered operable, and the aircraft gods smiling down upon us again, the weather gods have decided its time to return from their brief rest and relaxation recess and play once more.

A flat corrugated, tin roof makes an amazing amount of noise when it is slammed with hailstones or large globulous drops of water sent from 35,000 feet above. I awoke two mornings ago to the slight pitter patter of small droplets, increasing ever slightly, accompanied by the low rumblings of approaching thunder, and I drifted slowly back to sleep. It was as if someone (recently returned from weather god R&R) decided the foreplay was enough...this is boring, lets give em the whole thing. The storm slammed into N'djamena and our flat tin roof resulting in more flooding, more temporarily homeless people whose houses sit submerged in mocha colored waters, more sanctuary for mosquitoes and their parasites, and one wide awake Jesse.

After an hour or so it drifted off into the distance, leaving only a constant drizzle, lumbering off towards Nigeria, and the Atlantic Ocean. Off west still, in this band of latitude where Mr. Coriolis and his wondrous effect have no say, thru the intertropical discontinuity zone as the weather experts call it, over the first murky, then deep, blue waters of the Atlantic. Off over the Canaries, later the Turks and Caicos, the island of Hispaniola, across Cuba and over ailing Mr. Castro's head towards Florida and beyond to the northeast United States. I'm not sure why lying in bed thinking this gave me a bit of solace, a bit of pleasure, though I hypothesize the thoughts produced feelings that were along the lines of 'I'm not so far from home after all'. Most people contemplate, when they are lonely in a faraway place, that the moon or white stars they gaze at above are the very same moon or twinkling, white stars their loved ones may also be admiring 5 thousand miles away. I laid awake thinking that maybe, just maybe, the rain that awakens me here, at 3am on a Wednesday morning, and that will flood our road and the huts of many poor souls here in the neighborhoods surrounding, or at least that rain's cousin, will in possibly 2 weeks time, travel up the eastern seaboard of North America and drench you all too. Sorry.

I leave for R&R this weekend, late Sunday night to be exact. I hop aboard AirFrance and head first to Paris where I meet my friend Laura, whom I traveled with in China last year. We plan on using our 7 hour layover to venture off to the Eiffel tower or maybe just to go get a cup of expensive coffee at some random street side cafe. Then it's back to the airport where our airplane for Lisbon, Portugal awaits to take us.

People have been asking why I want to go to Portugal. How many people do you know personally that have been to Portugal? I, personally, count zero, and that is what interests me. I look forward to being able to eat what I want to eat, without worrying that I'm tempting cholera, dysentery, food poisoning, or giardia, and to drink good wine...mmmm. The ocean, too, tempts, especially it being the Atlantic. I think there may be one summer in my lifetime that I have not gone swimming more than once in the North Atlantic, and I'd rather not make that number two. Its just one of those previously unspoken of (spoken of now) pledges, an unconscious promise to myself. Though I'd rather take to the water with a mask, snorkel and speargun or bag to snag some lobsters, I'll be more than contempt just to wet my head in its salty waves again this year. Oh, and Portugal is said to have the largest supply of unicorns and twizzle horned pixie dust eaters globally (second only to Pilanesburg National Park in South Africa, as Bryce Kujat will attest to). Just seeing if your paying attention.

RANDOM AFRICAN FLOWER...



My unread book supply has dwindled to nothing. What remains are those books that are left here from previous tenants, some in foreign dialects, some saucy-steamy romance novels, one by the good doctor Phil, and the last...Herman Melville's solitary novel of mention (I'm aware he wrote more). It seems quite strange to be sitting beside the muddy Chari River, Cameroon a canoe's paddle away, French warplanes roaring overhead, men careening thru the streets beside with vast armaments of weaponry, tropical birds and tropical sun screeching and scorching, while I sit reading Moby Dick. I always pictured this novel as one best read while sitting beside a stone fireplace in a house perched above the breaking surf on Cuttyhunk Island as cold, coastal December rain pelted the windows, or even on its namesake, Nantucket. But Tchad? Its funny when you get sucked into a good book, your persona almost veers towards that of the characters, you start to be there in the plot and occasionally have to remind yourself that you exist in the present reality, not in the fictional or nonfictional happenings of the novel. This sounds silly, but I can guarantee you that if you were reading a great Sir Arthur Conan Doyle story while overlooking the moors of northern England, or a phenomenal mountaineering survival account while the snowy Alps or Rockies sat within view, the book in question would seem all that more real, as if you were inside the setting and a member of its character list. Funny sometimes to be reading all these aargh's, ye's, twas's, thous't's, wast's, hast's, aye's and dosts's only to divert my attention to the real world and hear the next most foreign language besides salty old English with a Quaker twist, Arabic. (yes I realize my highschool grammar teachers would be appalled at my use of apostrophes in the previous statement)

There have been two (of I'm sure countless others I'm unaware of) medevacs lately. One was our Swiss Canadian pilot Miriam, who was suffering for a couple weeks from abdominal pains that the French military doctors debated it being a liver infection or appendicitis. We managed to fit her on the airplane last week and get her back to N'djamena so that she might catch a flight home to Canada.

The other was one of Elizabeth's coworkers, at CCF. This poor guy, who I'm sure I'm misspelling his name grossly, Shri, had quite the run of luck here in the capital. A couple weeks back he came down with a flu like symptoms that after a few days remained, and remained with undiminished intensity. He had little energy, crippling cramps, nausea and fevers...logical conclusion: MALARIA. Off he went to the wonderfully illustrious N'djamena hospital, where sure enough, the Chadian medical staff concluded the same and he was issued a prescription of heavy duty, industrial strength, reduce your life expectancy by 3 years, antibiotics. 5 days later, his symptoms remained, and they once again, remained with consistent fervor. Back to the incredibly insightful N'djamena hospital for Shri where it was found..."WOW, your malaria levels have doubled in the past 5 days. You went from a bacterial concentration level of .004 to .008, that's putting you into a serious danger zone!...here take these, and come back in 3 days". So, off Shri went again, now with a new omnipotent, volatile, take another 4 years off your life expectancy, prescription. Three days pass, guess what? Shri gets driven back to the hospital, feeling as bad as ever. Blood sample taken, blood sample reveals (drum roll please): "OH, PRAISE ALLAH! How are you even alive??? Your malarial infection level has jumped from .008 to .022!!! This is lethal!...Oh, by the way, you have jaundice as well. Sorry. Take these pills and come back in 2 days. Toodles!" So off Shri goes again, but this time the rest of his coworkers finally said enough is enough, we need to get you to a western doctor, and off Shri goes to a French doctor instead of back home to poison himself and his hitchhiking parasites. 1 hour of testing and the French doctor reveals the truth. 'Shri, I'm not sure what to say. Shri, you do not have Malaria, and you sure do not have jaundice. Where did you get these diagnoses?' The answer being told, a mini-investigation took place and was quickly concluded upon one visit to the magnificent and incredibly modern N'djamena hospital.

It seems that in the state of the art medical facility that is the N'djamena hospital, there is a bit of a shortage of peetree dishes for blood sample analysis, and a bit of a shortage of medical common sense for blood sample analysis analysis. One poor guy comes in and has his blood tested. They put a dropper of it on a petree dish and in a test tube for testing, run some checks, make a diagnosis, and voila! the dish or tube is simply emptied and a new sample tossed in. Medical grade alcohol anyone? Nah, too expensive. So Bob comes in one day and sure enough Bob's got malaria. Poor Susan comes in later and, wow! that's the second case of malaria today! Later, Mohammed, Ahkmed, Tony, Paul, Mustaffa, Ibrahim and Shri all come in..."well I'll be a camel's sister!, you've all got malaria. Damn, malaria is really taking off this week, we're batting 1000! By the way nurse, can you just wipe down that petree dish with that rag? Yeah, the bloody rag over there on the floor, uh-huh, that's fine...good, merci beaucoup!". So poor Shri was sent home to India, where I hope he doesn't await the same fate, but at least he'll be in the company of family.

Off to Portugal for me, just in time too. The sh#@ is hitting the fan in Chad...rebels creeping around every corner and people are dusting the cobwebs off the old evacuation plans....

Osama...is that you?

This came from an impromptu Chadian news page, another blog from someone in/around Abeche...

But besides this, things have been heating up along the eastern border. The IRC had another disastrous encounter...another truck stolen, and the French has been stepping up their military patrols greatly. Every morning I wake up to French built Mirage fighter planes taking off and landing...


Thursday, August 31, 2006

Friend Finder
August 30, 2006: According to sources convinced of the truth of what they are saying, Osama Bin Laden is working among the Janjawid in southern Sudan, near the Chadian border. Osama is said to be riding horses and destroying villages along with the other Janjawid, and living from place to place, moving from one village to another. When it was speculated that this cannot be true, that it is a lie to try to scare the DarFurians, the source insisted that the information is true, that Bin Laden is living in southern DarFur. You heard it first here at ChadNews...

hmmm. Think I'll go for R&R now, thank you.

A quiet Friday night in N'djamena

Its 830 pm. I'm bored beyond comprehension. I sit locked inside my concrete compound, mud and mosquitoes, clothe less children who defecate in the middle of the road as you try to pass, and here and there a call to prayer, are all that await outside the gates in the electricity-less blackhole. Guess that sounded a bit cynical, huh?

I have scarcely left the inside of our house today, maybe 5 times to venture out into the scalding sunshine, a fact that would appall me if I were at home. Our airplane is grounded and I find the reasoning quite ironic. Last week, those in charge, and myself included, found ways and loopholes to make an airplane with no weather radar, no HF radio, malfunctioning fuel gages, and a undulating and sometimes violent right hand engine prop governor, stay in the skies and fly the never ending supply of VIPs around. I was apprehensive more than a couple of times and made some out there upset when I cancelled or delayed flights due to the equipment failures, but I'd rather be breathing than not. The combination of equipment that was inoperative seemed like the perfect recipe for disaster, had an inopportune situation presented itself.

Which brings me to the irony: Today we are grounded for something that I really, honestly, truly, could care less about. Our CVR (cockpit voice recorder) is broken, and it doesn't make a damn bit of difference to the operational safety of the aircraft. What it does mean though, is that if the aircraft were to go down in a glowing ball of flames, they wouldn't be able to hear all the abusive and insolent rantings and ravings I'd be sure to spit out before we hit the sand below, cursing them for not fixing the airplane when I'd asked. Second thought, maybe it is best they get it fixed...

So here I sit, inside my grey and white cement room that reeks of something dead. It just always makes me sooo hungry. A day or two ago I hit the wall, I couldn't take the smell any longer and ripped the room apart looking for the decaying culprit. Nothing. I theorized it was emanating from outside the room, from where the prehistoric air conditioner drips onto the shattered tiles below. With bleach, hot water, and a quizzical group of housecleaners observing, I attacked the rancid area and in turn was held to a counter attack. It seems that under all these broken, slimy, stinking tiles, was a colony of fire ants rivaling the size of Manhattan. I can now officially add to the list of native species in Chad that dislike Jesse. Evidently (take note) fire ants dislike hot, bleach water, and the one who is delivering it. The battle for N'djamena has begun, though I doubt the history books will include its recounts of Caucasians smashing exoskeleton equipped, 6 legged, 1/4 inch long assassins, all the while screaming like a girl, as they climb his legs.

But the story, as weak as it is, doesn't end there. These guys are smart, and viscous, and pugnacious. Irascible. No, they couldn't just let it go that I poured scalding, poisonous chemicals down onto their heads and then pulverized a bunch of their buddies. Nope. I've started a insectual jihad. The night after the victorious battle, I climbed into bed, air conditioner humming, mosquito net draped above, and turned off my flash light. Yeah, flashlight, what’s it to you? Aaaah....unconsciousness come to me....drifting off...driftin....HOLY SHIT!!!! what the hell is that????? I ejected myself from bed so fast it was almost amazing and whipped out my trusty flashlight. 'YOU BASTARDS!!!' was evidently what my South African housemates heard me shriek as they too were drifting off to happy, fun dream land. Instead I had three or four huge, red, bloodthirsty, man eating, carnivorous ants looking to finish me off. (ok, I may be exaggerating a bit...) A massacre ensued and I went back to be, though not as sure of the peaceful nights rest awaiting. I am considering moving.

Chevron and another oil company, Petronas, from Malaysia were booted from Chad's southern oil fields this week. Seems ol' Idris Deby isn't satisfied with their fiscal contributions to the state. The funny part, well one of them, is that he announced to the country and world that they had 24 hours to remove themselves from the nation before he actually decided to phone them and advise. All the interviews you read on BBC were comical due to "spokespeople from Chevron declined to comment sighting that they had no idea what BBC reporters were talking about, insisting the company was on excellent terms with Chadian authorities". Oops, someone didn't get the memo. The best part was the part Deby, himself, played though.

My friend Elizabeth and I went out for Chinese food here in N'djamena the night this was all going down. We could have hardly cared less about the lost profits of these petroleum giants as we sat chatting away eating something that I'm surprised, truly surprised, did not kill me. A few Muslim men sat around as well eating in this outlandish Chinese outpost and there was a substantial volume to the room's conversations, all the while a T.V. blared in the background. Elizabeth, who is program director for CCF here in Chad, and I yammered away....bla, bla, bla, ha, ha, bla...when I took notice of the fact that we were suddenly the only ones talking. I glanced sideways and noticed all eyes were glued to the television behind my back. Half thinking I was going to turn and see a French woman doing aerobics again, even though it was a stern, masculine voice I heard, I pivoted and saw that the previously half way vacant room was now filled and everyone listened intently to a news broadcaster. With nothing but a cardboard cut out of Chad behind him a man in a western suit sat at a news desk reading very solemnly...straight faced, no emotion, and everyone was hypnotized. After a few minutes we began to hear names...all traditional Muslim names (which greatly relieved me, I feared someone had found out a took another picture or two) and the men around mumbled and groaned.

We left the restaurant, but not before I had to fight my way out of the bathroom when a drunk soldier tried to get some cash out of me. I love Spanish now. Really. In China if someone came pressing you for money all you had to do was give them this confused look and start belching out meaningless phrases en espanol. Same holds true in Chad though you have to put some physical force behind it to get its true effect across. A quick shove against the wall while stuttering "Aye, Senorita! No me gusta los naranjas en mi cabeza!" produced its desired effect and I was on my way. Look it up GI Mahkmhud.

The next morning over coffee I saw online a list of some of the names I'd heard the night before. Apparently, according to the Man himself, some of his self appointed Ministers were helping Chevron and Petronas avoid taxes while lacing their own pockets. Personally, I think he's just making some waves to make news, to entertain the masses, to stir things up. That and there is talk he is aiming to allow Chinese energy corporations take over the infrastructure Chevron and Petronas had built, in a deal that would be more advantageous to increasing his Humvee collection. So Oil Minister Mahmat Hassan Nasser, Planning Minister Mahmat Ali Hassan and Livestock Minister Mockhtar Moussa, all got sacked. Poor Mr. Mockhtar, how confused he must be at this immediate moment. One moment he presided over the incredibly prestigious industry of bulls and sheep, lovingly supervising their every move, now he finds himself booted for...oil taxes scandals? Hmm, which piece doesn't fit the puzzle. I'm just glad it wasn't the Minister of Agriculture, who had bought Darcy and I a round of beers in an Abeche bar once in the past.

Alright, enough for now...though there so much more nothingness to tell all about. Back to boredom for me....I've already read all my books. I hope everyone is doing well out there...goodnight.