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…)
