Ferenjiville

If you were Ethiopian, you would tell me, “tafash, anchi!” This all too common and often inappropriate phrase means, “You have disappeared!” Sometimes it is warranted; most of the time I saw them earlier that day. In this case, I deserve it. Last time I told you I would talk about my Christmas in the South, specifically the Omo Valley. All I can say is if you are thinking about venturing down to the Omo Valley, ask me about it first. Other than that, Christmas was so….last year.

For the next year, my community is going to have an influx of ferenjis. They are coming from Japan, Mexico, Italy, and good ol'  'Murica. I’m thinking about forming a mock UN as a side project with all the nationalities Injibara is soon to host. 

There does come a time to have your last traditional coffee ceremony, which I'll be soon preparing myself to do. One of my good Japanese friends that works for JICA just left. I was there when he said his goodbyes to the friends he has made. Japanese are notorious for hiding their emotions, as are Ethiopians. I’m not. All I know is if he cried, I’m going to hyperventilate, fall down on my knees, and ask “Whhhhyyy?” like Cee-Lo (not for the same reasons)...at least. So, we lost one and then gained two. Two female Italians to be specific. They are working with an Italian NGO called CVM. I’ve worked considerably with CVM, including teaching at the orphan shelter and trying to establish a rural female student dormitory for the high school. I met the new Italian volunteers for the first time yesterday. On our way to lunch, I asked what they wanted to eat just to be considerate. There are approximately 100 restaurants in town all serving the same thing. So what I should have asked is, do you want injera…or injera? There are a couple of places that serve pasta. Just that, pasta with a scoop of oil. As I suggested that dish in vain, she looked at me with apologetic eyes and said, “I could probably make pasta better at my home.” Yes…you’re right…you’re Italian. Things kept on getting awkward from there.

I consider myself a socially competent individual. I would go so far and say I can strike up and continue a decent conversation. After that lunch, I need to reevaluate myself and the outlook does not look good. After living in Ethiopia for almost a year and a half and working mostly with novice English speakers, I’ve picked up some great phrases like, “Are you fine?,” “I appreciate you,” "How do you get the air condition?," "Are you comfort?, “Get in,” “Well. Come,” “Well stay,” and “Where are you go?” Actually the latter still irks me, but the rest seem to roll off my tongue. They are still learning and trying, but I have no such excuse. I have come to doubt myself when talking with other English speakers, wondering if I’ve just butchered my native language. In a recent conversation someone from South America asked where I was from. My answer, “America.” I promptly began hitting my head against the nearest wall. Whether or not she was shaking her head at me or it was my brain rattling inside my skull after my self-inflicted injury, is something left better to the unknown. In the near future, I can look forward to having these types of encounters with 2 JICA volunteers, 4 Mexican nuns who will run an orphanage, and 3 Peace Corps Volunteers working in the Education and Health sectors, all in the comfort of the town I’ve come to cherish.

Before the new PCVs come to Injibara, the Peace Corps staff comes here and does something called “site development.” This is where we talk to office heads and arrange agreements, find housing, and assess the overall suitability for a volunteer. It’s been fun being able to show off where I live, work, and play. However, it is usually right after I rave about how awesome Injibara is that the beggars, town crazies, and rambunctious children come out of the woodwork to ask for money, throw rocks, and shout “China,” respectively. I find myself asking these outliers, “Are you fine? This is not comfort because you are making me look bad. I want the Peace Corps staff to appreciate you and have a well stay. We are from America.” Guess I’m already there. My Amharic? Much worse. 

Clothes Are Not For Animals

Ethiopia recently celebrated Epiphany, also known as Timket. This holiday was preceded by Christmas, known as Gena in Amharic.  It is the natural order of things in the religious realm that encompasses my life in Ethiopia (and America for that matter, but you can get by without realizing Epiphany ever even happened there). Last year, I spent it where every foreigner is expected to celebrate Timket—Gonder. I was out-bused, so to speak, and could not bear to even imagine going anywhere near something that hints at public transportation. So, I spent the holiday with my friends and adopted family in my town.

The day after Timket, my good friend, Shmeles and I took a 30 minute bike ride outside of town to visit his grandmother in the rural areas. When we arrived she greeted us with song and dance, much like my grandma in the States. It was comforting. During this particular holiday season, my town and surrounding parts have these horse races. They were originally intended to see if a man was fit for war, but now it is the only spectator sport besides soccer and watching me in every and any activity (No joke. For a little while a kid on my compound insisted on trying to watch me go to the latrine. It was a problem.) as I know of in Ethiopia. We decided to join in on the fun.

Hundreds to thousands of locals came to the field to welcome the herd(?) of horses adorned in, well, horse clothes. There is probably a more eloquent term, but they call it yaferes libs, which directly translates into the aforementioned. The crowd parted like the Red Sea and the games began. Two cowboys wearing headdresses made of horse hair raced each other down the line. One had the job of throwing sticks the other had the job of guarding his person and horse with a shield. Imagine Medieval jousting with different outfits.

But let’s go back to the crowd. These are some of the same people who cross the road without looking both ways and kids who think it is a game to jump in the road when cars are coming and then laugh when they are lucky enough to not get hit. I’m not a particularly religious person, but I have caught myself crossing my chest and asking the Almighty to give these kids some sense. Bless their hearts. When horses are running down the field, it is much of the same thing as a car going down the road. The same logic, or lack thereof, was applied to this situation. Although this time there were some policemen employed with the job of literally whipping back the crowd to create space for these charging, long-legged masses and their masters. A kid dared to cross in front of the excitement and was not so lucky as his car leaping days. He got sideswiped by a horse. My dad always told my little brother and me to “quit horsing around” because “it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt.” Father knows best, for all cultures apparently. Amazingly enough the kid got up, so the horsing around continued.

I crossed my chest again and reminded those turned around facing me which spectator sport they came to watch. I was getting bored and slightly agitated by the crowd as were the friends that were with me. I kind of like it when my Ethiopian friends get a first hand glimpse of the amount of staring and harassment, be it verbal or not, I get every day. There is a rhyme to my reason for complaining to them. See! Just as I turned around to head out, one of the cowboys got thrown off his horse. No longer was I the spectacle to listlessly stare at. The man was hurt. Bad. There was not much I could do, especially since he had a barricade of ten people deep on all sides. We continued on our way. Then all of a sudden there was mass hysteria. I look around just in time to see a horse stampeding right at me; bucking in attempts to get those god-forsaken horse clothes off. The horse was pissed and scared. The feeling was mutual. An Ethiopian pulled me out of the way just in time. The horse continued to run amok through the field and if this horse could talk it would say, “Can’t you see I’m not meant to wear these things?! I’m getting out of here before you start attaching a flag to my head like my underfed friend over there. I just want to be frrrreeeeeeeeeeee!”.

Herein lies one of the many reasons why clothes are not meant for animals. Small dogs that are innocently tortured (or so it seems) by their owners to wear matching sweaters only bark and pee in inappropriate places. Horses can kill you. It is just not natural—no matter what size animal. After the horse was out of sight, we kind of all started laughing afterwards, but I was secretly tearing up a little bit. I don’t know how I can brave the roads where I see the aftermath of a fatal accident at least every trip and my heart does not skip a beat. Peace Corps gives us permission to ride a horse under the circumstance that we wear a helmet. Not like I was already throwing on the saddle to partake in such a humiliating activity in the first place, but it just wouldn’t even be worthy of the cheap laugh now. I guess I’m just not used to horses chasing after me. It’s not something I really want to adapt to either. And plus, one of Full House’s last episodes was Michelle getting thrown off a horse and almost dying or something. With the knowledge that I have gleaned from TGIF and Ethiopian Timket, I’ll just let that be something I never try once. For awhile at least…

(I’ll get back to Christmas on my next post. It’s like I’m moonwalking through the holiday season…)