This entry should probably just be called "Catharsis." Perhaps, though, I can also rightly subtitle it "The Dark Side of International Volunteerism."
So, here we go.
Christen's Catharsis:
The Dark Side of International Volunteerism
Since the very beginning of my recently-completed one year in my site, I have taught supplementary, conversational English twice a week to a group of ten orphaned high school girls, housed together by a local NGO. For the past nine months of that instruction, I have been joined by the VSO volunteer who works at the local university. Over the time that we have spent with the girls, we have developed a close relationship with them. We have seen them grow and progress both in their studies and as young ladies. We have been fortunate to have them open up to us, moving beyond thinking of us as teachers to considering us as friends.
At the end of last Saturday's class, the girls told us that a man named Colin would be coming from Canada to visit. Visits like these, judging from the photographs I've seen and the stories I've heard, occur fairly frequently, in which donors to the program – usually male, usually Canadian – come to see the girls they have been sponsoring. At least two others have come to town during this past year, but having been away both times on other business, I had never been personally involved. This time, however, we were invited by both the program director and the girls' house mother to come and meet Colin, to help welcome him and explain our role in the girls' lives.
When we came to the house on the appointed day, along with the program director and the rest of the office staff, Colin had already arrived and was sitting at a table with some of the girls. We entered the room, greeted everyone in turn as per Ethiopian culture, and then introduced ourselves to Colin and explained our function as volunteers. Immediately, he seemed confused and put off by our presence. As we sat down in the chairs that were pulled out for us, Colin asked his Ethiopian counterpart for "a word" and called him into the hallway for discussion.
When Colin had finished his "word", we all sat down together in the living room to wait for the rest of the girls to arrive from school. The oldest girl, our best and most eager student, sat next to us, her teachers. She had qualified to enter the medical program at a prominent university, and this would be our last day to spend with her before she moved there. As we all waited in the slightly awkward silence borne of language barriers, relative unfamiliarity with our new guest, and a perceived formality of the proceedings to come, our little cluster of three made light conversation and laughed as I managed to spill things all over myself. Colin chatted with the girls at his table, and they responded as well as they could in their limited English. They gave him gifts, and as they named the girl who had given him each one, he pretended that he knew what they were talking about. I complimented a sweatshirt Colin had given to our star student, and overhearing, Colin turned to me and said, "Yes, she has received her shirt early. Once the two of you leave, we will give out the rest of the gifts." It seemed to me a rather odd thing to say, and I was beginning to feel quite uncomfortable with this Colin character.
Girls trickled into the room one by one as they arrived from morning classes. Finally, as our group was complete, the room quieted down, and Colin took charge of the proceeding. Namely, he took charge of the proceedings by saying to the room, "So, I think we are all here now, but our other guests have not yet left…So if you two wouldn't mind to leave, I think we'll make this a time for just our family."
Fortunately, the shock of his incredible brashness kept me silent until I could gather myself enough to be diplomatic in front of the girls. In the most amiable voices we could muster, we gathered up our things and exited the house, telling the girls we would see them in class the next day. Our star student walked with us to the front gate, where we stood and said our final goodbyes. Then, once safely outside the compound and out of earshot, we gaped at each other in disbelief of what had just occurred.
I know for certain that this was the most brazenly disrespectful act that anyone has ever deliberately committed against me. In retrospect, though, I can't actually decide which part of it was most audaciously offensive. There was the fact that a once-a-year visitor has just walked into my town of residence and my place of work and tossed me ungraciously out. The fact that a man had stepped into a program designed to encourage girls' confidence in a strongly male-dominated society, proceeded to gain control of things by disrespecting his female counterparts. The fact that, despite my living and working here for a year now, I was demeaned as a "guest" who was not worthy of inclusion in some sponsorship-purchased "family". There were so many things, really, to infuriate me in that moment. Looking back in a more calm and collected hindsight, however, one thing stands above all others in bothering me.
Beyond the personal slights involved in Colin's dismissal of myself and my colleague, his actions reveal an attitude of ego and self-importance that is poisoning international aid and volunteerism. Every industry has its egos. For some reason, though, we tend to turn a blind eye to such things in the charity and aid sector, as if the sheer force of perceived "goodness" surrounding our acts can overpower any shortcomings in our motives. The problem becomes worthy of our concern, however, when self-involved motives begin to hinder our labors. In my experience, there are too many Colins doing charitable work abroad, too many people who are more concerned with arriving as the foreign savior, savoring center stage in the temporary affections of a disadvantaged people, then broadcasting their righteous acts back home and collecting accolades and pats on the back from the people around them.
If Colin were really concerned with the wellbeing of these girls, he would have been interested to talk to the two volunteers who had been involved with them for the past year, to find out exactly what they had been doing, to learn from their first-hand perspective, to discover ways to work together with them for real solutions to real needs. Instead, his concern was that the two other white people in the room would steal his thunder. We were treated as a threat and an intrusion, rather than partners in a common cause. In the same way, concerns over recognition and attribution have blocked efforts to collaborate and cooperate throughout the world of international aid and development.
The dire needs that challenge us as a global community are simply too large for stubborn, go-it-alone egoism. They are simply too important for solutions to be forestalled and derailed by antagonism and short-sighted selfishness. If we cannot put aside pettiness to work together toward effective, broad-scale, sustainable solutions, then no amount of sponsorship money will be able to cover the fact that we have thrown away our best opportunities for success.
5 November 2008
In the still hours of the morning of Wednesday, November 5, in Bahirdar, Ethiopia, an international assembly gathered on the patio of the Obama Café. Throughout a sleepless night, they kept vigil over the American election, watching a gargantuan outdoor screen that seemed to reflect not only the proceedings themselves but also their momentous implications. Day broke, and as the rising light gradually overwhelmed the projected images, they moved indoors and crowded around the small television, where just an hour later, together with a fresh contingent of locals, they would celebrate the anticipated election of Barack Obama as the next president of the United States of America.
It was like the long-anticipated finale of an epic narrative we had been observing in installments from afar. We had heard the equally compelling yet vastly different personal stories of the two candidates. We had watched the long and grueling fights through the primaries. We had followed all the twists and turns of the general election campaign, the promises, posturing, predictions, foibles, attacks, criticisms, doubts, and wildest wishes. We wondered as, incredibly, all around the world, everywhere we turned, a wave of excitement for a young, black Illinois Senator swept powerfully through hearts and hopes. Finally, together, we watched him make history.
It was the storybook ending breathlessly desired by the Ethiopian people. Inside the Obama Café, there were cheers and tears, embraces, applause, and a rush of phone calls to family and friends. Meanwhile, footage of Obama-supporting crowds broadcast from all across the world mirrored the outpouring of emotions. There were the images of a victorious Obama at dramatic camera angles, the stirring music, the expectant silence that fell over the gathering as he delivered his acceptance speech, passionate words recalling the momentous march of progress over American history. One could hardly help being swept up in the poignancy of the moment.
For the Ethiopians with whom I watched this all unfold, the pivotal storyline was all about the ground-breaking rise of a son of Africa to the American presidency. Coincident to this historic moment, however, a highly significant side plot was playing itself out. For me, the climax of all the drama came not with Obama's acceptance speech, but with John McCain's concession. There, the American democratic ideal was reflected not only in the ascent of a multi-racially and internationally rooted young man with a foreign name to the seat of highest national executive power, but also in the humble, selfless bending of his opponent to the will of the people.
On stage before his supporters and before the eyes of the world, Senator McCain acknowledged, "The voice of the people overwhelmingly has spoken…" Then, he affirmed Barack Obama as the nation's president, as his president, and promised to continue to service his country faithfully under Obama's leadership. On a continent where power is the ultimate prize and its passing often proves the ultimate problem – a continent shaken by Robert Mugabe's brutal attempts to cling to power in Zimbabwe, horrible election violence in Kenya, military coups, warring factions and constitutional manipulations that have become all too painfully common – it was a moment and a message I was proud to share from my country.
When I consider my country's image on the global stage and think about how I would like the world to see us in this recent election, I do hope that people see the progress and promise of America in a victory that would have been unthinkable not so long ago. I hope we can join together to celebrate a triumph for racial equality and the embracing of a dynamic, multicultural society. But I also hope, especially living here in eastern Africa, that the image of a people determining their future, of one man stepping aside to yield to their collective voice while another steps up to heed their call, will be one that endures. This is government "of the people, by the people, and for the people." This is the dream of America.
It was like the long-anticipated finale of an epic narrative we had been observing in installments from afar. We had heard the equally compelling yet vastly different personal stories of the two candidates. We had watched the long and grueling fights through the primaries. We had followed all the twists and turns of the general election campaign, the promises, posturing, predictions, foibles, attacks, criticisms, doubts, and wildest wishes. We wondered as, incredibly, all around the world, everywhere we turned, a wave of excitement for a young, black Illinois Senator swept powerfully through hearts and hopes. Finally, together, we watched him make history.
It was the storybook ending breathlessly desired by the Ethiopian people. Inside the Obama Café, there were cheers and tears, embraces, applause, and a rush of phone calls to family and friends. Meanwhile, footage of Obama-supporting crowds broadcast from all across the world mirrored the outpouring of emotions. There were the images of a victorious Obama at dramatic camera angles, the stirring music, the expectant silence that fell over the gathering as he delivered his acceptance speech, passionate words recalling the momentous march of progress over American history. One could hardly help being swept up in the poignancy of the moment.
For the Ethiopians with whom I watched this all unfold, the pivotal storyline was all about the ground-breaking rise of a son of Africa to the American presidency. Coincident to this historic moment, however, a highly significant side plot was playing itself out. For me, the climax of all the drama came not with Obama's acceptance speech, but with John McCain's concession. There, the American democratic ideal was reflected not only in the ascent of a multi-racially and internationally rooted young man with a foreign name to the seat of highest national executive power, but also in the humble, selfless bending of his opponent to the will of the people.
On stage before his supporters and before the eyes of the world, Senator McCain acknowledged, "The voice of the people overwhelmingly has spoken…" Then, he affirmed Barack Obama as the nation's president, as his president, and promised to continue to service his country faithfully under Obama's leadership. On a continent where power is the ultimate prize and its passing often proves the ultimate problem – a continent shaken by Robert Mugabe's brutal attempts to cling to power in Zimbabwe, horrible election violence in Kenya, military coups, warring factions and constitutional manipulations that have become all too painfully common – it was a moment and a message I was proud to share from my country.
When I consider my country's image on the global stage and think about how I would like the world to see us in this recent election, I do hope that people see the progress and promise of America in a victory that would have been unthinkable not so long ago. I hope we can join together to celebrate a triumph for racial equality and the embracing of a dynamic, multicultural society. But I also hope, especially living here in eastern Africa, that the image of a people determining their future, of one man stepping aside to yield to their collective voice while another steps up to heed their call, will be one that endures. This is government "of the people, by the people, and for the people." This is the dream of America.
14 October 2008
America is, of course, the most important nation on the face of the earth. At least that's what we Americans like to tell ourselves. You might even forgive us for thinking so this year, however, as eyes and ears all around the world tune in eagerly, anxiously, amusedly to the Presidential election that is being billed by international media as, well, the most important on the face of the earth.
For Ethiopia, there is one point of interest concerning the U.S. elections and one point only – Barack Obama. Ethiopia loves Barack Obama. Charismatic and eloquent son of a Kenyan father, a black man who has risen meteorically in American politics and now stands well positioned to assume the highest office in a country whose wealth and freedom hold an almost mythical pull for most Ethiopians, he has captured hearts and imaginations in this developing East African nation.
The evidences of Ethiobamamania are everywhere. Within the past five months, "Obama Café"s have sprung up all over the country. The largest and most prominent of these is in Bahirdar, where you can eat the best steak-and-cheese sandwich in Ethiopia under multiple images of the man himself, smiling endearingly down on you from the walls. Unsurprisingly, the most extravagant display of Obama exuberance can be found in the capital city of Addis Ababa, where an eight-story construction project has been christened the Barack Obama Building. A fellow volunteer reported to me an incident in which her Addis taxi driver told a young street girl soliciting money, "Obama yistilin" – in Amharic, "May Obama bless you." The driver remarked, "God and Jesus, number 1. Obama, number 2!"
Ethiopia's affection for Obama is grounded in both the personal and the political. Asked why they favor Obama, I have heard Ethiopians respond, "He is a black man," "He is a youngster," and even, "He is tall and handsome!" Black skin and youthful optimism about the world have made Obama a compelling symbol of the hope for a prosperous and respected Africa. Yet, some of this hope reaches beyond the symbolic. Many local friends and colleagues have told me of Obama, "I think he will bring good governance to Ethiopia." It is a belief that I hear echoed regularly among Ethiopians.
Expressions like these make me incredibly nervous. Inflated American sense of self-importance aside, the American president's potential for real impact in the internal governance of African nations like Ethiopia is extremely limited. Diplomatic pressure and economic sanctions can only go so far, as evidenced forcefully in the case of Zimbabwe, for example. Moreover, the limited success that was achieved diplomatically in Zimbabwe was only realized through the mediation of fellow African leader Thabo Mbeke, of South Africa. Ultimately, real achievements in African governance have to come from the African people themselves.
What should it say, then, that so many Ethiopians are resting their hopes for their own country on a U.S. presidential election? For one, it should pose challenging questions about the way in which the U.S. and other developed nations have interacted with Africa, and about the appropriateness of the messages being sent by our methods. When the ingrained instinct is to wait for help from the outside instead of mobilizing it from within, we have all taken steps backward.
As this historic election advances toward its conclusion, questions about an Obama presidency hang expectantly in the air. Would an Obama presidency in fact salvage America's tarnished image in the global community? Would Obama indeed bring an element of cooperation and dialogue that has been lacking in recent American politics? Will Obama, or any American leader for that matter, really deliver sound governance to Ethiopia? In the last matter, at least, I fear real risks for dependency and disillusionment on the part of the Ethiopian people.
If nothing else can be said for sure, however, it is clear that Ethiopians are allowing themselves the audacity to hope.
For Ethiopia, there is one point of interest concerning the U.S. elections and one point only – Barack Obama. Ethiopia loves Barack Obama. Charismatic and eloquent son of a Kenyan father, a black man who has risen meteorically in American politics and now stands well positioned to assume the highest office in a country whose wealth and freedom hold an almost mythical pull for most Ethiopians, he has captured hearts and imaginations in this developing East African nation.
The evidences of Ethiobamamania are everywhere. Within the past five months, "Obama Café"s have sprung up all over the country. The largest and most prominent of these is in Bahirdar, where you can eat the best steak-and-cheese sandwich in Ethiopia under multiple images of the man himself, smiling endearingly down on you from the walls. Unsurprisingly, the most extravagant display of Obama exuberance can be found in the capital city of Addis Ababa, where an eight-story construction project has been christened the Barack Obama Building. A fellow volunteer reported to me an incident in which her Addis taxi driver told a young street girl soliciting money, "Obama yistilin" – in Amharic, "May Obama bless you." The driver remarked, "God and Jesus, number 1. Obama, number 2!"
Ethiopia's affection for Obama is grounded in both the personal and the political. Asked why they favor Obama, I have heard Ethiopians respond, "He is a black man," "He is a youngster," and even, "He is tall and handsome!" Black skin and youthful optimism about the world have made Obama a compelling symbol of the hope for a prosperous and respected Africa. Yet, some of this hope reaches beyond the symbolic. Many local friends and colleagues have told me of Obama, "I think he will bring good governance to Ethiopia." It is a belief that I hear echoed regularly among Ethiopians.
Expressions like these make me incredibly nervous. Inflated American sense of self-importance aside, the American president's potential for real impact in the internal governance of African nations like Ethiopia is extremely limited. Diplomatic pressure and economic sanctions can only go so far, as evidenced forcefully in the case of Zimbabwe, for example. Moreover, the limited success that was achieved diplomatically in Zimbabwe was only realized through the mediation of fellow African leader Thabo Mbeke, of South Africa. Ultimately, real achievements in African governance have to come from the African people themselves.
What should it say, then, that so many Ethiopians are resting their hopes for their own country on a U.S. presidential election? For one, it should pose challenging questions about the way in which the U.S. and other developed nations have interacted with Africa, and about the appropriateness of the messages being sent by our methods. When the ingrained instinct is to wait for help from the outside instead of mobilizing it from within, we have all taken steps backward.
As this historic election advances toward its conclusion, questions about an Obama presidency hang expectantly in the air. Would an Obama presidency in fact salvage America's tarnished image in the global community? Would Obama indeed bring an element of cooperation and dialogue that has been lacking in recent American politics? Will Obama, or any American leader for that matter, really deliver sound governance to Ethiopia? In the last matter, at least, I fear real risks for dependency and disillusionment on the part of the Ethiopian people.
If nothing else can be said for sure, however, it is clear that Ethiopians are allowing themselves the audacity to hope.
11 September 2008
On the evening before the New Year, I found myself sitting on my back step, peeling a kilogram of garlic. My landlady had recruited me to help with the preparations for this most celebrated of Ethiopian holidays. (I have told myself that her recent comfort in assigning me chores is a positive thing, demonstrating that she considers me a member of the family, capable of contributing to life on the compound. Perhaps, though, she just likes having a source of free work.)
A stripe of cloudless sky was visible between the edge of my peaked tin roof and the tops of the renters’ quarters behind my house, where my landlady was busy cooking injera over a smoking wood fire. Gradually, as I stripped my way through the pile of pungent cloves, the hazy dusk gave way to the clear, sharp nighttime sky, glittering with a million dazzling points of light. I reflected that, due to quirks in the history of man’s accounting of time, on the day that my home country would pause to remember tragedies of the past, my host country would be earnestly looking to the promise of the future.
The whole week had been one of anticipation, with a series of town hall meetings, culture shows, dances, and concerts all leading up to the main event. The most notorious of these featured a local girl performing the topless dancing of the South Omo tribes, which was rather shocking in the context of my highly conservative Gojjami town. My landlady’s second-born son, a singer, was thrilled to finally have me in the audience at some of his band’s shows, and I was inevitably pulled up out of the crowd to dance at the last song of each one (fully clothed, thank you).
New Year’s Day itself began this morning with a heap of fried sheep meat for breakfast. I ate with my landlady and her singer son, the only one of her five boys who had stuck around to spend the holiday with their mother. Planning ahead for future piles of sheep meat to be consumed throughout the day, I ate as little as I could get away with and left for my female neighbor’s home. I colored pictures with the family’s three little children while a male cousin slaughtered the holiday sheep, spilling its blood on the grass-covered floor of the house, as prescribed by culture. We ate together (more fried sheep) and took silly pictures in the yard before I had to leave again to join my landlady for lunch (yet more fried sheep).
In the afternoon, I had second-lunch with KB’s compound family and managed to coat myself in spiced butter while holding their fussy, butter-haired infant. Then, in my final stop of the day, I visited my office’s secretary for evening coffee, bread, and, reluctantly, more sheep meat. Having only interacted with her in the rather male-dominated office setting, I was thankful for a chance to get to know her outside of work in a setting where she felt more comfortable opening up. We bonded over talk about husbands: When I asked if she was married, she replied laughingly in Amharic, “No, I don’t want a husband,” which is my trademark reply to this common inquiry (followed typically by more questions about why I don’t want a husband, to which I usually reply with some variation of, “Husbands are nothing but trouble.”) Thus, the holiday was successful if for nothing else than my discovery of the only single female my age in the whole of my town.
Now, back at home, I’ve settled down into sheep meat coma and am watching from my living room window as, again, the hazy dusk darkens into deepest ebony. The anticipated day is over, and tomorrow, all that will remain of the festivities will be a scattering of sheep bones in the street-side ditches and the smell of garlic that has seeped indelibly into the skin of my hands. Judging, however, from last year’s abundance of posters and cards that proclaimed the arrival of the Ethiopian New Millennium long after the venerated day had passed, the hope of a new year and a brighter future will carry on with bated breath.
A stripe of cloudless sky was visible between the edge of my peaked tin roof and the tops of the renters’ quarters behind my house, where my landlady was busy cooking injera over a smoking wood fire. Gradually, as I stripped my way through the pile of pungent cloves, the hazy dusk gave way to the clear, sharp nighttime sky, glittering with a million dazzling points of light. I reflected that, due to quirks in the history of man’s accounting of time, on the day that my home country would pause to remember tragedies of the past, my host country would be earnestly looking to the promise of the future.
The whole week had been one of anticipation, with a series of town hall meetings, culture shows, dances, and concerts all leading up to the main event. The most notorious of these featured a local girl performing the topless dancing of the South Omo tribes, which was rather shocking in the context of my highly conservative Gojjami town. My landlady’s second-born son, a singer, was thrilled to finally have me in the audience at some of his band’s shows, and I was inevitably pulled up out of the crowd to dance at the last song of each one (fully clothed, thank you).
New Year’s Day itself began this morning with a heap of fried sheep meat for breakfast. I ate with my landlady and her singer son, the only one of her five boys who had stuck around to spend the holiday with their mother. Planning ahead for future piles of sheep meat to be consumed throughout the day, I ate as little as I could get away with and left for my female neighbor’s home. I colored pictures with the family’s three little children while a male cousin slaughtered the holiday sheep, spilling its blood on the grass-covered floor of the house, as prescribed by culture. We ate together (more fried sheep) and took silly pictures in the yard before I had to leave again to join my landlady for lunch (yet more fried sheep).
In the afternoon, I had second-lunch with KB’s compound family and managed to coat myself in spiced butter while holding their fussy, butter-haired infant. Then, in my final stop of the day, I visited my office’s secretary for evening coffee, bread, and, reluctantly, more sheep meat. Having only interacted with her in the rather male-dominated office setting, I was thankful for a chance to get to know her outside of work in a setting where she felt more comfortable opening up. We bonded over talk about husbands: When I asked if she was married, she replied laughingly in Amharic, “No, I don’t want a husband,” which is my trademark reply to this common inquiry (followed typically by more questions about why I don’t want a husband, to which I usually reply with some variation of, “Husbands are nothing but trouble.”) Thus, the holiday was successful if for nothing else than my discovery of the only single female my age in the whole of my town.
Now, back at home, I’ve settled down into sheep meat coma and am watching from my living room window as, again, the hazy dusk darkens into deepest ebony. The anticipated day is over, and tomorrow, all that will remain of the festivities will be a scattering of sheep bones in the street-side ditches and the smell of garlic that has seeped indelibly into the skin of my hands. Judging, however, from last year’s abundance of posters and cards that proclaimed the arrival of the Ethiopian New Millennium long after the venerated day had passed, the hope of a new year and a brighter future will carry on with bated breath.
4 September 2008
Peace Corps service is reliably marked by ups and downs, by the facing of a constant stream of challenges, practical, professional, and psychological. Yet this past month for me was the most emotionally testing by far.
It was a month in which those anticipated ups and downs seemed to climb and dive to extremes beyond their typical character, and every high was tempered by a sobering low. We saw the most sun since the rainy season began three months ago. We also experienced some of the most intense downpours. I took major steps in my two biggest projects. My volunteer assistance grant was approved by Peace Corps for the local mill that will be built to provide job opportunities for people living with HIV, and the HIV&AIDS community forum I have been planning with the teachers college looks to be on its way to happening. Day-to-day work, however, was agonizingly slow, with schools out of session, work partners in other towns pursuing degrees and certificates through summer classes, and rain regularly disrupting each day and usually taking electricity with it. With the hiring of a new APCD, program assistant, and administrative officer, the Peace Corps Addis office had hopes of being fully staffed for the first time since April – until the resignation of our EPC (I don't know what it stands for, either) was announced. Volunteers were overjoyed to hear that one of us who had left the program due to family issues was initiating the process to return. On the other hand, we were hit hard by the departure of six more volunteers (four by choice, two four medical reasons), reducing our current numbers to just 30. Ethiopia had a mixed showing in world news. Four Olympic golds and the restoration of the ancient Axum obelisk to its rightful home counted among the positives; severe food shortages in the southern regions and a bomb blast in the capital, killing four and injuring 24, were among the tragic negatives. Even the Olympics served this roller-coaster pattern. Watching with my community as Ethiopian runners took spectacular victories in the men's and women's 5,000- and 10,000-meters, and joining in the exuberant celebrations following, I was blessed to share the triumph of a nation that has begun in special ways to become mine. Yet sitting in local cafes surrounded by Ethiopians, witnessing thrilling wins by the U.S. including Michael Phelps' historic 8 golds, feeling the welling pride and excitement of those moments and finding no one with whom to share it, painfully underlined the fact that I am away from the country that will always be my true home.
We volunteers are entering the period that the Peace Corps literature terms, "mid-service crisis." Elements of Ethiopian culture that we formerly found interesting, quirky, endearing, or at least amusing, now somehow spark only annoyance. Excitement over the exotic has given way to longing for the familiar. When we get together, we talk about home more than is probably healthy, as many of us look forward to spending the year-end holidays with America family and friends. When we return again to our respective sites, in moments of quiet solitude our thoughts drift inevitably homeward. All my dreams that I can remember from the past three weeks have involved people and places from back home.
And yet, even now I can see glimmers of light at the end of this emotional tunnel. I can sense the competency and state of settled adaptation that I've been assured are coming. I'm feeling more savvy in my work these days. I know which organizations and offices are doing what, I know where to go for resources, I know who I can (and cannot) count on to get things done, I know who will be my leaders and advocates, I know generally "the way things work" and can more adeptly navigate the necessary processes and channels. An impressive portion of my town's 120,000 residents know me by name. Some of them even know what I'm doing here. Children in the streets are catching on to the drill that I ignore, "YouYouYou," "FarenjiFarenjiFarenji," and "MoneyMoneyMoney," but will faithfully and cheerfully respond to, "Hello," "Hi," "Good morning/afternoon," and any variant of, "Kristi." Often I hear them correcting their unenlightened friends. I can navigate full days in Amharic. I actually enjoy going to the chaotic Saturday market. Even the environmental conditions are looking up. The fleas and mosquitoes are on their way out with the rain, the mud occasionally has the chance to dry up, and – miracle of all blessed, blessed miracles! – one local shop has begun to stock Snickers and Twix bars.
Above all, it's such a comfort to know that I'm not riding this emotional roller-coaster alone. It's funny: You hit a slump, and you come up with a whole litany of extenuating circumstances. (It's cold, and I hate cold weather. My nose is runny. My couch has fleas. My bed has fleas. I'm out of postally-provided American chocolate because I binge on it instead of rationing.) Then you talk to fellow volunteers and discover that, across the board, they're feeling the same way, even though your lists of reasons read completely differently. You realize that you'll always have someone to talk to about the tough times, someone who will understand and empathize, a comrade to see you through.
So yes, it's true that I feel like screaming when I get the exact same questions over and over again from everyone I see, when my Amharic inevitably gets laughed at and repeated several times over amongst the giggling crowd of curious gawkers, when each person I talk to during the day feels compelled to point out the pimple that's popped up overnight on my forehead and cross-examine me on how it got there. It's true that I would probably sell my soul at this point for just one day at home with my family and friends, eating terrible processed foods and watching college football. But it's also true that the melancholy feelings will pass, that I'm not alone in experiencing them, and that most importantly, they are a part of a much larger journey that, in the end, will be wholly, unarguably worth it all.
It was a month in which those anticipated ups and downs seemed to climb and dive to extremes beyond their typical character, and every high was tempered by a sobering low. We saw the most sun since the rainy season began three months ago. We also experienced some of the most intense downpours. I took major steps in my two biggest projects. My volunteer assistance grant was approved by Peace Corps for the local mill that will be built to provide job opportunities for people living with HIV, and the HIV&AIDS community forum I have been planning with the teachers college looks to be on its way to happening. Day-to-day work, however, was agonizingly slow, with schools out of session, work partners in other towns pursuing degrees and certificates through summer classes, and rain regularly disrupting each day and usually taking electricity with it. With the hiring of a new APCD, program assistant, and administrative officer, the Peace Corps Addis office had hopes of being fully staffed for the first time since April – until the resignation of our EPC (I don't know what it stands for, either) was announced. Volunteers were overjoyed to hear that one of us who had left the program due to family issues was initiating the process to return. On the other hand, we were hit hard by the departure of six more volunteers (four by choice, two four medical reasons), reducing our current numbers to just 30. Ethiopia had a mixed showing in world news. Four Olympic golds and the restoration of the ancient Axum obelisk to its rightful home counted among the positives; severe food shortages in the southern regions and a bomb blast in the capital, killing four and injuring 24, were among the tragic negatives. Even the Olympics served this roller-coaster pattern. Watching with my community as Ethiopian runners took spectacular victories in the men's and women's 5,000- and 10,000-meters, and joining in the exuberant celebrations following, I was blessed to share the triumph of a nation that has begun in special ways to become mine. Yet sitting in local cafes surrounded by Ethiopians, witnessing thrilling wins by the U.S. including Michael Phelps' historic 8 golds, feeling the welling pride and excitement of those moments and finding no one with whom to share it, painfully underlined the fact that I am away from the country that will always be my true home.
We volunteers are entering the period that the Peace Corps literature terms, "mid-service crisis." Elements of Ethiopian culture that we formerly found interesting, quirky, endearing, or at least amusing, now somehow spark only annoyance. Excitement over the exotic has given way to longing for the familiar. When we get together, we talk about home more than is probably healthy, as many of us look forward to spending the year-end holidays with America family and friends. When we return again to our respective sites, in moments of quiet solitude our thoughts drift inevitably homeward. All my dreams that I can remember from the past three weeks have involved people and places from back home.
And yet, even now I can see glimmers of light at the end of this emotional tunnel. I can sense the competency and state of settled adaptation that I've been assured are coming. I'm feeling more savvy in my work these days. I know which organizations and offices are doing what, I know where to go for resources, I know who I can (and cannot) count on to get things done, I know who will be my leaders and advocates, I know generally "the way things work" and can more adeptly navigate the necessary processes and channels. An impressive portion of my town's 120,000 residents know me by name. Some of them even know what I'm doing here. Children in the streets are catching on to the drill that I ignore, "YouYouYou," "FarenjiFarenjiFarenji," and "MoneyMoneyMoney," but will faithfully and cheerfully respond to, "Hello," "Hi," "Good morning/afternoon," and any variant of, "Kristi." Often I hear them correcting their unenlightened friends. I can navigate full days in Amharic. I actually enjoy going to the chaotic Saturday market. Even the environmental conditions are looking up. The fleas and mosquitoes are on their way out with the rain, the mud occasionally has the chance to dry up, and – miracle of all blessed, blessed miracles! – one local shop has begun to stock Snickers and Twix bars.
Above all, it's such a comfort to know that I'm not riding this emotional roller-coaster alone. It's funny: You hit a slump, and you come up with a whole litany of extenuating circumstances. (It's cold, and I hate cold weather. My nose is runny. My couch has fleas. My bed has fleas. I'm out of postally-provided American chocolate because I binge on it instead of rationing.) Then you talk to fellow volunteers and discover that, across the board, they're feeling the same way, even though your lists of reasons read completely differently. You realize that you'll always have someone to talk to about the tough times, someone who will understand and empathize, a comrade to see you through.
So yes, it's true that I feel like screaming when I get the exact same questions over and over again from everyone I see, when my Amharic inevitably gets laughed at and repeated several times over amongst the giggling crowd of curious gawkers, when each person I talk to during the day feels compelled to point out the pimple that's popped up overnight on my forehead and cross-examine me on how it got there. It's true that I would probably sell my soul at this point for just one day at home with my family and friends, eating terrible processed foods and watching college football. But it's also true that the melancholy feelings will pass, that I'm not alone in experiencing them, and that most importantly, they are a part of a much larger journey that, in the end, will be wholly, unarguably worth it all.
7 August 2008
On the eve of the Olympic opening ceremonies, I called my Ethiopian host family in Welliso. My momma answered and had barely enough time to say my name, before my little brother swiped the phone and yelled excitedly into the receiver, "Christen! The Beijing Olympics start tomorrow!"
Throughout much of the Western world, mention of Ethiopia recalls the images of pot-bellied starving children and skeletal adults that were broadcast during the terrible famine of the mid-1980s. Perhaps occasionally, the name sparks association with fine coffee. Often, it sparks nothing at all. Once every four years, however, Ethiopia has a chance to shine brightly on the world stage for a distinction that is undeniably worthy and universally commanding of respect: supremacy in the gruelling sport of distance running.
This August, the eyes of the world will be on these Games in China. Some will look on in pride, seeing the emergence of a strong and modern nation into the ranks of the global elite. Some will watch in anger, indignance, and disgust as the Olympic torch is taken up by a government marked by heavy-handed oppression and a dubious record of human rights. But amidst all the politics, the posturing and the protest, there will be one bright-eyed Ethiopian twelve-year-old - and millions of others like him - watching in breathless anticipation for a chance at victory, for that moment that will exalt him with his country into the limelight of international glory where they will be seen without pity or trivialization, where, most importantly, they will be SEEN.
I will watch these Olympics on behalf of the dedicated athletes and the ordinary people to whom they mean so much. I will watch for the sake of those remarkable stories that unfold to captivate and connect us all. I will watch for my awesome little Ethiopian brother. I hope you will, too.
Throughout much of the Western world, mention of Ethiopia recalls the images of pot-bellied starving children and skeletal adults that were broadcast during the terrible famine of the mid-1980s. Perhaps occasionally, the name sparks association with fine coffee. Often, it sparks nothing at all. Once every four years, however, Ethiopia has a chance to shine brightly on the world stage for a distinction that is undeniably worthy and universally commanding of respect: supremacy in the gruelling sport of distance running.
This August, the eyes of the world will be on these Games in China. Some will look on in pride, seeing the emergence of a strong and modern nation into the ranks of the global elite. Some will watch in anger, indignance, and disgust as the Olympic torch is taken up by a government marked by heavy-handed oppression and a dubious record of human rights. But amidst all the politics, the posturing and the protest, there will be one bright-eyed Ethiopian twelve-year-old - and millions of others like him - watching in breathless anticipation for a chance at victory, for that moment that will exalt him with his country into the limelight of international glory where they will be seen without pity or trivialization, where, most importantly, they will be SEEN.
I will watch these Olympics on behalf of the dedicated athletes and the ordinary people to whom they mean so much. I will watch for the sake of those remarkable stories that unfold to captivate and connect us all. I will watch for my awesome little Ethiopian brother. I hope you will, too.
15 July 2008: And Back Again
I slept in awkward spurts lying on benches in the airport and stumbled semi-deliriously through check-in, security, and onto the plane. I must have strung together some amount of rest, though, because I was alert enough this time to actually see our descent into Khartoum, even awake enough to humor the flight attendant by taking the 5 A.M. breakfast offering. Khartoum appeared much as it had been described to me: "hot and dusty." As we took off again, I tried not to think about the disasters that had recently taken place on the same runway.
My first experience back in Addis was that of three men push-starting the line taxi heading into the city. Welcome home.
It's a little strange to be back. It's not so much coming from Egypt back to Ethiopia; rather, it's seeing my best friend again after so long, reuniting with that part of my life, feeling that longed-for connection to home, and then having to leave it all behind again.
On the other hand, it is nice to be back in the place that I know. It's nice to feel competent again, to fall back into the "don't-mess-with-me-I'm-not-a-tourist" swagger. It was good to settle into my little house again, to see the familiar faces around town, to be greeted by name out on the streets, to be told I was missed in the community, even to be told in the curious complimentary fashion of Ethiopia that I was looking SO good and fat after my vacation! It feels good to feel that I belong.
My first experience back in Addis was that of three men push-starting the line taxi heading into the city. Welcome home.
It's a little strange to be back. It's not so much coming from Egypt back to Ethiopia; rather, it's seeing my best friend again after so long, reuniting with that part of my life, feeling that longed-for connection to home, and then having to leave it all behind again.
On the other hand, it is nice to be back in the place that I know. It's nice to feel competent again, to fall back into the "don't-mess-with-me-I'm-not-a-tourist" swagger. It was good to settle into my little house again, to see the familiar faces around town, to be greeted by name out on the streets, to be told I was missed in the community, even to be told in the curious complimentary fashion of Ethiopia that I was looking SO good and fat after my vacation! It feels good to feel that I belong.
14 July 2008: Final Day and Departure
I woke up the next morning to say goodbye to Suzanne as she left for the airport. It was an abbreviated affair; neither of us is a big fan of goodbyes.
My flight not being set to depart Cairo until 3:30 the following morning, the girls were good enough to let me tag along with them through the day. I walked with them around the city, glad to be able to see areas that were new to me (though also painfully aware of the big blue hiking pack I was toting through the crowded streets). While they went off to a meeting, I hung out in a trendy café near the American University, drank iced lemonade with mint, and finished up my postcards. In the evening, I met back up with them at the center where they teach English, and their boss invited us to see their newest center on the other side of the city. My last image of Cairo was gathered as we drove with him across town at the close of day: a fiery sunset over the Nile silhouetting a commercial skyline, with two of the Great Pyramids just visible in the hazy distance.
At the new center, we were surprised to find a quaint little grassy backyard, where we were seated like VIP guests for dinner at plastic tables amidst the flower gardens. The girls' boss had bought us each a strand of jasmine from a street seller on the drive over, and we wore them in our hair and felt like perfect pixies as we dined on hotdogs, hamburgers, and hibiscus tea in our secret garden.
It grew late, and the girls and I finally parted ways, they to their home and I to the airport. Their work colleagues helped me obtain a taxi at a fair price, and generally showed unbelievable kindness to a strange girl that had stumbled into their lives for an evening. Along the drive, I chit-chatted with my driver, Mohammed, who was all smiles and so pleased to hear that I had had a wonderful time in his country. It was a long way from that first uncertain taxi ride into the city.
As I watched out the windows, the lights of Cairo streamed past me and faded into the night in the rearview. I felt truly sad to be putting it all behind me.
My flight not being set to depart Cairo until 3:30 the following morning, the girls were good enough to let me tag along with them through the day. I walked with them around the city, glad to be able to see areas that were new to me (though also painfully aware of the big blue hiking pack I was toting through the crowded streets). While they went off to a meeting, I hung out in a trendy café near the American University, drank iced lemonade with mint, and finished up my postcards. In the evening, I met back up with them at the center where they teach English, and their boss invited us to see their newest center on the other side of the city. My last image of Cairo was gathered as we drove with him across town at the close of day: a fiery sunset over the Nile silhouetting a commercial skyline, with two of the Great Pyramids just visible in the hazy distance.
At the new center, we were surprised to find a quaint little grassy backyard, where we were seated like VIP guests for dinner at plastic tables amidst the flower gardens. The girls' boss had bought us each a strand of jasmine from a street seller on the drive over, and we wore them in our hair and felt like perfect pixies as we dined on hotdogs, hamburgers, and hibiscus tea in our secret garden.
It grew late, and the girls and I finally parted ways, they to their home and I to the airport. Their work colleagues helped me obtain a taxi at a fair price, and generally showed unbelievable kindness to a strange girl that had stumbled into their lives for an evening. Along the drive, I chit-chatted with my driver, Mohammed, who was all smiles and so pleased to hear that I had had a wonderful time in his country. It was a long way from that first uncertain taxi ride into the city.
As I watched out the windows, the lights of Cairo streamed past me and faded into the night in the rearview. I felt truly sad to be putting it all behind me.
12-13 July 2008: Cairo, Alexandria, and Cairo Again
On the morning of our arrival back in Cairo, Suzanne and I dumped our bags at the hotel and hopped the Metro to the Coptic section of the city. Wandering through the Coptic Museum, I was fascinated by the peculiar religious mixtures that emerged in the wake of Christianity's appearance in the region. Christian mythologies mingled and merged with those of ancient Egypt and Greece, John and James beside Horace and Anubis beside Leda and the swan. I will say, though, that the shock effect of 5, 6, and 7 A.D. falls somewhat flat after a week spent amidst wonders from a few thousand years prior.
We went back to the hotel and hung out with those still remaining from our tour group, who were set to leave that night. We sat around and watched whatever happened to come on the English-language movie channel – I think Fatal Attraction (through which I slept, my apologies to Mr. Redford) and that one with Deniro and a very young Leo Dicaprio. An Axe Body Spray commercial came on, and we had to explain to our Egyptian tour guide what "bow-chicka-wow-wow" meant. ("Bow-chicka-wow-wow" apparently does not translate across cultures.) Later, we applied this new vocabulary when he left to go visit a "girl friend" at another hotel.
After finally saying goodbye to the others, Suzanne and I caught a few hours of sleep in their vacated hotel rooms before heading out early to Alexandria. Our tour guide had helpfully arranged everything for us, securing a car and dictating a day's itinerary to our driver. He had requested a small car, which apparently was not available that day, so we had the rather awkward experience of being chauffeured around just the two of us in a spacious 12-passenger van.
Alexandria is a beautiful seaside city, described to us a having a "distinctly Western feel." (I think this refers to the TGIFriday's in the downtown.) It provided an interesting contrast to Cairo. Mainly, though, I think I was just thrilled to see the ocean again. We toured the catacombs, Pompey's Pillar, the shoreline citadel, and the enormous Alexandria Library. At each stop, our driver would drop us out front, go to park our small personal bus, and promptly pass out in the reclined driver's seat, leaving us to sheepishly wake him upon our return.
I'm not sure whether it was the fact that we were two foreign women traveling around alone or if it was a distinction of the city itself, but Suzanne and I got more attention in Alexandria than we had anywhere else. Waiting in line to enter the Library, we attracted a pack of adolescent Egyptian boys, who somehow managed to entertain themselves for 20 minutes by speaking to us across a significant language barrier in broken Arabic-English. Walking through the citadel, I was followed relentlessly by one Egyptian man in particular, who wanted to take a picture with me. When, in hopes of getting rid of him, I finally assented and asked him for his camera, he said, "Oh no, I don't have a camera. It is a photo for you!" Thanks…but no thanks.
We ended the day by splitting a pricy (by our African-volunteer-and-in-debt medical-student standard, at least) seafood dinner and strolling down the trash-strewn beach that abutted the sapphire-blue ocean. As we drove away from the city, I tried to keep the sea in sight for as long as possible, storing up memories to take back with me into my landlocked life. Our tour guide called us once, ostensibly to check up on us, though I think he really just wanted to brag about his night. ("Bow-chicka-wow-wah-wee-WOW!!" was, I believe, the exact word he used in telling me.) Two hours later, we were back in Cairo, boarding the Metro out to our accommodations for the night.
In true Peace Corps Volunteer spirit, I feel, I both began and ended my Egyptian tour by imposing myself upon strangers tenuously connected to me through mutual friends. This final night's stay was with some friends of a PCV friend who, also in keeping with Peace Corps spirit, were living with an Egyptian host family on the outskirts of the city. This proved to be one of the most colorful, authentic, and memorable experiences of my whole trip.
Upon our arrival at the house, we shared tea seated together on the family's living room floor, the three women of the family, two little girls, and the five of us Americans. Our three hosts answered in Arabic all the family's questions about Suzanne and me, and we smiled and nodded and tried to look as agreeable as possible. I realize how much the Peace Corps experience has affected me by how little I'm bothered being in the midst of totally incomprehensible chatter. In fact, I could have sat and listened to them talk all night, just observing the scene, soaking in the moment, picking up words here and there and storing them away. Such has been much of my life in Ethiopia.
A cassette player was produced from the back bedroom, and before we knew it, tea time had broken into a belly dancing party. Washtubs and metal pots were beaten like drums in rhythm with the music, and we each took turns making fools of ourselves as the sassy little six-year-old daughter dragged us up in turn in front of the gathering. That is to say, the rather more Caucasian among us made fools of ourselves, while getting to see displays of incredible talent from the others. It reminded me very much of all those nights spent dancing in the living room with my host family in Welliso – except that now it was my hips, rather than my shoulders, that I was attempting to gyrate in ways that I believe are truly beyond my physical capabilities.
When the music and the laughter finally subsided, we bid the family goodnight and retreated to the girls' wing of the apartment, where we talked late into the night about our different experiences abroad. It was a perfect last night in Egypt, in my mind, one that felt less like tourism and more like traveling. It exemplified all the things that drew me overseas with the Peace Corps in the first place, all the things for which I have gained an even greater appreciation since.
We went back to the hotel and hung out with those still remaining from our tour group, who were set to leave that night. We sat around and watched whatever happened to come on the English-language movie channel – I think Fatal Attraction (through which I slept, my apologies to Mr. Redford) and that one with Deniro and a very young Leo Dicaprio. An Axe Body Spray commercial came on, and we had to explain to our Egyptian tour guide what "bow-chicka-wow-wow" meant. ("Bow-chicka-wow-wow" apparently does not translate across cultures.) Later, we applied this new vocabulary when he left to go visit a "girl friend" at another hotel.
After finally saying goodbye to the others, Suzanne and I caught a few hours of sleep in their vacated hotel rooms before heading out early to Alexandria. Our tour guide had helpfully arranged everything for us, securing a car and dictating a day's itinerary to our driver. He had requested a small car, which apparently was not available that day, so we had the rather awkward experience of being chauffeured around just the two of us in a spacious 12-passenger van.
Alexandria is a beautiful seaside city, described to us a having a "distinctly Western feel." (I think this refers to the TGIFriday's in the downtown.) It provided an interesting contrast to Cairo. Mainly, though, I think I was just thrilled to see the ocean again. We toured the catacombs, Pompey's Pillar, the shoreline citadel, and the enormous Alexandria Library. At each stop, our driver would drop us out front, go to park our small personal bus, and promptly pass out in the reclined driver's seat, leaving us to sheepishly wake him upon our return.
I'm not sure whether it was the fact that we were two foreign women traveling around alone or if it was a distinction of the city itself, but Suzanne and I got more attention in Alexandria than we had anywhere else. Waiting in line to enter the Library, we attracted a pack of adolescent Egyptian boys, who somehow managed to entertain themselves for 20 minutes by speaking to us across a significant language barrier in broken Arabic-English. Walking through the citadel, I was followed relentlessly by one Egyptian man in particular, who wanted to take a picture with me. When, in hopes of getting rid of him, I finally assented and asked him for his camera, he said, "Oh no, I don't have a camera. It is a photo for you!" Thanks…but no thanks.
We ended the day by splitting a pricy (by our African-volunteer-and-in-debt medical-student standard, at least) seafood dinner and strolling down the trash-strewn beach that abutted the sapphire-blue ocean. As we drove away from the city, I tried to keep the sea in sight for as long as possible, storing up memories to take back with me into my landlocked life. Our tour guide called us once, ostensibly to check up on us, though I think he really just wanted to brag about his night. ("Bow-chicka-wow-wah-wee-WOW!!" was, I believe, the exact word he used in telling me.) Two hours later, we were back in Cairo, boarding the Metro out to our accommodations for the night.
In true Peace Corps Volunteer spirit, I feel, I both began and ended my Egyptian tour by imposing myself upon strangers tenuously connected to me through mutual friends. This final night's stay was with some friends of a PCV friend who, also in keeping with Peace Corps spirit, were living with an Egyptian host family on the outskirts of the city. This proved to be one of the most colorful, authentic, and memorable experiences of my whole trip.
Upon our arrival at the house, we shared tea seated together on the family's living room floor, the three women of the family, two little girls, and the five of us Americans. Our three hosts answered in Arabic all the family's questions about Suzanne and me, and we smiled and nodded and tried to look as agreeable as possible. I realize how much the Peace Corps experience has affected me by how little I'm bothered being in the midst of totally incomprehensible chatter. In fact, I could have sat and listened to them talk all night, just observing the scene, soaking in the moment, picking up words here and there and storing them away. Such has been much of my life in Ethiopia.
A cassette player was produced from the back bedroom, and before we knew it, tea time had broken into a belly dancing party. Washtubs and metal pots were beaten like drums in rhythm with the music, and we each took turns making fools of ourselves as the sassy little six-year-old daughter dragged us up in turn in front of the gathering. That is to say, the rather more Caucasian among us made fools of ourselves, while getting to see displays of incredible talent from the others. It reminded me very much of all those nights spent dancing in the living room with my host family in Welliso – except that now it was my hips, rather than my shoulders, that I was attempting to gyrate in ways that I believe are truly beyond my physical capabilities.
When the music and the laughter finally subsided, we bid the family goodnight and retreated to the girls' wing of the apartment, where we talked late into the night about our different experiences abroad. It was a perfect last night in Egypt, in my mind, one that felt less like tourism and more like traveling. It exemplified all the things that drew me overseas with the Peace Corps in the first place, all the things for which I have gained an even greater appreciation since.
10-11 July: Luxor
Leaving behind our faithful felucca and taking once more to travel by land, we followed the path of the
We started at
(At times, though, I will note, my awe was mingled with immature amusement, as I also couldn't help but snigger at the many representations of the fertility god Min, who as a result of having impregnated the entire female population of an ancient Egyptian village, is always depicted in an…aroused state.)
The next day, we traveled to see the Colossi of Memnon and the
Lunch that day was served to us at a home off the back streets of
Throughout all this, there was an element of the
7-9 July 2008: Aswan
The city of
The two of us began our stay in
Joining back up with our group at the hotel, we took a boat out to
We were invited into the home of a Rastafarian-leaning Nubian gentleman who went by "JJ", seemed to know everyone on the island, and could have easily passed for the Nubian Godfather. We drank fresh, chilled mango juice and saw photographs and video from his wedding. One posed photograph showed the groom brandishing a large whip in front of his bride, who faced him with palms pressed together in front of her heart, as if in prayer or plea. Our uneasiness over this picture was only slightly allayed when our guide explained that the whip pertained to a traditional Sudanese wedding dance between groom and best man.
We trolled around the
After several minutes in the chilly water, I joined the others on shore for shisha and Nubian coffee, which was not quite as bold as Ethiopian coffee but beautifully and piquantly spiced. Then, once we had dried off, we hired camels and rode inland over part of the
That night, we ferried out to
We returned to the city late at night and, sadly, were forced into supporting the intrusion of American fast food abroad, since the only place to grab a quick dinner at that hour was the McDonald's. Maybe I was just paranoid and self-conscious, but I swear the Egyptians we passed on the street were laughing at the Americans carrying their red and yellow paper sacks of greasy, supply-chained, ultra-standardized, factory-produced fast food.
Suzanne and I stopped in a little shop to buy a couple bottles of water. As we were walking back to the hotel, we began to hear offensive catcalling behind us. It started as kissing noises, and then we began hear an Egyptian voice calling, "Hey! Hey! Hey, girls! Hey! Want some company? Hey, girls, want some company?" It followed us for about a block, after which I turned to Suzanne, and I believe my exact words were, "I'm gonna punch this guy in the face. I'm gonna kill someone." We heard the pace of the footsteps behind us quicken to catch up with us, and the next "Hey!" came from just behind us. I whipped around. I was angry. I was ready. It was our tour guide. Our lanky, goofy, mischievous Egyptian tour guide was screwing with us. He laughed and laughed, hugged us, and made fun of the infuriated and indignant expression on my face. It became a favorite joke between us for the rest of the trip. Perhaps nine months of harassment as a foreign woman in
A late night was followed by a very early morning, as we had to join the police convoy at
I had passed out on the back seat on the bus ride to
Back at the hotel in
We spent the next day on the water. It was a day of complete relaxation, a leisurely boat trip on a bright, lazy day that recalled time passed on the lakes at home on beautiful, muggy summer days. We read, played cards, drank cold beers from our cooler, and napped under the canopy of our canvas-sailed felucca. Stopping every so often to swim in the cool water, we inevitably drew a crowd of curious Egyptian boys with whom we threw Frisbee. Good alumni that we are, Suzanne and I made sure to fly our Clemson flag from the stern of the boat. It waved proudly in the breeze and glinted vivid orange under the splendid sun.
At night, we docked at a little sand beach with two other tourist boats. The boat assistants built a campfire, Egyptian drums appeared out of nowhere, and suddenly the quiet beach was transformed into a spirited circle of singing and dancing. We spun, stomped, stepped, clapped, kicked, swayed, and shook to the lively rhythms until guides and guests alike were worn out. We settled ourselves down on blankets around the fire, and the smell of sweet apples filled the air as the shisha pipes were fired up. A demonstration of the traditional "haka" from the New Zealanders launched a sort of nationalistic talent show, in which a song was demanded from the citizens of each country represented there on the beach. I led my countrymen in a rousing rendition of "You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling," which might not be quite as cultural or historical as the hucker, but surely won a special part in the American tradition after its prominent appearance in Top Gun.
We slept on the deck of the felucca. When I awoke the next morning and rolled over on my stomach to peek over the side of the boat, I was greeted by the sun rising brilliantly over the water, lighting up the
5-6 July 2008: Cairo and Giza
We began our sightseeing by walking to Al Azar mosque in the heart of Islamic Cairo. We strolled around the large open courtyard and tried to take in the towering minarets, the smooth curved domes, the intricate Arabesque arches. Inside the mosque, we wandered through a forest of wooden pillars and the many young men dozing up against them, sheltered from the intense afternoon sun. (Our tour guide remarked of the men napping in the mosque, "This is a bad habit.")
Our next visit was to Khan al Khalili market, the noise and bustle of which provided a stark contrast to the solemn serenity of Al Azar. I wandered with Suzanne up and down the aisles and aisles of stalls selling traditional clothing, scarves, papyrus paintings, wooden instruments, silver jewelry, intricate boxes inlaid with mother-of-pearl, carved statuettes, and fragrant spices. We were bombarded on all sides by the insistent sales pitches of the merchants, the forceful proffering of items, the assurances of "top quality" and "honest price", the shameless flattery and even several offers of marriage. I have experienced the haggling culture of several different countries now, but in my opinions the Egyptians have thought up the wittiest lines. My favorites included, "I don't know what you're looking for, but I have exactly what you need!", "Ninety-nine percent discount for beautiful girls!", and "How can I take your money?", which I found rather refreshingly honest.
From Khan al Khalili, we went up to El Azar park, which overlooks the city from the top of a hill. We watched the sun set over a hazy skyline, surrounded by happy Egyptian families and small boys flying colorful kites. Then, in the evening, we watched a traditional Sufi dance show. White-robed musicians played cultural flutes, drums, tambourines, guitars, bells and cymbals while Sufi dancers in gigantic, round, rainbow-colored skirts whirled and twirled, sometimes, amazingly, for up to half an hour without stopping. It was a fantastic display of color, motion, and sound.
At the end of the day, the group gathered back at the hotel bar and swapped travel stories over local Stella beers. Suzanne and I really hadn't STOPPED talking since our scene in the lobby, but in spite of this, and despite some serious jet lag on her part coming from
Fortunately, it wasn't TOO terribly early the next morning when we set out for the pyramids at
After a free afternoon (mostly spent napping) we boarded our sleeper train to
5 July 2008: Arrival in Egypt
In my first steps off the plane, I was met by a thick desert heat that even at
Aside from all that, though, it would be the first time in nine months that I would have to consider myself merely a tourist in a foreign country. I felt all the uncertainties of that long-ago flight to
The flight had gone smoothly, albeit mostly sleeplessly. On any other airline, one could expect a flight departing at
After deplaning, I mentally braced myself for my first set of challenges. Buy visa. Exchange money. Pass customs. Find taxi. The first three were much simpler than I had envisioned, as the entire procedure for obtaining an Egyptian tourist visa consists in handing 15 USD through the money exchange window. (I was thankful that I had not bothered to complete forms and submit pictures beforehand to the embassy in Addis.) As for the taxi, I found myself apprehended by a small, wiry man at the airport information desk and shuffled upstairs to "an honest government tourist car." I'm sure the wiry man was simply a taxi operator, and I'm sure the driver was simply a friend of his, and I'm absolutely certain I paid double the normal going rate, but as a rather clueless tourist showing up alone in a country where I speak almost none of local language, I'm going to have to expect to get ripped off a little bit initially. The driver asked me if I would like to listen to Egyptian music, then asked me how much I would pay to hear it. He also told me several times during the drive that he hoped I would not forget his tip.
On the drive from the airport through the city, I felt like a little kid, wondering at the beautiful domed mosques and soaring minarets, the intricate palaces, the imposing stone citadel. I caught my first glimpse of the Egyptian Nile lying serenely between
I was staying with a friend of a friend of a friend, who was kind enough to offer hospitality to a total stranger (outside of the all-important Facebook friendship) for the several hours I'd have to myself in the city before meeting my tour group. When I opened the door to the flat, I was struck immediately by the wood floors, which I had seen in
I slept through most of the morning and took a cold shower upon waking in order to relieve the heat. Then I strapped on my pack and hit the streets.
For a large capital city, it seemed a relatively calm Saturday morning. Families strolled together in residential areas. In the commercial districts, business owners watched people in the streets from the cool shade of their breezy shop doorways. I stopped at a small snack shop and bought some coconut-flavored biscuits to get change for the Metro. Being confident in only three words of Arabic (the common two-word greeting and, thanks to watching Al Jazeera in
Half an hour later, I found myself standing in front of my hotel, feeling quite proud of myself for having successfully navigated the Metro and city streets to arrive there. (I chose to ignore the fact that I had stood with my back to the door for about five minutes, looking undecidedly at the large stone building across the street, before the doorman told me to turn around because my hotel was probably right behind me.)
I had made it just in time for our tour group meeting. Introductions around the table showed us to be a well-traveled group, all of us coming to
22 June 2008
If the result of the game wasn’t clear from the triumphant roars emanating from the stadium, if it wasn’t demonstrated in the chanting, flag-waving crowds streaming into the streets, then it could certainly be read unmistakably in the downcast faces and sullen silence of the three girls from Mauritania who had been sitting in the row behind me.
The World Cup qualifying match between Ethiopia and Mauritania had packed an impressive crowd into the Addis Ababa stadium. A reported 13,000 people were in attendance, and yet we still managed to seat ourselves in front of the handful of Mauritanians – dignitaries, officials, and their families – who had flown across the continent to see the game.
The first half ended in a 1-1 tie, an Ethiopia goal off a penalty kick in the 38th minute and a quick answer by Mauritania. But Ethiopia ran away with it in the second half and went on to claim a punishing 6-1 victory, with 3 goals coming in the last 10 minutes. I don’t know much French, but I do know enough swear words to recognize that the Mauritanian teenagers in the stands behind me were using a dazzling array. When the sixth Ethiopia goal found the back of the net in the 90th minute, though, all other sounds were drowned out by the screaming of the host country fans. Hordes of ecstatic fans poured over the chain link fences to greet their team on the field – only to be chased back over by a menacing sea of blue camouflage and brandished clubs. So the energy, noise, and mania diverted itself outside the stadium and spread out over the city, and we were swept up in it. All the way back to our hotel, we waved the little paper Ethiopian flags we had pilfered from deserted seats in the stadium, and sang along with Amharic chants that we at least mostly understood.
People sometimes ask me why I like sports. I think one of the most interesting things about the world of sports is how it provides a common ground, where people from different cultures, different backgrounds, different situations in life can meet and engage each other. The rules and goals are clearly defined and universal, the environment is familiar and controlled, the competition connects people from all over the world. I might not understand all the joys and pains associated with being an Ethiopian child growing up on the streets of Addis Ababa, a working Ethiopian father having lived through the desperation of the 1984 famine, an Ethiopian mother striving to raise her family of seven. But watching that game today and taking part in the celebrations, together we could all share the joy of victory, even if only for a moment. And had the result been different, we would have shared the ache of defeat. The distinctions of nationality, ethnicity, class, gender, and skin color that too often erect barriers between us are trumped by our loyalty to a common side. Perhaps the context seems trivial, but the connection never is.
The triumphant clamor that stretched out over Addis Ababa today rose up from a crowd of businessmen, bus drivers, and beggars, priests and politicians, soldiers and students, rich and poor, male and female, young and old, literate and illiterate, black and even a handful of white. Their song was communal, their joy was shared, and the crowd was one.
The World Cup qualifying match between Ethiopia and Mauritania had packed an impressive crowd into the Addis Ababa stadium. A reported 13,000 people were in attendance, and yet we still managed to seat ourselves in front of the handful of Mauritanians – dignitaries, officials, and their families – who had flown across the continent to see the game.
The first half ended in a 1-1 tie, an Ethiopia goal off a penalty kick in the 38th minute and a quick answer by Mauritania. But Ethiopia ran away with it in the second half and went on to claim a punishing 6-1 victory, with 3 goals coming in the last 10 minutes. I don’t know much French, but I do know enough swear words to recognize that the Mauritanian teenagers in the stands behind me were using a dazzling array. When the sixth Ethiopia goal found the back of the net in the 90th minute, though, all other sounds were drowned out by the screaming of the host country fans. Hordes of ecstatic fans poured over the chain link fences to greet their team on the field – only to be chased back over by a menacing sea of blue camouflage and brandished clubs. So the energy, noise, and mania diverted itself outside the stadium and spread out over the city, and we were swept up in it. All the way back to our hotel, we waved the little paper Ethiopian flags we had pilfered from deserted seats in the stadium, and sang along with Amharic chants that we at least mostly understood.
People sometimes ask me why I like sports. I think one of the most interesting things about the world of sports is how it provides a common ground, where people from different cultures, different backgrounds, different situations in life can meet and engage each other. The rules and goals are clearly defined and universal, the environment is familiar and controlled, the competition connects people from all over the world. I might not understand all the joys and pains associated with being an Ethiopian child growing up on the streets of Addis Ababa, a working Ethiopian father having lived through the desperation of the 1984 famine, an Ethiopian mother striving to raise her family of seven. But watching that game today and taking part in the celebrations, together we could all share the joy of victory, even if only for a moment. And had the result been different, we would have shared the ache of defeat. The distinctions of nationality, ethnicity, class, gender, and skin color that too often erect barriers between us are trumped by our loyalty to a common side. Perhaps the context seems trivial, but the connection never is.
The triumphant clamor that stretched out over Addis Ababa today rose up from a crowd of businessmen, bus drivers, and beggars, priests and politicians, soldiers and students, rich and poor, male and female, young and old, literate and illiterate, black and even a handful of white. Their song was communal, their joy was shared, and the crowd was one.
18 June 2008
The rain fell steadily on a grey, dreary morning as I said goodbye to my friend. Though her leaving had been a long time in coming, it was still somehow no less of a shock to realize that this would be my last time seeing her in Ethiopia.
I had been with her throughout her journey to this point, had seen factor after factor adding up to this inevitable outcome. I, along with her many other friends here, had talked her through the various stages of this difficult decision. We heard all the circumstances we knew would eventually push her to go: a lack of meaningful work at her assigned office, active efforts by her supervisor to prevent her from working elsewhere, haunting first-hand experiences with the devastations of poverty and disease in a developing nation,unresponsiveness on the part of the Peace Corps office, feelings of helplessness, isolation, and utter frustration. We sympathized, being faced with similar situations ourselves. But we saw, too, an unmistakable confidence building in our friend. We saw her growing assurance in who she was (and was not), what she was (and was not)passionate about, and what she wanted out of life. Ultimately, we recognized a new found courage to pursue those things, to break away from the path being laid out before her in order to chart a course of her own.
We all gathered at her house on the weekend before her departure. It was the seven of us who had gone up into the mountains together, as part of her farewell tour. As we stayed up talking together late into each night, I was struck by how much we had gained from each other in just a short time – strength, confidence, comfort, friendship,connection, understanding for one another and ourselves – and saddened by the fact that a part of it all would soon be leaving us.
Faced with the early exit of one of our own, our thoughts and discussion were led toward that momentous question: Why are we here?Leading up to our arrival in-country, we heard U.S. officials talk about Ethiopia in the context of "historical friendship" and "a key ally", and we grasped vaguely some of the political reasons behind our assignment. As we were briefed on our PEPFAR-directed goals and objectives, we began to understand the programmatic and policy issues that would shape our service. And a recently published Internet news article supposedly revealing a lack of "skilled volunteers" (Multiple degrees, field research experience, internships with internationally-recognized development agencies, volunteer service with health-related community groups, Red Cross certifications,extensive travels abroad, and generally one of the most impressive assemblages of experiences among recent graduates with which I've had the pleasure of associating myself…are all apparently invalidated if some enjoy the occasional flip-flop sandal.) clued us into external debates concerning the larger purpose and philosophy underlying the Peace Corps. But together in that tiny house, surrounded by the stillness of the Ethiopian night, reflecting upon our friend's justifications for leaving and trying to formulate our own justifications for staying, we laid all those other grand considerations aside to focus on what all too often gets lost in the shuffle: our PERSONAL reasons for coming here, the hopes and aspirations that caused us to sign up for this adventure, and the growth and accomplishment being worked out in each of us individually as a result of our having taken this step.
It's been a month now since my friend returned home, but I am thinking of her especially tonight, when another gloomy rainfall marked the departure of yet another friend. Their leaving is a reminder of how personal this experience is, providing a unique journey and meaning to each that undertakes it.
And to both of them back in the U.S., each for very different reasons, should they be reading this now: I want you to know that however people view your service, it's you that made the journey and only you that can define its significance. It takes strength to leave your home and all its familiar comforts to challenge yourself in a new environment. It takes AMAZING strength to realize the right decision is to go back. You've enriched my life unbelievably. May you live and love all of life's adventures, whatever form they might take.
I had been with her throughout her journey to this point, had seen factor after factor adding up to this inevitable outcome. I, along with her many other friends here, had talked her through the various stages of this difficult decision. We heard all the circumstances we knew would eventually push her to go: a lack of meaningful work at her assigned office, active efforts by her supervisor to prevent her from working elsewhere, haunting first-hand experiences with the devastations of poverty and disease in a developing nation,unresponsiveness on the part of the Peace Corps office, feelings of helplessness, isolation, and utter frustration. We sympathized, being faced with similar situations ourselves. But we saw, too, an unmistakable confidence building in our friend. We saw her growing assurance in who she was (and was not), what she was (and was not)passionate about, and what she wanted out of life. Ultimately, we recognized a new found courage to pursue those things, to break away from the path being laid out before her in order to chart a course of her own.
We all gathered at her house on the weekend before her departure. It was the seven of us who had gone up into the mountains together, as part of her farewell tour. As we stayed up talking together late into each night, I was struck by how much we had gained from each other in just a short time – strength, confidence, comfort, friendship,connection, understanding for one another and ourselves – and saddened by the fact that a part of it all would soon be leaving us.
Faced with the early exit of one of our own, our thoughts and discussion were led toward that momentous question: Why are we here?Leading up to our arrival in-country, we heard U.S. officials talk about Ethiopia in the context of "historical friendship" and "a key ally", and we grasped vaguely some of the political reasons behind our assignment. As we were briefed on our PEPFAR-directed goals and objectives, we began to understand the programmatic and policy issues that would shape our service. And a recently published Internet news article supposedly revealing a lack of "skilled volunteers" (Multiple degrees, field research experience, internships with internationally-recognized development agencies, volunteer service with health-related community groups, Red Cross certifications,extensive travels abroad, and generally one of the most impressive assemblages of experiences among recent graduates with which I've had the pleasure of associating myself…are all apparently invalidated if some enjoy the occasional flip-flop sandal.) clued us into external debates concerning the larger purpose and philosophy underlying the Peace Corps. But together in that tiny house, surrounded by the stillness of the Ethiopian night, reflecting upon our friend's justifications for leaving and trying to formulate our own justifications for staying, we laid all those other grand considerations aside to focus on what all too often gets lost in the shuffle: our PERSONAL reasons for coming here, the hopes and aspirations that caused us to sign up for this adventure, and the growth and accomplishment being worked out in each of us individually as a result of our having taken this step.
It's been a month now since my friend returned home, but I am thinking of her especially tonight, when another gloomy rainfall marked the departure of yet another friend. Their leaving is a reminder of how personal this experience is, providing a unique journey and meaning to each that undertakes it.
And to both of them back in the U.S., each for very different reasons, should they be reading this now: I want you to know that however people view your service, it's you that made the journey and only you that can define its significance. It takes strength to leave your home and all its familiar comforts to challenge yourself in a new environment. It takes AMAZING strength to realize the right decision is to go back. You've enriched my life unbelievably. May you live and love all of life's adventures, whatever form they might take.
30 May 2008
"Hi! Do you know me? No? I am the friend of your friend... You know... What is his name...? You know, the red one? Oh, what is his name...? Wait... (searches through cell phone) Ah! Yirga! Yes, your friend Yirga! I am his brother and BEST friend."
(-- unfamiliar man who stopped me in the street)
"I...own a small business. I am...a druggist. Yes...I own a drug store."
(-- man on the minibus next to me chewing his way through two bags of khat, in response to my asking him, "What do you do for a living?". Khat is considered an illicit drug under
23 May 2008
Surely, one of the finest ways to see
Traveling northward, I'm sitting in just that favorite seat on the "twelve"-passenger van (currently carrying twenty) as it rambles along the asphalt road. I'm sandwiched between the driver and another young passenger, who wears a canary yellow Sean John t-shirt, wrinkled blue jeans, and thin, well groomed, shoulder-length dreadlocks bundled attractively just behind his ears. The driver balances a glass bottle of Coca-Cola in the storage pocket of the door beside him, and a plastic bag of khat on his lap. He sings along to the Amharic pop music blaring from the stereo and talks animatedly with passengers' reflections in the rearview mirror, as caffeine and amphetamine course in powerful combination through his body.
I have a perfect view of our surroundings as they roll past us. It is a brilliantly sunny day, and recent rains have made the land verdant and fresh. We drive through countryside painted in vivid greens and the rich browns of freshly tilled earth. In nearly every field, farmers are out driving their ox plows, preparing for the fast-approaching growing season. Processions of people make their way alongside the road, bearing goods to and from the market. The Gojjam men are bundled up in woven blankets from the waist up, but they bare their dark, spindly legs in tiny cloth shorts, sometimes stitched all over in beds and buttons. They present a spectacular array of colorful headwear, from various styles of turban-like wrappings to homemade stocking caps sprouting fuzzy yarn tufts all over their surfaces, creating the effect of a psychedelic bunch of broccoli. Each carries a wooden herding stick over his shoulder, to which the occasional live chicken is tethered by its feet. The Gojjam women wear their headwraps and simple cloth dresses, cinched at the waist with white sashes embroidered in neons, sometimes trailing cowry shells dangling from thin leather strands. They carry produce in large wicker baskets and water in fired clay pots, loaded heavily upon their bent backs. Lines of children coming home from school form rivulets of color in their solid-hued uniforms. Some of these trickle out far from their sources, as students from rural areas cover the many kilometers of their twice-daily trek.
The paved road is shared between people, animals, and vehicles, traditional and modern. 4.5-metric-ton white Isuzu transport trucks maneuver around rickety horse carts. Minibuses like ours routinely brake for herds of sheep, goats, and cattle making leisurely crossings. A particularly stubborn sheep in the road brings us to a complete halt from 100 kilometers per hour, and I have to grab onto my dreadlocked seatmate's arm to keep from sliding into the dashboard. Accidents are common on the road in
We pass through shrubby hills dotted with round, thatched-roof huts. We pass over muddy streams, where women wash their families' clothes and lay them out like dazzling banners along the banks to dry. We pass the rusted carcasses of decrepit military tanks, remnants of the toppled military regime left to rot in open fields. We pass through a scattered few towns, which spring up suddenly from the rugged landscape and disappear in a blur of colorful storefronts and NGO logos less than two minutes later. We pass men and boys urinating in the roadside ditches.
At some point along in our journey, the music cassette ceases to play, bringing a rare peaceful silence to the car. The driver ejects the tape and bangs it repeatedly against the steering wheel in an attempt to fix it - surprisingly, to no avail. A female passenger in the row behind me cracks a window in an attempt to relieve the greenhouse heating effect being created inside our vehicle under the intense midday sun. I draw in one delicious breath of cool, fresh air before the driver demands the window be shut; the wind gives him a headache. A new cassette tape is inserted to replace the malfunctioning one. The blaring music resumes.
As our destination comes into sight, the driver refastens the seatbelt he had removed at the start of the trip, once town and traffic police had been safely left behind. He reaches down beside his seat to retrieve the sideview mirror that has come detached from its frame and holds it at arm's length through his window to check traffic behind him.
We pull into the bus station, where all is chatter, bustle, and dust. Swarms of station boys rush to surround the minibus bearing the white farenji in the front seat, eager to offer me another bus, directions, a hotel for the night, help carrying my backpack - all, of course, for a small fee. Suddenly my journey to this place, even with the heat, noise, stubborn farm animals, and chemically-amped driver, seems beautifully idyllic compared to the one that faces me next.
18 May 2008
Fun with poorly translated, imported product labels in Addis Ababa:
Shirt series: we always keep the intonation of appearance supremacy of quality and the self nobility are all the distinctions of a modern leader's confidence.
Facial cleanser: Nurse Skin
The temperate clean surface, while the clean pore in-depth dirt, oil, gives the fresh comprehensively to moisten with maintains especially contains the many kinds of natural plants essence, the rich nutrition in-depth seepage flesh, softens cutin, reappears fairly is soft, the transparent skin nature. The natural smooth factor, locks in the moisture content, makes and the skin is smooth crystal clear, presents the pearl brilliance.
APPLICATION METHOD: With the lukewarm water moist face, takes right amount to hand heart, after lightly rubs massages the full froth, then the flushing is clean.
INGREDIENT: fresh lemon, the ginseng, the rose essence, the collagen, the nutrition facto, compound vitamin group, egg, smooth factor, the wet ingredient.
Shirt series: we always keep the intonation of appearance supremacy of quality and the self nobility are all the distinctions of a modern leader's confidence.
Facial cleanser: Nurse Skin
The temperate clean surface, while the clean pore in-depth dirt, oil, gives the fresh comprehensively to moisten with maintains especially contains the many kinds of natural plants essence, the rich nutrition in-depth seepage flesh, softens cutin, reappears fairly is soft, the transparent skin nature. The natural smooth factor, locks in the moisture content, makes and the skin is smooth crystal clear, presents the pearl brilliance.
APPLICATION METHOD: With the lukewarm water moist face, takes right amount to hand heart, after lightly rubs massages the full froth, then the flushing is clean.
INGREDIENT: fresh lemon, the ginseng, the rose essence, the collagen, the nutrition facto, compound vitamin group, egg, smooth factor, the wet ingredient.
6 May 2008
I humbly submit the following as a typical example of the many similar instances of awkwardness and hilarity that color my Ethiopian life.
One of my local counterparts, the head of an NGO focusing on reproductive health and family planning services, was recently promoted to the Bahirdar area branch, so I was invited over to his house for a small going-away party. I came to the house straight after work. By the time I arrived, after being swamped by a gaggle of overenthusiastic children in a neighborhood in which I had not yet made an appearance, the guests were all assembled. My counterpart, his in-laws, a work colleague and his wife, and a handful of neighbors sat together around two wooden tables. They sat by candlelight, as the electricity to the town had been cut during a recent heavy rain.
I greeted everyone in turn and took the place that had been reserved for me. Immediately, my counterpart’s wife appeared from the back portion of the house, bringing a tall drinking glass that she set squarely in front of me. A female cousin followed shortly after her with a kettle full of tella.
Tella is Ethiopian “local beer”. Its appearance is that of muddy lake water, and its taste is much like…well, slightly alcoholic muddy lake water (but not nearly alcoholic enough). And there are other issues confronting the tella non-drinker. First, it is invariably served in the largest beverage containers you will ever see inside Ethiopia. Coffee – served in a dainty four-ounce teacup. Tea – served in a miniature juice glass. Local wine – drunk from small round-bottom distilling flasks. But tella – gargantuan drinking glass. Second, as if the sheer volume capacity of the glass wasn’t enough, the glass gets refilled to the top with every sip you take from it, so that if finishing it off seemed challenging before, now it’s completely hopeless. That of course does not discourage the entire gathering from exhorting you, “Drink! Drink! Drink tella!” at every lull in the conversation.
Amharic discussion murmured around me as I sat trying to get way with as little tella consumption as politely allowable. I followed as best I could, but in the dim candlelight and after a long day at the office, I found my mind wandering from the discussions of local food prices and the weather. My counterpart, however, made a great show of engaging me in English, resulting in a dazzling array of nearly correct but entertainingly erroneous statements.
“Two people have been, you know, floated. They are floaters.”
(Two people were let go from the organization in the restructuring. Fired, floated…he was pretty close.)
“It is evacuating the earth!”
(The dog is digging.)
“It is a very smart and important drink. It is like…glucose!”
(This drink is good.)
“I appreciate your sacrification.”
(“Sacrification” has just joined “respection” on my list of favorite EthioEnglish words.)
“So do not be frustrated, because I do have a big stick.”
(I would try to provide context, but it really wouldn’t help much.)
If my counterpart’s English provided amusement for me, my Amharic was ten times more entertaining for the assembled Ethiopian guests. The party game of choice consisted in my counterpart pointing out an object on the table or around the room, asking me, “Do you know this?”, and then upon my correct answer, exclaiming, “Oooh! It is surprising! I think you know everything!” In another version of this game, whenever I said any one simple word of Amharic, guests turned each other and repeated it amongst themselves, laughing.
Eventually I was saved from these diversions by the re-entrance of the women from the back of the house, each carrying casserole dishes of steaming wot and baskets of injera. They presented food around the table, standing expectantly in front of each guest until they deemed the quantity of food taken to be acceptable. As we ate, the conversation resumed in Amharic, though my counterpart was sure to keep me involved by pointing out repeatedly that everyone in the room was “coupled” but me, by offering to find me an Ethiopian husband, by explaining that in Ethiopian culture the parents are involved in choosing “our intimates”, and by asking me questions about American relationships, such as, “It is important sometimes to beat the wife. Is it acceptable in your country?”
The women came around to force second helpings upon everyone, and I was privileged to witness some of the finest defensive maneuvers I have seen yet in Ethiopia. As my counterpart’s wife attempted to place a fifth roll of injera on her father’s plate, the old man whisked the plate from the table, holding it at arm’s length away and slightly behind his back. With his free hand, he executed a solid arm bar to keep the unwanted injera at bay. His wife went for the two-armed plate cover, being sure to keep her body positioned between her opponent and the goal. Some other guests decided the best defense was a good offense, opting for aggressive attacks upon the food being shoved at them, pushing away dishes and threatening to overturn baskets. All of this was done amidst a clamor of, “No more!”, “I’m full!”, and, “I’m done! I’m done! By God and Mary, I’m done!”
When the great supper battles had subsided and everyone was finally allowed to be “done, done, by God and Mary, done,” the after-dinner drinks of areke were served. If I had to compare areke to an alcohol common in the United States, I would say the taste most closely resembles the rubbing variety. We sipped and talked and waited in vain for electricity that never came on. Finally, the hour grew late, and we were forced to migrate to our homes in the pitch darkness. With two flashlights between the group of us, we stumbled our way over the rough, uneven dirt roads through the neighborhood. My counterpart kept me close, serving as my guide and lighting my way. He advised me periodically with things like, “This is a stone. It is not earth.” He reassured me with statements such as, “There is a dog here. But do not be frightened. I will kick its head.”
Eventually I arrived at my house, surrounded by a cluster of Ethiopians wrapped in their white gabis. I waved goodbye as I walked through the gate, and they all waved back and wished me a good night in chorus. Sitting alone in my house in near darkness, I reflected back on the night, and I was grateful for the warm hospitality that is a mainstay of Ethiopian culture. I was grateful for the laughter shared, the generosity, the coming together of different peoples, the opportunity to experience a sense of community so far away from my home…even the tella and areke.
One of my local counterparts, the head of an NGO focusing on reproductive health and family planning services, was recently promoted to the Bahirdar area branch, so I was invited over to his house for a small going-away party. I came to the house straight after work. By the time I arrived, after being swamped by a gaggle of overenthusiastic children in a neighborhood in which I had not yet made an appearance, the guests were all assembled. My counterpart, his in-laws, a work colleague and his wife, and a handful of neighbors sat together around two wooden tables. They sat by candlelight, as the electricity to the town had been cut during a recent heavy rain.
I greeted everyone in turn and took the place that had been reserved for me. Immediately, my counterpart’s wife appeared from the back portion of the house, bringing a tall drinking glass that she set squarely in front of me. A female cousin followed shortly after her with a kettle full of tella.
Tella is Ethiopian “local beer”. Its appearance is that of muddy lake water, and its taste is much like…well, slightly alcoholic muddy lake water (but not nearly alcoholic enough). And there are other issues confronting the tella non-drinker. First, it is invariably served in the largest beverage containers you will ever see inside Ethiopia. Coffee – served in a dainty four-ounce teacup. Tea – served in a miniature juice glass. Local wine – drunk from small round-bottom distilling flasks. But tella – gargantuan drinking glass. Second, as if the sheer volume capacity of the glass wasn’t enough, the glass gets refilled to the top with every sip you take from it, so that if finishing it off seemed challenging before, now it’s completely hopeless. That of course does not discourage the entire gathering from exhorting you, “Drink! Drink! Drink tella!” at every lull in the conversation.
Amharic discussion murmured around me as I sat trying to get way with as little tella consumption as politely allowable. I followed as best I could, but in the dim candlelight and after a long day at the office, I found my mind wandering from the discussions of local food prices and the weather. My counterpart, however, made a great show of engaging me in English, resulting in a dazzling array of nearly correct but entertainingly erroneous statements.
“Two people have been, you know, floated. They are floaters.”
(Two people were let go from the organization in the restructuring. Fired, floated…he was pretty close.)
“It is evacuating the earth!”
(The dog is digging.)
“It is a very smart and important drink. It is like…glucose!”
(This drink is good.)
“I appreciate your sacrification.”
(“Sacrification” has just joined “respection” on my list of favorite EthioEnglish words.)
“So do not be frustrated, because I do have a big stick.”
(I would try to provide context, but it really wouldn’t help much.)
If my counterpart’s English provided amusement for me, my Amharic was ten times more entertaining for the assembled Ethiopian guests. The party game of choice consisted in my counterpart pointing out an object on the table or around the room, asking me, “Do you know this?”, and then upon my correct answer, exclaiming, “Oooh! It is surprising! I think you know everything!” In another version of this game, whenever I said any one simple word of Amharic, guests turned each other and repeated it amongst themselves, laughing.
Eventually I was saved from these diversions by the re-entrance of the women from the back of the house, each carrying casserole dishes of steaming wot and baskets of injera. They presented food around the table, standing expectantly in front of each guest until they deemed the quantity of food taken to be acceptable. As we ate, the conversation resumed in Amharic, though my counterpart was sure to keep me involved by pointing out repeatedly that everyone in the room was “coupled” but me, by offering to find me an Ethiopian husband, by explaining that in Ethiopian culture the parents are involved in choosing “our intimates”, and by asking me questions about American relationships, such as, “It is important sometimes to beat the wife. Is it acceptable in your country?”
The women came around to force second helpings upon everyone, and I was privileged to witness some of the finest defensive maneuvers I have seen yet in Ethiopia. As my counterpart’s wife attempted to place a fifth roll of injera on her father’s plate, the old man whisked the plate from the table, holding it at arm’s length away and slightly behind his back. With his free hand, he executed a solid arm bar to keep the unwanted injera at bay. His wife went for the two-armed plate cover, being sure to keep her body positioned between her opponent and the goal. Some other guests decided the best defense was a good offense, opting for aggressive attacks upon the food being shoved at them, pushing away dishes and threatening to overturn baskets. All of this was done amidst a clamor of, “No more!”, “I’m full!”, and, “I’m done! I’m done! By God and Mary, I’m done!”
When the great supper battles had subsided and everyone was finally allowed to be “done, done, by God and Mary, done,” the after-dinner drinks of areke were served. If I had to compare areke to an alcohol common in the United States, I would say the taste most closely resembles the rubbing variety. We sipped and talked and waited in vain for electricity that never came on. Finally, the hour grew late, and we were forced to migrate to our homes in the pitch darkness. With two flashlights between the group of us, we stumbled our way over the rough, uneven dirt roads through the neighborhood. My counterpart kept me close, serving as my guide and lighting my way. He advised me periodically with things like, “This is a stone. It is not earth.” He reassured me with statements such as, “There is a dog here. But do not be frightened. I will kick its head.”
Eventually I arrived at my house, surrounded by a cluster of Ethiopians wrapped in their white gabis. I waved goodbye as I walked through the gate, and they all waved back and wished me a good night in chorus. Sitting alone in my house in near darkness, I reflected back on the night, and I was grateful for the warm hospitality that is a mainstay of Ethiopian culture. I was grateful for the laughter shared, the generosity, the coming together of different peoples, the opportunity to experience a sense of community so far away from my home…even the tella and areke.
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