Meeting important men, hearing appalling stories
Drenched in sweat all night. Matt and I leaving the boiling box of the room for the cool of dawn. The compound cockerels had already been crowing for hours, and women were quietly at work preparing food and bringing buckets of water to the outside latrine washing area.
Ablutions were made in a deep hole in the ground crawling with flies. We washed with water from a bucket.
Lots of friendly greetings from everyone. Each meal preceded by a prayer, and there many of us. The five from England, Passiri our cheery guardian angel from N’Djamena, our two translators Tchang and Sylva. Tchang is a former Karate champion who now leads the national team among many other accomplishments. Sylva is a cheery Nigerian with an excellent English accent. Serge a tall thoughtful man who runs the local charity in Oum Hadjer. There was also Doctor, a lovely man of about my age with a velvet voice and a slow clarity about his French. We met many others here during our stay.
So to work. This was a morning of meeting important men. There were political protocols to be followed. We clambered into the Toyotas and drove the short distance to visit the compound of the region’s Secretary General. He sat behind his desk in his office with a picture of the president on the wall over his shoulder, and we were shown to chairs before him, and formal introductions, greetings and speeches were exchanged. Formal greetings and speeches by Serge and Passiri and the Brits had to introduce ourselves, translated by Sylva. The room was very hot, and the sweat was flowing freely down my back. These diplomacies conducted, and the Secretary General's blessings received, we made for the centre of Oum Hadjer. It is busy place, growing up around one main tarmacked road, and dirt roads and houses made out of earth bricks branching off from it. The main Mosque dominates the town, and the local river a little further along. The next important man was the Mayor, sitting regally in the corner of his compound and flanked by three or four others.
He had a terrifying aura, tall and stern with huge hands and feet. But he knew we were coming and fortunately had assented to our being there, flanked by a couple of his side men. But Tchang told me later he was a clever man, who understood the issues.
These introductions made, we drove off one of the streets on the main road and were soon driving on a dirt road which soon became a simple track out into the bush, passing people on donkeys and being overtaken by people on motorbikes.
Within a couple of kilometers we were in an entirely rural setting, and we came to the mud hut village we had selected as the most likely candidate for our needs. The chief was met and greeted, and we were invited to sit on mats as the village was assembled. Naturally there were many speeches were made on both sides for some time, and we had to briefly introduce ourselves too.
The chief a slight, animated man, and the villagers very curious about the arrival of all these strangers. Pete Caton, the photographer, like a cat out of a bag as soon as the pleasantries were over zooming about photographing everything.
The rest of us conducted interviews with four ladies, going around to visit them in their homes or under trees, talking to them about their lives. For most the story is pretty ghastly. failing crops, hunger, sacrifices, and working at making mats which takes them up to a week but results in only enough food for two days food. One of the women showed us an ancient wretched little clear plastic bag with a couple of dozen bits of maize in it, which was what she was feeding her kids with. These had been salvaged from ants nests, as the insects collect and store bits of seeds underground.
I was listening to Steve record these stories. At one point he prayed with one woman too. Rather an interesting touch given that the village was muslim, but the woman had no problem receiving a prayer. Steve then asked me in the afternoon to lead an interview, and the woman I talked to happened to be the one who we all felt had the most to say, a very thoughtful and intelligent person, whose life had shrunk to thinking solely about hunger and food.
Then we broke out the drone, to show to the locals and told them that we would be using this a bit around the village. This a brilliant thing, because as it took off into the air, the locals laughed with delight as it zoomed about. Making it fly towards the young girls and women too was fantastic, with them shrieking with laughter and running away from it. At sundown we left the village on a high, feeling that the drone had helped us win the hearts and minds of the locals.
Back to the compound all feeling hot and sunned, but okay. Food in the compound and much talking about what tomorrow would bring. I felt there was an enormous amount to process from the day, and people's stories and seeing the malnutrated children, some with deformities, running about the place was impossible not to be deeply moved by.
Feeling really cross too, however, as my brand new camera got a little dust in the zoom as it was pulling itself back in, and is now jammed and useless. Disproportionally upset by this, galling as it was, as the camera was something to hide behind. Now there is nothing.
Below, meeting the villagers, Serge explains what we are up to, the Chief shows us stunted crops, some other glimpses around the village; me talking to one of the women via our translator Tchang (photo from Matty); a village view with a big grain store in the foreground (which was empty), drone flying which delighted the community, and the Chief holding the drone.
Lots of friendly greetings from everyone. Each meal preceded by a prayer, and there many of us. The five from England, Passiri our cheery guardian angel from N’Djamena, our two translators Tchang and Sylva. Tchang is a former Karate champion who now leads the national team among many other accomplishments. Sylva is a cheery Nigerian with an excellent English accent. Serge a tall thoughtful man who runs the local charity in Oum Hadjer. There was also Doctor, a lovely man of about my age with a velvet voice and a slow clarity about his French. We met many others here during our stay.
So to work. This was a morning of meeting important men. There were political protocols to be followed. We clambered into the Toyotas and drove the short distance to visit the compound of the region’s Secretary General. He sat behind his desk in his office with a picture of the president on the wall over his shoulder, and we were shown to chairs before him, and formal introductions, greetings and speeches were exchanged. Formal greetings and speeches by Serge and Passiri and the Brits had to introduce ourselves, translated by Sylva. The room was very hot, and the sweat was flowing freely down my back. These diplomacies conducted, and the Secretary General's blessings received, we made for the centre of Oum Hadjer. It is busy place, growing up around one main tarmacked road, and dirt roads and houses made out of earth bricks branching off from it. The main Mosque dominates the town, and the local river a little further along. The next important man was the Mayor, sitting regally in the corner of his compound and flanked by three or four others.
He had a terrifying aura, tall and stern with huge hands and feet. But he knew we were coming and fortunately had assented to our being there, flanked by a couple of his side men. But Tchang told me later he was a clever man, who understood the issues.
These introductions made, we drove off one of the streets on the main road and were soon driving on a dirt road which soon became a simple track out into the bush, passing people on donkeys and being overtaken by people on motorbikes.
Within a couple of kilometers we were in an entirely rural setting, and we came to the mud hut village we had selected as the most likely candidate for our needs. The chief was met and greeted, and we were invited to sit on mats as the village was assembled. Naturally there were many speeches were made on both sides for some time, and we had to briefly introduce ourselves too.
The chief a slight, animated man, and the villagers very curious about the arrival of all these strangers. Pete Caton, the photographer, like a cat out of a bag as soon as the pleasantries were over zooming about photographing everything.
The rest of us conducted interviews with four ladies, going around to visit them in their homes or under trees, talking to them about their lives. For most the story is pretty ghastly. failing crops, hunger, sacrifices, and working at making mats which takes them up to a week but results in only enough food for two days food. One of the women showed us an ancient wretched little clear plastic bag with a couple of dozen bits of maize in it, which was what she was feeding her kids with. These had been salvaged from ants nests, as the insects collect and store bits of seeds underground.
I was listening to Steve record these stories. At one point he prayed with one woman too. Rather an interesting touch given that the village was muslim, but the woman had no problem receiving a prayer. Steve then asked me in the afternoon to lead an interview, and the woman I talked to happened to be the one who we all felt had the most to say, a very thoughtful and intelligent person, whose life had shrunk to thinking solely about hunger and food.
Then we broke out the drone, to show to the locals and told them that we would be using this a bit around the village. This a brilliant thing, because as it took off into the air, the locals laughed with delight as it zoomed about. Making it fly towards the young girls and women too was fantastic, with them shrieking with laughter and running away from it. At sundown we left the village on a high, feeling that the drone had helped us win the hearts and minds of the locals.
Back to the compound all feeling hot and sunned, but okay. Food in the compound and much talking about what tomorrow would bring. I felt there was an enormous amount to process from the day, and people's stories and seeing the malnutrated children, some with deformities, running about the place was impossible not to be deeply moved by.
Feeling really cross too, however, as my brand new camera got a little dust in the zoom as it was pulling itself back in, and is now jammed and useless. Disproportionally upset by this, galling as it was, as the camera was something to hide behind. Now there is nothing.
Below, meeting the villagers, Serge explains what we are up to, the Chief shows us stunted crops, some other glimpses around the village; me talking to one of the women via our translator Tchang (photo from Matty); a village view with a big grain store in the foreground (which was empty), drone flying which delighted the community, and the Chief holding the drone.
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