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.