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.