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.
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.
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