I usually awake in the mornings to a muffled rumble of a struggling generator, a high pitched whine whose intensity rises and falls as the perpetrator's wings beat about my head, and to the constant 'thwump-thwump-thwump' of the overhead ceiling fan. I lay only in my boxer briefs atop sheets that as of lately have been dampened from my sweat due to my air conditioner's inoperativeness. Some days, like today, I just lay there for a little while, letting further muffled rumbles, those of thoughts, swim around in my head with no destination nor purpose nor specific subject matter. I hear birds outside that momentarily remind me of home, and I try to imagine how nice it would be to step outside into the cool, mountain morning air of Durango. The imagining fades as I hear the distressed braying of a donkey standing outside the razor-wired wall of our compound. Just don' find asses roaming Willow Drive that often these days, I hear.
When I finally do rise, often times it's rather begrudgingly, with a noticeable lack of energy due to the noticeable lack of quality sleep the evening before. Motivation for the day is slow to make an appearance, and I'm often reminded of a crusty old Captain I used to fly with on the 1900 in Farmington, NM. Immediately after the first takeoff of the day, as we climbed thru the ruby colored winter skies he'd stretch his arms out, yawn, then slump down in his chair stating 'well, I've already lost interest in the day...'. Not too long afterwards he'd usually pack his lower lip full of Copenhagen snuff, pull a ball cap down over his eyes, turn down his VHF radio, and take out a book. If one were unobservant enough one would never have noticed that he never seemed to flip the pages, and that he was forever reading this same silly, sultry paperback novel, creased from years of being stuffed in his flight bag.
Thankfully I'm not at that point as of yet. Outside it's 6:30 am, and its relatively cool still, a mere 85 degrees with a light, peaceful breeze blowing from the east, from Sudan and the camps and the horrific violence. A few brave birds chirp, the donkeys bray, the generators moan, and members of our local staff are walking around the compound shouting at each other in a mix of French and a southern Chad dialect, where many of them are from. Someone once told me before I left for this job that the Central African countries are the ideal locales to learn French, as most speak it slow and accentuatedly. I'd like to find that person and tell them just how wrong they are...problem is I can't remember who it was. Most of the local population speaks numerous languages, many around 3 or 4. Depending on what tribe they are from, where they are from, where and if they were schooled, and what their religious leanings are the results sound different in every person. The mix is often times a masterpiece as close to French as Creole, and just like a Cajun gumbo, its all stirred up with little spicy bits of phonetic everything.
Linguistic gumbos are tossed back and forth outside my window, causing the lizards clinging to the window's metal screen to nervously twitch their heads looking for the best escape route. At night the screen becomes inundated with the scaly critters, they huddle together and camp out for the evening, seemingly unworried when I open the glass and pet their bellies. During the day they are more aware of my presence, but occasionally allow me some fun. I once wasted almost a whole liter bottle of spring water on such 'fun' activities. I'd fill my mouth to its capacity and with as much pressure as possible I'd spray a stream of water out the window thru the screen and against an unfortunate reptile's belly blasting him right off the screen. The others would pause, twitch their heads, do some spasmodic-epileptic like push ups then scramble for the new vacant lot, sucking the moisture from the tiny squares. I'd find a new victim and start again, providing wholesome fun for the easily entertained - ahem-...me. In the midst of the new game Elisabeth came by and caught me in the act, cheeks swelled like a chipmunk, window open and hot air rushing inwards. When I explained myself and my actions she looked at me quizzically, as if I were a 4 year old for a brief moment who tried to use 4 year old logic. It didn't take long before she joined in the lizard-water blasting festivities. It's make your own fun in Chad, any way you can get it.
After a quick frigid shower in water that often smells of rotten eggs and that sometimes leaves me smelling worse than when I entered (which is quite a feat), I usually try and check my email while sipping a bitter, and lip puckering cup of Nescafe. Every morning seems to bare a striking resemblance to those old Keystone Beer commercials touting 'no bitter beer face!'. I have yet to understand how so much of Europe can thrive on this artificial garbage. I click the little blue E on my computer screen, a message is relayed thru a dish antenna outside to a satellite above to a dish somewhere in Belgium and then to God knows where. I wait patiently and am then greeted with more GARBAGE...Yahoo gossip garbage rivaling STAR, US Weekly or Soap Opera Digest. Six days out of seven when I open internet explorer to my homepage of Yahoo! I feel sick at what I see, especially because I believe it is an embarrassing but often times accurate representation of our youth's interests and what the rest of the globe thinks we care about.
LATEST HEADLINES ON YAHOO!:
Celebrities who like Bull riding!
Jessica Simpson's newest fall fashion and potential romances!
P-Diddy wants to be the next James Bond...
Click here to see what the latest and coolest ringtones are for your phone!!!
What's your favorite interactive smiley face?
Who's got the best Kelly Clarkson karaoke voice? Vote here!!!
Tom and Katie's wedding! Who's on the invitation list?
Paris Hilton, Paris Hilton, Paris Hilton, PARIS FUCKING HILTON!!!!!
Is this what America craves? Garbage? Mindless, brain numbing, trivial shit??? I hang my head low knowing that a large percentage of the American public eats it up. And then a large majority of this same percentage of people I could approach and ask them if they knew what was happening to innocent people in Darfur? Do you know where Darfur is? Do you know where Sudan is? Do you know what genocide is? Can you name 4 countries in Africa? I am reminded of Jay Leno interviewing some fine specimens on the streets of LA who don't even know a thing about the immediate world around them, let alone one that exists thousands of miles away. Ignorance is bliss, and "Where ignorance is bliss, tis folly to be wise."-Thomas Gray.
A frothing orgy of ridiculous sensory stimulation awaits to numb one's brain, much as prophesized by Orwell('IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH'-Orwell, 1984), keeping us pleasantly 'content' and ignorant to what exists outside the walls of our rooms, houses, communities, or country. So much time and energy seems expended on the worship and idolization of individuals I believe worthless if it were not for their physical appearance; individuals who contribute nothing positive to the spinning world around. Actors, singers, the disgustingly rich, the alcoholic yet attractive nobody's and politicians, sometimes a strange medley of all these. Consumerism gone terribly wrong...or right? blares out from everywhere on each web page I click. Why you absolutely need this latest phone, PDA, SUV, ring tone, smiley face, video game, designer purse, diamond earrings, or GAP jeans is beaten into your cranium every blink of an eyelash. I look outside the window and wonder where we went wrong.
The other evening I was helping teach our local cook 'Nestor' how to make a proper marinara sauce, or more descriptively, one that would not make us all sick for three days. While mixing tomato paste, garlic and tiny desert grown sautéed onions I asked about his education, his wife and his children. He informed me he's intending on becoming a teacher and is 3 months from obtaining his Chadian teaching certificate. I applauded his choice and told him we need more people like him out there in the world, and that I thought he'd make a fine teacher. I asked again about his kids and their ages. He replied one was seven months and the other about 2 years old, both boys, but one is ill, most likely malaria or even tuberculosis. I expressed my shock and grief and began asking how I could personally help in the matter. A brief pause followed.
"I need...eh....un emmm peee trois...eh...yes...un emm pee trois, si vous plait."
Your child is supposedly sick with a life threatening disease and you are asking me for an MP3 player? Is this what we have culturaly exuded, this is what we have shown is important, materialistic possessions? I stared at the marinara sauce.
"Keep stirring every few minutes for another 20 minutes please. Thank you Nestor", and with that I walked off
