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.
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.
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