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…)

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.