Guns and more guns.

Bright, shiny new Chinese knock offs of the classic Kalashnikov automatic rifle, known world wide as the AK47 are seemingly everywhere in Chad these days. (Its amazing what a little oil money can buy…yep we’re buying the brown stuff from them and helping to keep the cycle going!). At the airport men nap in the shade of dwarfed trees, fatigued from heat and Ramadan fasting, with the glistening black steel instrument of death used as a pillow in the blazing inferno that is eastern Chad now that the rains have ended. An erratic tide of soldiers washes into and over Abeche every few days. Their numbers increase and the rumors and security concerns grow in the NGO community exponentially, before the troops presence seem to ebb, pulled away in camouflaged C130s and helicopter gunships. A collective sigh of relief then ripples across the community upon their departure, as most despise or at very least, do not trust their presence.

I witnessed a very confused expression covering a boy’s face the other morning as I was driven to the airfield in a hulking Toyota Landcruiser, air conditioned frigid air blasting away, and separated from the reality of the outside world by a 1/8 inch pane of glass. The dark, sweaty and immature face was sheepish at first, glancing down to avoid eye contact. He looked scared, alone and out of place, much like a 9th grader showing up for his first day of high school, afraid of the potential hazing. Then in a flash the innocence or childish look was gone, his eyes quickly raised to meet mine, and instantly the expression metamorphosed to bitter defiance. How dare you look at me with pity it seemed to scream as our eyes locked for a brief second of passing.

Our mammoth vehicle raced on past the child and I swiveled in my seat to follow his actions. Pausing in the eddy of choking dust left by the vehicle he seemed frozen in step, as if forgetting his intended task. I wondered if it was due to a moment of intense introversion, momentary consideration of just how ludicrous this life he’d chosen or been chosen for was. In whirling and slowly settling khaki colored dust cloud stood a boy of adolescence wearing lacy silver painted women’s sandals, arctic (white-blue-black) issue camo men’s sized slacks rolled up 1/3 of the way, a jungle print camouflaged shirt about 5 years too big for him as well, a turban, and a glistening AK47 outfitted with razor sharp bayonet. When I was fourteen I was draining my parents liquor cabinet and refilling the bottles with water. I was contemplating smoking marijuana for the first time and trying to convince gas station clerks I was 18 in order to by Marlboro Lights. I was wondering whom I’d take to the homecoming or Sadie Hawkins dance. I was shooting things with BB guns and slingshots, such as apples and my neighbor’s windows…I wasn’t perfect, but I was not skewering others with an 8-inch blade attached to the barrel of my automatic rifle. Our 4x4 whirled around the corner onto the airport tarmac where gunships were being loaded with more bombs and more child soldiers destined to die for a greedy leader who I’m sure won’t bat an eyelash at the thought of their expendability.

I hope you have a childhood next time around my friend.


A day or two later Myriam and I flew the southern rotation together, heading to Goz Beida, KouKou and Dogdore. In Dogdore we serve mainly Medecins San Frontiers (Doctors without Borders) bringing them medicine, food, tools and new physicians so they might help those in need at the nearby refugee camps. The south has been afire with a confusing mix of strife lately: a stewed combination of tribal skirmishes, newly formed energetic rebel groups, older more established rebels, government forces and malicious bandits. It’s just a great place to be these days, a real gem.

Upon landing and slowing I noticed a higher than usual number of military outfits intermingling amongst the girly looking white frock coats the Doctors wear. Still, I trusted that if the physicians had felt it unsafe for us to land they would have advised us by a predetermined signal from the ground (which if I told you, I’d have to kill you all). We feathered the propellers, shut down, hopped out and I was again aware of the gun trucks parked all around, in the shadows behind the white MSF ambulances. “Great…a Goz Beida repeat,” I thought.

No one in Dogdore speaks English, no one. Luckily for me and my incorrigible French, Myriam was there to save the day (Swiss-Canadian, and native French speaker). I unloaded the cargo and bags while vertically impaired Myriam disappeared within a crowd of anxious passengers hoping to go somewhere that wasn’t Dogdore. When I was finished she waved me over to wear she stood surrounded by soldiers armed with enough guns and ammunition to make a run on Fort Knox. They all smiled cheerily and waved, requesting handshakes and the normal civilities. I approached cautiously and saw the passenger in question, a goofy looking old man of about 65 or so with a limited number of teeth and a wrinkled, sun scorched, black leather face. In his hand he held an equally wrinkled piece of lined paper, ripped from a child’s school notebook.

“He says he needs to go…he’s on the manifest, but…well you look at his authorization and tell me what you think…” Myriam sighed.

In order for us to carry a Chadian government passenger it needs to be deemed by the UNHCR that the traveler in question is traveling for the better good of humanitarian needs. They then make out an authorization, or Order du Mission, on official UN letterhead, stamp it a million times, spit on it, and sprinkle it with fairy dust. This produces the desired effect: we let them on the airplane.

Everyone hushed and watched as I took the old man’s authorization from him and examined it, immediately chuckling. The only way it would have appealed more to my sense of humor would be if it had been written in crayon with a few sparkly stickers thrown on for good measure. Scribbled in chicken scratch across a piece of torn, lined notebook paper, was this man’s authorization, written in two ink colors and stamped with an evidently dying inkpad by none other than the old man himself. ‘I hereby give myself permission to ride on your airplane. Sincerely, me.’

At least he smiled as I laughed. Even the other dangerously armed men smiled too which comforted me as I scanned the crowd of faces immediately huddled about my position. The MSF doctors had backed off and were distancing themselves from the conversation, obviously wary of what would happen if his scribbled Lav pass of an authorization were denied. I hesitated, hemmed and hawed, kicked some rocks and made it known that I was not pleased with the situation he was putting us in…then I yielded and let him on…not wanting another situation like my Goz Beida confrontation from 2 months back. The men in uniform all rejoiced and I thought were about to break out into song and dance had we not barked at them to make expedited farewells.

The old man said his goodbyes and we all waited patiently for him to make his way towards the airplane. Finally he came, yet he had slung over his shoulder an archaic looking AK47, which he politely gestured he’d like to take on board. “Ummm, NO.” I said as I pointed at the 18-inch diameter sticker on the airplane door portraying the exact gun he had on him with a big red slash thru it. “No guns, sorry. Je suis desole.” He smiled and removed the gun. I smiled and told him to stand still so that I might wand him with the metal detector.

About 11.4 seconds worth of metal detecting work on my part revealed that this man was the Southern Chad walking ammunition depot. BEEEEEEEP….oh look, you have three handguns wrapped around your waist, isn’t that pleasant??? BEEEEEEEEEP…wow, you’ve got another on your ankle, good spot indeed sir!!!! BEEEEEEEEEEP…ummm, nice knife grandpa, good spot too, the other ankle…hmmm. What are you planning for, World War Three?????

I suddenly had visions of this old man in a Rambo outfit jumping from the airplane when we landed in Abeche and laying waste to all his enemies without suffering a single scratch, then screaming something along the lines of “ NO ONE BEATS ME AT BRIDGE AND LIVES TO TELL!!!” I smiled and he smiled toothlessly back at me.

“At least you’re not being a jerk about it.” I said, knowing he had no idea what I was saying. After the last of Rambo Sr.’s armaments were removed he happily boarded the airplane and I shut the door behind him. I walked slowly up to the front shaking my head in tune with Myriam’s at what a circus we had just seen. We both shrugged our shoulders, sighed and waved to the MSF doctors who were beginning to chase the kids, donkeys and goats off the runway. Only government employees who are traveling for the good of humanitarianism may travel aboard our aircraft. Right. And what was his job? Population control?

Later I yelled at him for removing his seat belt just before landing, confident that Rambo Sr. had no more weapons to wield and that he was just a silly looking old man in a light blue sheet trying to get to the next Abeche AARP meeting.