Snow White and the Ten Orphans

Over the past few months I have made vague references to a group of orphans. It would have been smarter to introduce them while the project was actually going on, but despite my father’s plea on weekend nights to “make wise decisions,” I didn’t and apparently still don’t. So here we are a month after the project has ended, recounting in blurry memory what it was like to go to an orphan shelter on a daily basis for three months.

CVM is the Italian NGO that sponsored this sheltering program for ten orphans (9 boys, 1 girl) and one housemother. This organization actually approached me to help them with this project. It is a relief to have someone else come to you to work on a project instead of the other way around for once. Moreover, a fellow PCV had worked on a similar project in her town and she spoke highly of it. So shortly after I returned from my trip to the States, I was introduced to the kids and since then I never looked back.

There were a lot of memories created having spent 90 mornings or afternoons (depending on when they had to go to school) together. From playing countless games of Memory, to relay races, to singing “head, shoulders, knees, and toes,” to watching a drama they created, to eating our last meal all on the same plate, each day was an adventure. Before leaving for Peace Corps, I spent my time daydreaming about what my days might be like. It is so easy to get caught up in it all, but there were poignant moments during my time at the orphan shelter that I thought, “I’m living the dream.”

I don’t think I can summarize my time adequately. So instead, I will reflect on each orphan who had me from “Dahna nesh (Are you fine)?!”…

Token aka Allems’ahay

The only girl—‘nuff said. Kidding. I was a little worried when I heard she would be the only girl living in a house full of boys. She was too. A volunteer from CVM and I interviewed her and learned some traumatic information concerning her past. All I should say is this girl has got some gumption.

Bashful aka Zewudu

It is hard to get Ethiopians to show teeth in any photo, but not for him. It would be rare a moment he wasn’t grinning. Every time I looked at him, he displayed his million-watt smile with a natural coyness that made me adore him. An honest kid who has an amazing knack for the English language.

Dopey aka Allena

There is a word in Amharic that describes him perfectly—‘miskin’ (‘poor boy’). We were playing a soccer game one night and he was the goalie. I turned around at one point and saw him standing in the goal facing the wrong direction, humming to himself, without his pants on. When I finally got his attention, he swiftly turned around realizing he was not wearing any pants and pulled his shirt down. He made this quizzical look that matched mine. I just wanted to give him a hug, well, after he found his pants.

Sneezy aka Ayano

This kid had one ailment after another. The first week was a cold, the last week was a black eye, then everything else in between. Also a really smart kid who diligently completed his homework. He preferred lying outside reciting biblical verses to himself instead of playing games.

Sleepy aka Bazozo

When he wasn’t taking a nap, he would keep the peace amongst the kids. A genuinely sweet person who just wanted everyone to get along.

Grumpy aka Demelash

His default face is a frown, but beneath it all he has a kind spirit. He would always be the first to greet me every day, running across the shelter compound or down the street to give me a hug that demanded no hug back. Afterwards, he would race inside to do handstands and other gymnastic feats hoping I would take pictures.

Sparky aka Dereje

What he lacks in height, he makes up for in spunk. He liked to instigate the other kids and get into fights. When I asked him to calm down, he would just look at me with an innocent expression, reach for my hand and study it with an unexplained curiosity.

Cranky aka Gazahine

He has the most adorable baby face, but also likes to wrinkle it and pout. He still looks cute though, so when he cries I am usually still smiling. One time we were all making forts outside. One of the kids came over and knocked it over. Inevitably he started sulking while Zewudu and I built a new one for him. After we made it we told him the ‘lexo’ (‘funeral’) was in the fort and he shouldn’t miss it. He started laughing and all was fine once again.

Doc aka Solomon

Clearly the leader of the group, he ran the show. A devishly smart kid, but also a street kid. The only one in the program that is a double-parent orphan. It is clear he gained his independence at an early age and fights to maintain it.

Happy aka Tegale

Always cracking jokes and smiling. I never saw him have a bad day. I will never forget the time he dressed up as a girl for the drama they made. A natural athlete and performer.

Most kids on the street know me by name and like to shout it...a lot. I was truly lucky to flip the script to not only learn their names, but actually get to know some of the people who come up to shake my hand or hug my knees on a personal level. During the Reunification Ceremony for the orphans and their guardians, the CVM director mentioned the time I spent helping with the program. The director continued and asked the guardians to look over at the kids huddled around me and said how it was apparent we all loved each other. It is true. Ethiopians do not necessarily express affection in the same ways as Americans. One way is not better than the other, but it is important that it is there and it is reciprocated. Although the program has ended, the kids still stop by my house to show me their English homework or play a game. These are ten relationships I hope never end. 

Access Granted

Last week Ryota and I met with the school director and vice-director to clear up the confusion concerning the English Conversation Club. Before, as you know, the director was not having it, but we refused to settle with that response. During the meeting, we had the opportunity to state our case. Ryota made a good point about how teachers should work for the students and the students want this club. I agreed and I think the director did as well. I made the point about how I want the students to stop bothering me about perfecting their English (Ha, kidding. If I didn't want to help, I wouldn't be here). We talked in circles for an hour in which they kept on referring to "The Society." Adding the much needed air quotes when referring to it, I questioned how "The Society" had already formed an opinion about the club and the opportunity to inform the director of this said opinion before the students even knew about the club themselves. I apparently enjoy testing the boundaries and kept on asking who he meant by "The Society," but once again only received a vague answer. I can only conclude that "The Society" is Ethiopia's answer to America's "The Man." He probably wears a suit, too. After several articulated arguments, he told us out of the blue that we could work with the English Club already established. Confirming my already preconceived notions that we had wasted our time for the past two or so weeks when there was a clear and simple answer. Of course we will collaborate with the English Club, we actually prefer it. We left on good terms with the added bonus of him extending his appreciation for the support I have given for "The Society" in regards to HIV/AIDS. You can thank me later, future Injibara Peace Corps Volunteer.

The day after the meeting with the school directors, Ryota and I met with the English Club director to discuss our plan. He agreed to our terms. We probably should have used this avenue in the first place. But, hey, you live, learn, and then leave Africa. Yesterday we had an essay contest to help narrow down the interested students. We will have another one tomorrow, since yesterday was a holiday (surprise!) and there was no school. We will select the top students from the essay contest and then host an interview. We are not necessarily looking for the most "gobez ("smart") students, but the most motivated. It is hard to really measure that through an essay contest and interview, but it is better than having the teachers select with little to no criteria from a mass of over 4,000 students. We will start class after I return from helping train the new group of Peace Corps Volunteers that arrived almost 2 months ago. Until then, the students will wait in nail-biting anticipation to embark on this educational exploration in the world of English. Or so I like to think. Nevertheless, we got what want and that always feels good.

Access Denied

“She has no business teaching English at our school.” This is what the director of the high school told the education office head on the phone today. It wasn’t my intention to go behind the school director’s back like this, but as I realize that this is exactly what I’m doing, it is already too late. Ryota, the Japanese Peace Corps-like Volunteer who teaches Physical Education at the high school, and I are trying to start an English Conversation Club for a small group of 11th and 12th grade students. Ryota has been discussing this club with the school director for quite some time with the only result being a vague excuse and ultimate delay. I don’t understand, so I offer to go in there to talk with the director myself. Instead Ryota and I agree for me to go to the education office because the school director says this is where we need the permission to come from. I’m confused as to why anyone would deny a free service that the students are asking for. Honestly, I don’t really like teaching English, but after countless students come up and ask me to, I thought I would go ahead and give the people what they wanted. I never thought I would face resistance like this. (Maybe it is my sense of entitlement.) The director who has said verbatim, “She does not qualify to teach English because she does not have an English Teaching Certificate” obviously does not take into account that I have been reading, writing, listening, and speaking this very language for 23 years. Do I resent this? Yes. Unfortunately, yes. I do a lot of things with the high school students. I have sent students to a Summer Camp in Gonder; an opportunity they would probably never have had. I have unabashedly used a wooden penis to teach them how to properly put on a condom. I wrote a project proposal to establish a student dormitory for rural female students who are at risk for HIV. I have helped strengthen the Anti-AIDS Club. I love working with these students, but I am angry that the director has the audacity to tell me I’m not qualified to teach an English conversation class. He mentioned on the phone to the education office head that the students complained that not everyone had an opportunity to participate in my English Class that I taught last year. A class that was open to all students. A class that was offered in the morning and afternoon to help accommodate students. A class that only 6 students regularly showed up for. I’m wondering if he has a personal vendetta towards me. He may simply not like me. But then I start thinking about the next Peace Corps Volunteer who comes to replace me. Will the school director bad mouth me and refuse to work with him or her? I need to rectify this situation and it probably has to start with me apologizing for seemingly going behind his back. At this point, I don’t even want to teach the class anymore. I now just want to know why he won’t let me even if I did.


After the phone call between the eduation office head, school director, and myself, I headed back to my office. As I was angrily texting Ryota about the recent fiasco, I slipped on rocks and fell down, tearing my jeans and producing enough blood so that when the tears started flowing it covered the fact I was really crying about the situation with the English club. (I’m sensitive and I take things personally, more often than I care to admit.) But as soon as I fell, I was rescued. Just as one person figuratively pushes me on the ground, ten other people are there to literally and figuratively pick me back up.

I went back to my house, which is across the street from my office, to relax a bit. In the middle of all this nonsense, I forgot that I had told the kids at the Orphan Shelter I would come by. I go to the shelter most days of the week and when I say I will be there, I’m there. These kids have all lost a mother or father, some of them both, so I try to be a constant and predictable presence. Once I arrived on their compound, they greeted me with disarming smiles and hugs that simply said, “I’m glad you are here.” I just sat there on the compound with them, not really feeling the desire to teach them today. I realized again that some people, like these kids, like having me around and helping in whatever capacity I can. Selfishly I went to these kids for emotional support and unknowingly, they gave it to me—wholeheartedly.

In the afternoon, I met up with Ryota and we decided to meet with the school director to discuss the morning’s events and reach a conclusion about the English Conversation Club. The director told us to come over to his office. We waited for him. He finally came back to the school. He had another appointment. We waited for him. Another appointment was to be had. After an hour and half of waiting, we knocked on the door and he told us to come back on Wednesday. Thank you for that. Really, I had nothing better to do. It is a long way back to town from the high school, so in my head I’m thinking about all the things I want to say to him, hoping to get them out of my system so I won’t. The town’s crazy lady passes me. She is carrying an umbrella. Usually she would have hit me with it. Maybe it is the scowl on my face or maybe she doesn’t notice one of the only light-skinned people in town, but she keeps on walking. I have already played out the would-have-been fight sequence which involved me breaking her umbrella, but relieved that we passed each other in peace.

I go back home and read a book before I meet my friend for our weekly English lesson. I tell him that the first part of “class” would be listening. Listening to me whine about what happened today. He did, diligently. He reassured me that everyone else in the town loves me. What a good friend. I teach him at least 5 new vocabulary words per week. One of the words was “euphemism.” I taught him a couple that I had been thinking of that day…After we drank our tea and coffee, I headed home. Finally this day was nearing the end. I spotted something near my door that turned out to be an edible present with a note that read, “Don’t be disappointed!! Eat it and get better feeling. I don’t know if you like it. But I like it!! On Wednesday we’ll fight again. Haha!!” It was from Ryota. How can I possible stay angry when I have kids who would give me hugs for days, co-workers who will pick me up, friends that will listen, and fellow foreigners who leave presents at my doorstep? There are too many people in this town who show that they care in their own special way that I simply can’t. So, here’s to Wednesday!

Full Circle

A recently posted a self-congratulatory entry entitled Happy First Anniversary, Ethiopia wherein I defied my personal standards of not being in a relationship for over three months. It was a reflective piece of being here a year, lessons learned, and how I'm content. Since this is actually the longest I have ever been in a relationship, because I consider my Peace Corps experience a relationship, it was a cause for celebration…and speculation. I had absolutely no idea what it all meant. (Like does this mean we're getting married?!). Not saying that I do now, or ever, but I have had recent poignant moments where I actually realized it has yes, been a year. And no, we are probably not going to get married. Funny how life progresses as such…

For instance, last weekend some Volunteers and I all decided to share American culture and celebrate Halloween. Because, truly, what this country needs is another holiday to celebrate. Unlike my normal Halloween where I would be boozing at a party in someone's apartment wondering why girls think underwear is a costume and while boys are enjoying the scenery, we threw a near boozeless party for kids decked with a pumpkin piñata, Pin-the-Tail-On-the-Inflatable-Black-Cat, and candy that was gone before the guests showed up (hey, we don't get M&M's everyday here, and my self-control for chocolate is pretty much non-existent these days). The party had ended and while I was relaxing in my comfortable, non-sexy rendition of a rural Ethiopian woman, the memory of last year's Halloween popped into my mind in which we were in training and I dressed as a cat (and it was once again boozeless).

As a cat in 2009

As a rural Ethiopian woman in 2010

Working hard like a rural Ethiopian woman in 2010

It doesn't mean much to you, but to me it was significant, and this is my blog so I'm going to mention it. Then yesterday the little girl on my compound told me to come and eat cake. I usually don't question the offerings of sweets (even if they are strangers), but Ethiopians have yet to grasp the concept of adding sugar to their cake that I had to ask what the occasion was in order to decide if I had a "meeting" to go to a 6:30 pm. She told me it was her birthday and she was turning 6. I remembered her 5^th birthday party last year where her mom awkwardly asked the new ferenji to join the festivities so they could all stare at me and ask questions I didn't understand. And just how parents marvel at how their kids grow up too fast and then not fast enough, I was doing the same. When she turned 5, I was still an amateur at this whole gig. I was a nervous trainee doing a site visit for a week before my official move-in a month later and still not exactly sure where I fit into this community or how to take a bucket bath. Now, I have the conviction of a veteran with the audacity to take a bucket bath. I sat there at her birthday party and had a full-fledged conversation in Amharic with a guest. (Staring not included.) I had my cake and ate it too, so to speak. At the end of the night, I felt accomplished. It is a wonderful, yet rare, experience as a Volunteer to come full circle. I imagine at the end of my two year service I will have constructed a Venn diagram of sorts. Some things are the same from the beginning to end, but just like my costume I was once a "Scaredy-Cat" but now you can go ahead and call me "Habesha." (See diagram below for clarification). Look forward to me actually filling it with meaningful reflections when I'm done.

Lessons In Getting Over Myself: The Cooking Apparatus

Talking to friends and family, many of them (and probably, you) think I’m over here saving the world by whatever means necessary. I guess the work I do is for the greater good, but it is most likely not as picture perfect as you may think. Excuse me for being trite, but I’ll benefit more from this experience than anyone I ever helped or will help here. It is just a fact of life as a Volunteer. One of the most valuable things I have learned thus far is that I need to get over myself. I am not always conscious of it though. When I realize and/or remember it, it feels more like a smack in the face or how your head hurts and eyes have to focus after trying on your friend’s eyeglasses.

My first lesson in getting over myself began during Christmas last year and ended  few months thereafter. I remember the conversation with a painstaking memory. We had just sworn-in as volunteers and moved to our sites. The Amhara volunteers got together to celebrate the holiday and were discussing life after training and being on our own. During training, we had all our meals prepared for us, so we all wondered how everyone was getting by feeding themselves. Most of the people in the conversation had already bought a propane stove to cook. When I told my fellow Volunteers I was not planning on buying a propane stove, the words “This is Africa. Life is not suppose to be easy, guys.” may or may not have come out of my mouth. I would later eat those words (pun intended), but I was determined to master the art of the charcoal stove. Ethiopians have a fabulous way of making it look easy, but starting a fire in one of those things is probably the most tedious task I have ever undertaken. I assumed with time that it would get easier, so I thought I would keep up with it. I had every intention of using this method until I did a cost-benefit analysis of my quality of life and time spent cooking. I bought a propane stove with an air of reluctance, but nevertheless, my imaginary tail was between my legs.  

So, for the past 8 months or so I have used it. It now only takes minutes to boil water for a cup of coffee instead of thirty. I love coffee enough to actually fan the fire for this long. This could possibly qualify as an addiction, but I won’t admit to it. Besides having time for more than one cup of coffee, my meal selections have expanded tremendously with the ease of the propane stove. Life has been great. Plus, I can bake those cookies using a dutch oven that I shouldn’t be making nor eating in the first place (so, maybe it is more like a minus).

Then, the most unfortunate, yet inevitable, event occurred the other day. The propane ran out.  As irony would have it, I was making cookies for a visitor from Italy. What’s a girl to do? I had half a batch of cookie dough and a dinner to make for a guest. Well, I had to go searching for that charcoal stove I had long since forgotten about. Now a haven for spiders and their cobwebs, I found it with a mouth full of cookie dough. The dinner took me two and half hours to make. It was one dish. Why did I put up cooking with a charcoal stove for several months? 

Answer: Because I had yet to learn the lesson of getting over myself. Ethiopian women do this for all meals of the day and at a whim. Many of these women have full-time jobs too. Naively, I thought I could do the same. And essentially, I can. But some things have got to give. I got over myself and my personal strive for Ethiopian perfection. I’m American and as an American we cook with gas or electric. I can’t deny my culture. It takes running out of gas to realize the precious gift of a convenient cooking apparatus. Until I get it refilled, I am constantly reminded of this. Lamenting over it with my one cup of coffee. 

Operation Smile

The other weekend I made a trip down to Addis Ababa, the country’s capital, to volunteer with Operation Smile. Besides it not having an acronym for a name, there are several reasons why I like this organization. It is still all in the name though. They perform surgeries on people of all ages from around the world who have cleft lips and/or palettes. Although those afflicted with this facial deformity know nothing else, since it is something that occurs during pregnancy, the stigma and discrimination associated with it keeps many of them from smiling. They are nervous that you will judge them, just like many do. The research on the causes of cleft lips and palettes is unclear. Some say it has a genetic marker, others say it is due to unhealthy habits of the pregnant mother. It may be both or none of them. The unknown can be frustrating, but unlike many medical mysteries, this one has a cure.

Operation Smile is one of the few organizations responsible for changing the lives of the babies, kids, teens, and adults who have cleft lips and/or palettes. I don’t say this lightly either. When it comes to public health, most of the hard work churned out by dedicated community health workers, nurses, doctors, and volunteers alike goes unnoticed. In terms of HIV/AIDS, I will probably never know the impact that I have on my community in Injibara, if any. It is hard to measure for so many reasons. This goes for many public health issues. That doesn’t make us work any less diligently, but once in a while immediate gratification is nice.

I was only there for a couple of days, while other Peace Corps Volunteers came to volunteer for the whole week. I envy them. I got there the first day when the hopeful families came from far distances to register and screen for the surgery. We played games with the kids and tried to keep everyone entertained because the process is long. We also helped translate for the foreign doctors and volunteers who came from places like Sweden, Ireland, and the States on their own dime to help Operation Smile’s cause. I wish I could show a before and after picture of the patients, but I wasn’t there to see them after surgery. Only before and I can only imagine the physically and emotionally changes that occur almost instantly for them after. It is beautiful thing, really.

When I was trying to find potential patients for the surgery in my town, I realized that I have never seen a single soul with a cleft lip or palette. They are here. I know it because the health extension workers found quite a few. It goes to show how little these people leave their houses for fear of how the community might react. One little baby from my town was not in the best condition when she arrived in Addis at the hospital to get the surgery. Actually, the volunteers and doctors questioned whether or not she would make it through the week it was that bad. Needless to say, she was not ready for such a drastic event. Right now I am trying to find this family. Not so much to follow-up and schedule her for another Operation Smile mission in five months as to try to save her. In a sense I feel like it is futile to go searching for one baby who is malnourished when there are probably hundreds in my town, but I suppose when something, or rather someone, is called to your attention like this, it would be negligent not to. I can only wish for the best.

Not everyone who registers for surgery is eligible. It has a lot to do with weight, age, and complexity of the cleft lip and/or palette. But each family comes with hope that maybe their life will change for the better at the end of the week. Many of them do. And from what I hear it is amazing to see that transformation, especially those old enough to realize it. I plan on doing this again, only I will be there the whole week to see it for myself. 

Happy First Year Anniversary, Ethiopia!

If you print this out, I got you the traditional first year anniversary gift. We have come a long way, but I still wish you chewed with your mouth closed.  (I know, I know. Compromise.) It seems to me I have survived my first year as a Peace Corps Volunteer serving in Ethiopia. Does it look the same from where you are? I remember when it was my first day in country. I was the tender age of 22 and I couldn’t even say “thank you” in Amharic. Aw, cute. This kid has grown up. I am a whole 365 days older.  

 I suppose this is the best time as any to look back on the past year as a Volunteer. First, I’m still alive and enjoying most moments. My friend and I recently had a discussion on happiness. I think there are so many different levels and kinds of happiness. Such that, what I previously thought happiness was, was later proved wrong. I think it is safe to say that I am content here. Content is the best word. Coming from someone who is always thinking about the next step and at times (too many times, really) speaking before thinking, this means a lot. I tend to have this buzz in my ear saying, “Ok, you got here. What is next?” I would be dishonest if I told you I don’t ask myself this question now, but it is quieted down some. I have come to realize that although two years in my lifespan is not much, these two years will (hopefully) make an everlasting impact. In order to get as much as I can from this experience, I need to live in the present. Not the future, like I tend to do. Admittedly, I have already charted out the available options for my After- Peace-Corps-Life. I’ll share that with you later.  

So, what is different about the October 7, 2009 Emily from the October 7, 2010 Emily?

October 7, 2009 Emily

October 7, 2010 Emily

Well, it is hard to say. My hair is longer. I can speak and write Amharic better, for sure. I shower less. I could possibly be more patient, but that is still up for debate. I enjoy being by myself more. I can locate more countries in this colossal continent. A year is not long, but when you are placed in a situation like this, one might expect a complete lifestyle transformation. Eh. At least an enlightened perspective of living and working in a developing country. Yeah, I guess I have that. When I actually reflect about this experience more than the 10 minutes it took me to write this post, this “enlightened perspective” will be more apparent. (Here’s to hoping.) I’ll keep it updated. Promise.

The Musings of a Peace Corps Volunteer After the First Year

1         Today is probably a holiday for that saint

2.       Any names kids call me besides “You, You, You,” “Ferenji,” and “China” will suffice

3.       There are two seasons: muddy and dusty

4.       Never trust a fart

5.       One outfit can last a week and no one will question it

6.       Chacos, I hate that I love you

7.       Look down while walking or risk tripping over a rock

8.       Coffee comes from a raw bean, not a paper cup with a plastic lid (I will perform this magic trick at your next party for a nominal fee)

9.       There will most likely never be any budget available for this or that project

10.   Bargaining can be fun, especially if you don’t really want it

11.   Onions, garlic, and tomatoes are the key ingredients in 98.3% of all meals I cook

12.   Don’t get offended when Ethiopians say things like “You are fat, just like this bean.”

13.   Most people think I have lot of money and an endless supply of pens

14.   Don’t drink the water

15.   I still look awkward when being gorsha-ed (hand-fed)

16.   Barbare (red pepper spice) is my new ketchup

17.   The post office is closed

18.   Any non-Ethiopian seen on the street is thought to be part of my immediate family

19.   Squatting is the preferred rest position

20.   Don’t sit in the back seat or look out the front window while riding on a bus

21.   The meeting will never start at 8:30 AM

22.   Speak the local language and earn points

23.   Recite an Amharic proverb and earn bonus points

24.   It is never your idea, it is always their idea (if you want a project to be sustainable)

25.   I still don’t know what I’m doing and probably never will

The Finding of the True Cross

Ah, yes. We have been here before. Yet another Ethiopian holiday filled with too early morning rising, innocent animal slaughtering (Exhibit A), too much t’ela (aka dirty juice, black water, local beer) drinking (Exhibit B), shoulder dancing (Exhibit C), white dress wearing (Exhibit D), please-no-more-food uttering (Exhibit E), and multiple family household visiting. Same old stuff, just a different name. This particular holiday is called Meskel (“cross”). Ask a fellow Ethiopian what the purpose of this holiday is exactly and you may get a blank stare or the following answer “it is about the cross” like I did. It is unfair to define a word using the same word you are defining. So, I decided to do my own research. I found several variations to the story and I can’t decide which one to believe. I don’t think it really matters.

Some of you may have heard that the Arc of the Covenant rests in the lands of Ethiopia, specifically Axum. A legend many of us like to entertain. It is supposedly in a room protected by one sole priest. The priest is not allowed to leave once he enters, thus, we never know whether or not it is actually there. More on this later.  But apparently Ethiopians are the lucky receivers of much Biblical paraphernalia. How they come about acquiring it and whether or not it is actually here varies depending on who you talk to. Let’s pretend though. Meskel commemorates the finding of the “True Cross” by Queen Helena. By “True Cross” I mean the one that Jesus himself was crucified on. Not the entire thing, I think just the left side (bystander’s perspective), but it is true and it is a part of the cross, so we go along with it.

Meskel is a two-day event, starting on September 26 of every year. The first day there is a lot of cross burning . Hm. Well, that doesn’t sound right. Essentially they create a bonfire with a cross affixed on top (Exhibit F). The smoke created by the bonfire is apparently how the Queen came about finding the True Cross (Exhibit G). She followed the direction of the smoke, found part of the cross, and over the years it made its way to the Wollo province in Ethiopia to be buried. The rest is history. We also try to predict the fate of next year by watching the direction the burning cross falls. This is all speculation, but North means peace, South means prosperity, East means war, and West means famine. Most people, including myself, don’t know which way is which, but once they find out I’m pretty sure they rig the whole thing. The second day is when you get the meat sweats. The rest is best told by your pit latrine.

Ferenj-ship Radio

The name is corny, yes I know. It sounds better out loud in that "radio voice," I promise. For about three months now, four other Peace Corps Volunteers and I have been working on a radio program for the Gonder Fana FM radio station. It reaches the ears of listeners on Sunday mornings (supposedly) in a 500 km radius (supposedly), which includes my town. The main premise of the program is to communicate Health and HIV/AIDS knowledge via mass media.


The show is essentially a running drama with a follow-up discussion after each episode. The drama includes two main characters, Aynalem and Yohannes, who are about to graduate college as well as their friends and family members. Each episode there is a crisis in varying degrees faced by the characters. Each character has his or her own way of dealing with the problem based on their individual disposition. We try to make it as congruent as possible to Ethiopian traditions and values, but we also try to remain realistic and relatable. For example, let us not pretend everyone waits until marriage to have sex or everyone uses a condom or infidelity does not exist. Moreover, let us not pretend we always make a wise decision even if we know what is best. We try to do our best in highlighting these issues in a respectable and clear manner. Afterwards, offering a brief commentary about what happened and how to possibly approach the problem. The goal is to provide the listener with adequate information in order for him or her to make an informed decision. We don't give the solution; we just offer the opportunity to create one.

Did I tell you that the show is all in Amharic? The program is essentially about sex as indicated by clips of Salt 'n Pepa's song "Let's Talk About Sex" interspersed throughout the show. It is difficult to discuss "it" even in our mother tongue and even more challenging in another language. It is a challenge we all decided to take on, though. There is always an Ethiopian to help with the translation of the transcripts we write. The words chosen attempt to be as simple as possible, but frankly, we don't use this type of dialogue in everyday life as a Peace Corps Volunteer (i.e. "Do you think we are ready to have sex?"). Well, I'll speak for myself here. During recordings we tend to trip over the dialogue and get frustrated that we can't fluently pronounce a 13-syllable word. Then again, most Ethiopians tune into the show just to hear ferenjis speak Amharic and make these mistakes. And people actually do listen to the program. We all introduce ourselves in the beginning of the show and plug Peace Corps because even if we don't know what we are exactly doing here, they will. I let the audience know where I hail from (Injibara) and the couple of names they may know me by (Emily, Emuye). Several people in my community have told me they heard the show and usually comment about how fluent I am (I can also see their noses growing). Some mention the character's names and ask when the next episode is. This puts a smile on my face. However, even if no one was listening, I think we would still want to do it. Radio programming is intriguing. Creating drama is equally enjoyable.


This past weekend the next two episodes were recorded and the transcripts for six others have been written along with the character development. We plan on doing 13 episodes total for the pilot program. Then we will try to get funding in order to advertise, write, plan, and evaluate more efficiently and effectively. Ideally we will be touring all over Ethiopia within the next six months. Sike! I don't expect lunch boxes or figurines to be made in honor of the show, but we all would like this to work and have a solid listenership. Our expectations are reasonable. Nevertheless, it is a great opportunity to see each other, make up stories, be creative, practice our Amharic, make fools of ourselves, and most importantly, enlighten the people who do listen to us. We have a lot of great ideas and after my trip to the States that doubled my iTunes catalog, we now have a lot of music to share during the music breaks. This allows me to entertain my inappropriate crush on Justin Bieber or just let Ethiopians know that there are other American artists besides Michael Jackson, Celine Dion, and Michael Bolton. Tune in for the next episode of Ferenjiship Radio!...


 

I Came, I Saw, I Ate

So the trip to ‘Murica is over. Just like that. Something that I have been anticipating since I first left already came and went. It was an overall success because I tend to measure this type of success based on how many things I can check off. I completed the majority of the items on my bucket list, including going to a concert (STS9 and Big Boi, thanks Matt), visiting Athens (thanks, Matt), seeing selected friends, going to a Braves game, and eating a variety of foods. Not to mention the only reason I came home in the first place, to see my older brother, Andrew, tie the knot. It was a beautiful ceremony complete with a beautiful bride. Any wedding with an open bar is an inherently good wedding, stirred with the right company that is. 

When it came time to pack and get ready to leave for Ethiopia again, I felt ready. There is something about the lifestyle left behind in Africa I truly missed. Maybe it is because I knew I would not feel like a heavy cloud from eating junk food and drinking almost every night anymore. I need to detox or to continue the metaphor, make it rain. There were some events during the two weeks that I was home that made me simultaneously relieved and guilty to be leaving the country again. Alas, here I am, resting my tired bones on my foam mattress listening to the pitter-patter of the zoo in my ceiling. My butt still fits perfectly in the indention that has been in the making for the past year and almost reaching the wood base. An ironic comfort.

It was pretty much a straight trip from Marietta to Injibara. I think I calculated a total of 30 hours of my time spent in some sort of transportation apparatus with a grand total of two full days including the standard four hour layover in Frankfurt. Frankfurt is where I have a fair forewarning of where I am headed next. I remember coming from Ethiopia, I was waiting in the Frankfurt airport and I realized I could understand the conversation of the group next to me. I have not been able to eavesdrop in almost a year and the first thought that came into my head was, “This is the stupid sh*t that I have been missing out on?!” Leaving the States and once again being stuck in Frankfurt, I get to the gate and saw the first Ethiopian in the past two weeks and my first thought, albeit inappropriate, was “Ah, my people.” What does that mean?!

Leaving luxury behind on the airplane (you laugh, but you have no idea), I hopped on a bus early morning from Addis Ababa to take me to my little town of Injibara. So it is 5 AM and I am arguing with a guy who pointed to where I could buy a bus ticket as to how the amount he was asking for a tip was obscene. Although it was not a conversation I want to be having at any time during the day, it was refreshing to be speaking another language. It was kind of cool being able to have relatively fresh eyes to the nuances of Ethiopian culture. Before we left several priests hopped on the bus and walked down the aisle. For a nominal fee the priest would bless you with a rather large cross to any dedicated Orthodox Christian. The palpable religiosity in Ethiopia is easily overlooked because I breathe, hear, feel, and see it almost every second of the day here. About thirty minutes before we left the station the bus drivers all decide to crank their engines. Not only does it give you a false sense of hope that you will be leaving soon, but the whole place turns into a sort of gas chamber. The first phrase that came to mind was involuntary suicide. So the last thirty minutes I, the lone light-skinned girl amongst a sea of Ethiopians, was running away from terrorist exhaust pipes. It was early and I was tired. We finally got chugging down the road with the immediate regret of not wearing my sports bra. (How could have I already forgotten the essentials?)

For the next ten hours on the road, I reminisced about how I complained to myself that my plane seat only reclined 2 degrees, where now I am leaning forward about that much. There will be no warm towels or cold beverages served on this ride either. I will be lucky if the bus driver will stop for a bathroom break in a middle of a flat field so everyone on the bus can watch me awkwardly try to look nonchalant. After having to actually have done that, I will go parched. Granted there are no three-course meals with forks and spoons available, your fellow bus mates would be happy to share k’olo (kind of like a smaller and unsweetened Smacks cereal) or a stick of gum with you. They will also be willing to sit there and talk to you about anything and everything even when you have iPod earbuds securely in place. This hint does not take wave in this culture. No really, I would rather not list all the places I have been in Ethiopia. I forgot how interesting I was. In the States, no one really cares. As a side note, however, my friends and family were surprisingly interested in my doings in Ethiopia. We are told as Peace Corps Volunteers to be prepared for your friends and family not to give you more than five minutes before the subject is changed. I found the complete opposite. I was attempting to change the subject because I was sick of talking about myself, which is quite unlike the usual for me. As I digress, the bus ride, like always, was adventurous.

My parade through town with my oversized luggage that I was dreading went relatively smooth. I think everyone was in the house resting since the day before they celebrated the New Year. (Happy New Year 2003, Ethiopia!). I got to my house and literally crashed. I fell asleep until my landlord told me it was time for dinner. Even though I had no appetite, I welcomed my first bite of traditional Ethiopian food with an open mouth. It was doro wat (chicken stew) fit with a hard boiled egg all on top of injera. I know I could look forward to at least three days of prepared meals. It will take time for me to adjust to making my own food again because it had been the dedicated employees at restaurants and fast food chains who have been doing the cooking for me in the States. I went to bed and slept well over 12 hours.

The next morning I was woken up by my landlord pounding on my door. (She just won’t take me not answering for an answer). It was breakfast time! I was fearing a meat dish, but luckily it was the old tried and true shiro wat (thick soup-like concoction made up of ground up chickpeas) served over fresh injera. After the meal, I stayed for a while to play with my favorite of the three kids. A cute 1 year old, named, well, no one really knows her name, but we all call her Linda. The landlord told me how much she and the family missed me and how she would not know what she is going to do when I leave for good. I tried to reassure her that another Peace Corps Volunteer will most likely replace me. She held my face and told me how no one would ever be able to replace me and made me promise to come back and visit because the kids are going to get bigger and they are going to miss me. I probably will. I was touched and it reassured me that I should be happy to come back. We were having a moment and then my lap got warm. Since diapers are uncommon, I wanted to make sure Linda was not peeing on me like she has been known to do. I place my hand on my lap to check, it was worse. This sweet child just took a messy dump all over my lap. Between fits of laughter, we all cried, “Welcome back, Emuye!”

Give Me Pizza, or Give Me Death: Comin' to 'Murica

Last Thursday I landed in the sweet land of wonder that is 'Murica for my older brother's wedding. I have had lots of time to sit and daydream about this particular homecoming. These daydreams sometimes consisted of people dropping to their knees in utter contentment of seeing me again. The rest were about food, namely pizza. So, in a perfect world what would have happened when I first came up that ridiculously long escalator at Hartsfield-Jackson (besides seeing that girl in the towel who seemingly wants to give me a really big hug) was someone opening a box of Mellow Mushroom pizza, feeding me a slice, and saying something along the lines of "Welcome back, Champion." That is in a perfect world. What really happened was more of an anti-climatic, pizza-less experience. Such is life.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm a weird person. I'm almost positive it's a redhead's birthright. I was convinced that after living in Ethiopia for a year now, my weirdness would be exponential. In addition, I thought the American way of life would be a completely foreign concept at this point. What I had come to find, within the first moment of stepping off the airplane, is that it is not any different from when I left it except there more younger people with even nicer cellphones. I guess this feeling of familiarity could be a good and bad thing. For one, after braving the treacherous bumpy roads while dodging the unruly and unattended livestock roaming the streets, I thought I would be at ease with my mother's driving. False. There are nail indentations on the car door that proves it. I thought being able to bathe on a more appropriate and frequent basis would seem like a luxury. Nope. I thought being able to get more than one type of beer would be more exciting. No, because my brother likes to by cheap beer (though thanks for buying it for me, Matt). I thought I would say things like "Are you voluntary to hang out with me?" or "I appreciate your cooperation" or "Your TV is very attractive and interesting" or any other awkward phrases that Peace Corps Volunteers end up repeating in their sleep. On the other hand, I am still opting for the handshake/shoulder bump combo instead of the standard hug. I'm also holding my elbow when shaking someone's hand. These greetings are very unique to Ethiopia, but more or less endearing in an American context.

The weirdest part of this brief trip to the States, is that it is not weird at all. Granted I haven't lived in a bush for the past 15 years. It's only been one. It just all seems a little too easy for me to do be back here. Maybe I adapt well. Maybe I just need to get over myself. The latter is usually what needs to happen. It's only been a year, but at the same time, it's been a year in East Africa. Going back to Ethiopia may be a whole different story. I only hope that it will be just as smooth. In the meantime, I'm going to go ahead and leave my internet pages up, take a daily shower, watch On Demand, and eat pizza for breakfast all because I can. I miss my friends, work, and more simplistic lifestyle in Ethiopia though and I can't wait to be back to bucket baths, latrines, and the same thing for lunch and dinner everyday.

A Birthday—the Ethiopian Way

On July 18, a miraculous thing happened, I made it another year. That makes 22 total years I have survived on this planet with only a few instances where it was questioned whether or not I would actually make it to year 23. So here I am. Past birthdays have included engaging in the normal debauchery mixed with bad decisions. The bar hoppings, party plannings, and whatnots. It has been happening far enough in the past that it was time to do things a bit different…the Ethiopian way.

This blessed day started with me waking up (as most blessed days do). My PCV friend and I made pancakes. No syrup, but we had bananas and honey straight from the hive. Honey that makes your teeth ache. Honey that makes you think the bees have transplanted those hives into the crevices of your molars. I eat it by the spoonful ("A moment on the lips, forever on the hips"). So delicious, so sweet, so worth it. And coffee. Locally bought and home roasted and brewed. You can't get much better than that.

Then I was off to a meeting. Yes, I work on the weekends and holidays (HIV does not take a vacation!). Twenty commercial sex workers (aka CS-dubs) and I are working on a project proposal. It is a woofcho bet (aka a millhouse, but better known as a woofcho bet) that will function as an income-generating activity for them. Woofcho bets are of particular importance in Ethiopia because they are responsible for grinding the spices and beans into powder that we cook to make our food, such as shiro wat and berbare. Great stuff. During the meeting we selected the committee members, the leaders of the group. We then chose a new name for the organization—Yasetoch Andenet ("Women's Unity"). They knew it was my birthday and had planned something special for me. They presented me with a beautiful green scarf, let me cut the habasha dabo (special Ethiopian bread), and had a coffee ceremony. These women, I love them. I would have cried to show my gratitude, but Ethiopians don't cry in public, for anything really. After all, I was trying to stay in cultural character.

Now it was time to get ready for my Ethiopian-style party hosted at my bet ("house"). Habasha dabo—check. Popcorn—check. Soft drinks—check. Candles—check. Fake flowers—check. Grass for the floor—check. Fruit—check. All things necessary for coffee preparation—check. My landlord lent me some items to complete the set-up including some hand-stitched sheets to cover my couch-bed, incense, and rokobot (small dresser that holds the coffee cups and the "station" in which you serve the coffee)—check, check, check. I quickly changed into my habasha kimise (Ethiopian dress) and awaited my guests. And I waited. I thought the fact that a ferenji was serving coffee and letting them into her house was cause for punctuality. Guess not. When they finally arrived, it was time for me to prepare the coffee. I was a little nervous. I didn't exactly know the ratio of coffee-to-water to place in the jabena. Actually, I didn't know anything since I use a coffee press to prepare my daily cup(s) of coffee. I did it and there are pictures to prove it and thus, I will never have to do it again. There is some rhyme and reason that I haven't figured out yet as to the timing of cutting the bread, passing around the popcorn and fruit, and the number of cups of coffee you serve to your guests. Luckily, I had about 6 Ethiopian women watching my every move and trying to commandeer the situation. I held my ground and served luke warm, watered-down coffee, thank you very much. Hmph.

Uh, uh...she's trying to take it away...

Ah, yes. I win.

Some friends actually gave me some gifts, which I honestly didn't expect and then some other friends had to leave before dark which offered a smooth segue so I could kick everyone out of my house (I thought this was going to be the hardest part). It was a calm 2 hours of getting people to eat the 2^nd batch of cookies I made (the 1^st batch had been eaten by yours truly and justified by having one for every other year I had been alive and one to grow on) and making them "play." The latter part was a present itself because whenever I am silent for more than 5 minutes (yeah, yeah, hard to believe) they tell me to "play." So, I had my birthday—the Ethiopian way. And it was quite the opposite of the "wild and crazy" time my dad notably expected. Next year, I'll hopefully be on a beach and back to my old behaviors.

Camper's Delight

In early July, the Amhara region PCVs combined our awesomeness once again to plan a summer camp for Ethiopian students. We all got to recruit two kids from each of our towns, which totaled to 30 kids. I selected my little munchkins with an essay contest and an interview for the finalists. I disguised the camp as a “Gender Equality and Leadership Summer Program” namely because the word “camp” evokes images of internally displaced peoples and refugees. A stark contrast to all the fun we were going to have. I’ve never done a camp before. Sure I have been there in spirit with the likes of “Parent Trap,” “It Takes Two,” and Disney’s “Bug Juice.” My only personal kind-of-camp experience is soccer camp. And the only thing I can remember from that time in my life is waking up early to go running, running more, and getting into a fist/girl fight for eating half of a fellow camper’s chocolate. Thus, I was able to conclude that this experience was bound to be different.

The camp was hosted in Gonder which is a historical town in northern Ethiopia. Fit with castles and most importantly, a beer factory. This camp thing is what most PCVs from all around the world do. It often goes by the name ‘Camp GLOW,’ which is another lovely acronym for ‘Girls Leading Our World.’ Since we invited both genders, we switched it up a little and called it ‘Camp G-Glow,’ but to a select few we called it ‘Camp Gigilow.’ Inappropriate. Yeah, let’s keep that one to ourselves...

Camp is tiring. We played a lot of games. We talked a lot. It was like hosting a 5-day dinner party without the booze. You know the constant need to feel like you have to entertain and make sure your guests (the campers) are having fun? Me being still a little self-centered made this a little difficult. No, actually, we did have a good time. It was classified as a win in my book of life. Each day had a theme. The first day was "Independence Day" since it was July 4th. We began with dicussion of self-esteem, goal setting, and a weak attempt to teach the song 'Yankee Doodle Dandy' ("with the girls be handy"..?!...what were we thinking?!) and ended with a bonfire and s’mores (an aptly named treat if I do say so). A great way to start a great, albeit exhausting, week. Other themes included Gender Day, Health Day, Leadership Day, and Lifeskills Day. Sprinkle in a few catchy, but annoying chants and songs (see picture below), spirit awards, Kate's whistle, and meals. We ended the week by visiting the castles and the campers locking themselves in the lion cages (why didn't we think of this earlier?!).

"Ride the Pony"...or in African context "Ride the Donkey"

This would be a "firecracker"

The majority of Ethiopian kids don’t have the opportunity to leave their community. Imagine. Not ever leaving your town. From my little suburban neck of the woods in Georgia, the pure thought makes me want to cry in a bad way. These kids got to hang out with probably the coolest people in the country (Amhara PCVs, of course), practice their English, visit another town, see the historic castles, learn interesting stuff, and so much more that I haven’t realized. It was honor to be a part of this monumental moment in their lives. It obviously made an impact. I know this for sure because all the campers were ballin’ their pretty brown eyes out on the last day of camp. That my friends, is called success.

The whole gang

Oh, and this additional comment in one of the camper's evaluation, "I love you more than me the American Peace Court; I am sorry because you are leave me tomorrow; I am not forget until the end of my life." Can't wait until next year...

Digging in the Dirt

I have always liked the idea of gardening. It is one of those hobbies that I put off with excuses like I’m not old enough or I don’t have the space. I thought this is one of the more ideal times in my life to hone some skills and finally put these excuses aside. I was pleasantly surprised to discover some herbs growing in front of my house when I first moved to my town, which gave me some initial inspiration. I have lived here long enough that I like to think I had a part in it all, but really it is half landlord, half nature. Actually I think I managed to kill some mint plants by throwing my dish water on them. Whoops.

When Peace Corps asked for volunteers to nominate his or her town to host a permagardening training, I thought this was my chance to really learn how to make pretty and tasty things grow on my own. So far my track record includes a fruitful jalapeno plant and a wilted basil leaf pot in college. Not to mention an old paint bucket that I converted into a flower pot that is currently drowning and forgotten as well as two compost buckets that are more like glorified trash cans here in Ethiopia. Yeah, it is about time that I learned what I was doing. And so it begins…



My town, lovely Kosober/Injibara, ended up being selected. Volunteers from the Amhara region, about 13 of us, all came with their Ethiopian counterparts to dig in the dirt. We built a nice 20 x 20 meter garden next to a park and river that will go to benefit the local PLWHA (People Living with HIV/AIDS) Association. We planted apples, pears, carrots, onion, broccoli, and other foods that Ethiopians are more or less familiar with. There are no Amharic names for several of the fruits and vegetables we planted, so some of them will be interesting trying to get them to eat. It was suggested that I do a cooking demonstration to teach them how to use them. The first thing I thought about is when you go to a place like Sam’s Club or Costco on a Sunday afternoon with the almost explicit intention of getting free samples, but without the hygienic precautions. As long as I get a taste of what I’m cooking, it sounds like a great idea.

The training covered topics such as composting, double-digging, land contour, plant spacing, and building swales. I still have no idea what a swale is, which I continue to call a ‘squall’ because it sounds better even though I don’t really know what that is either. Half of the training was theory, the other half was practical. I enjoyed the practical component more, naturally. I gained an affinity for wielding hoes and rakes at the untouched ground unearthing fertile soil. Too bad you can only do that once a year, appropriately at least. The most common activity involved in tending to a garden, as I understand it, is weeding. Wonder why I have not started this earlier?!…As a close friend says, all too frequently, “Many hands make light work.” I have been working on building ownership among the PLWHA members and will conduct a training with them soon so it is hopefully not me doing the daily weeding. Just thinking about it makes me want to go use one of those garden tools aggressively.

I’ll let you know if we will be able to reap what we sowed after three months, or however long it takes to grow these things. Until then, I think I’ll try to revive that paint bucket full of flowers that never were.