Nobody Dies Until We've All Suffered

Happy Post Easter! Or otherwise: Melkam ka bwuhala Fasika!
(I realize that this email is quite long. If you want something quick
and entertaining, skip to paragraph 4.)

For all of you who have been desperately waiting for my next update of
my exciting life, I apologize for the delay. The Easter season has
turned out to be quite the unexpected stream of events.
Unfortunately, most of these I cannot recall because I’ve been
horribly sleep deprived and slightly hallucinatory, so I really
wouldn’t know how much was real and wasn’t anyways. But I do have
some wonderful anecdotes and cultural insights related to the Easter
holiday here in Ethiopia.
First, Easter is probably the biggest holiday countrywide. For 50
days before Easter (unlike our wimpy Western-40 days) the Ethiopians
fast. I know several of you probably have some good jokes on
“Ethiopians fasting” but I’ll refrain from making my comments. The
Orthodox form of fasting includes not eating any products of animals;
milk, eggs, and cheese included, and not eating before 3:00 p.m. This
results in much more church time and late night/early morning prayers.
I tried this fast for one week, and it actually went quite well, so I
continued it to one degree or another for the rest of Lent.
Holy Week, the week right before Easter, is something else here.
They call it “Mumar Semund” or “Suffering Week”. Everyone must
suffer, whether you believe or not. You are not allowed to greet
people with handshakes or kisses as normal, or utter the typical
greeting of peace. Many Orthodox go to church every day during the
week for long hours. Thursday, they kick it up a notch and can have
all day and into the night prayers. What I might have failed to
mention about the prayers, is that every Orthodox church has a
loudspeaker attached, so every within a 2 mile radius can hear them.
So, if you happen to be lucky enough to live near 2 Orthodox churches
(most people are) you not only have one incessant chant, but a
mutually ill-melodic, syncopated second chant.
Paragraph 4 --> Then Friday is the big day of Holy workouts. Both
Catholics and Orthodox alike go to church from 8:00 am to 3:00 pm or
longer and suffer for Christ. Every 15 seconds for thirty minutes at
a time (15 minute breaks allowed) we have synchronized bowing
exercises in time to chants. Then, once every three sessions, we like
to kick it up a notch to double-time to my favorite chant “Kyrie Isso”
– which roughly translates to “May God give you strength in suffering
for mercy.” This is no wimpy American bowing from the neck or even
the more dedicated bowing from the waist. This is full-on Ethiopian
athletic throwing yourself to the ground, bend from toes to knees,
hunch over, tap your forehead to the floor and then rise again in
squat-thrust manner. What makes this more interesting is that the
churches are so crowded that you have to keep your feet together and
when you move to go down you must place your hands directly in front
of your knees to catch yourself, and then put your head directly on
top of your hands, forming a nice egg-shape that’s not nearly as
relaxing as the more popular yoga “child-pose”. Then not shifting
from side-to-side or stepping backwards to stand-up is also key. And
if we don’t do this simultaneously, someone ends up with their head in
another’s butt. This is all a part of suffering for the mercy of God.
Most people don’t eat from Friday until Sunday at 3:00 a.m., when
they feast with their families, because that’s “when God got up.”
Usually starting around midnight and going until 7:00 a.m. all the
animals which have been getting fat for 50 days are consequently
slaughtered. Much akin to one of my favorite Muslim holidays, for the
next week the streets are filled with blood and animal carcasses. So
many animals are butchered in one day that the city actually becomes
quieter. That and all chanting finally ceases for a 3 hour hiatus
while the priests feast between 3:00 a.m. and 6:00 a.m. Sunday
morning.
On Sunday and Monday I feasted with some students of mine. The
Ethiopian notion of hospitality is so overwhelmingly giving that at
times it becomes uncomfortable. I was very late to my first student’s
house on Sunday because we had a mix-up about phone numbers. Her
family waited several hours for me to arrive, and then proceeded to
feed me with doro wat (chicken and egg in hot sauce) and kitfel (raw
meat in spices), but only the father of the family ate with me. They
wouldn’t let me stop eating until I looked like I was in pain. I also
had three cups before me: tella, tej, and bunna. Tella is an alcohol
made out of barley and can either taste like watered down Coke or
burning cigar. Tej is also an alcohol that’s made out of honey and is
usually quite strong (think a honey schnapp) but Ethiopian custom
demands that any glass be filled to the very top, and I was being
served in tall juice glasses. And bunna, of course, is traditional
Ethiopian coffee brewed carefully by the matriarch of the house.
I’m still not aware of many marks of respect or politeness in
Ethiopian households because I haven’t been to many that weren’t run
by children, so the day started off quite awkward. I decided to take
my cue from the fact that only the father was addressing me even
though his wife, three children, and sister were all sitting in the
same room. I spent most of the time awkwardly talking to him and all
of us watching television. In every house I’ve been in, if they have
a television, its on no matter what. He was explaining to me
different traditions, songs, and dances as they flashed across the
screen.
I ended up staying too late, and so it was after dark when I finally
got up to leave. It was only a 15 minute walk to my house, but the
family insisted that they needed to walk me home because it was
dangerous. I tried to insist otherwise, but it didn’t really work.
Apparently, this is the general thought here, so its best just to
leave some place before it gets dark and the family has to take
responsibility for you.
The next day, I had an appointment at a student’s home in the
morning, and being still full, even to the point of sickness, I was
comforted by the thought that I was going over in the morning and that
most likely meant we were only drinking bunna together. Unfortunately
I was wrong. Very, very wrong. The mother had spent the full morning
alternately cooking and working at her beauty salon just to feed
myself and the other American volunteer. Neither she nor her daughter
ate unless we fed them. And since all the food was just for us, we
were expected to finish it. Ughhhhh. Half a chicken and 3 glasses of
tella later, Erin and I were rolling home, keeping in mind the bushes
near the sidewalk to vomit behind.
I have been overwhelmed at the kindness and generosity the families
have shown while I have been here, and I’ve also been amazed at the
extremes at which the people will go through to please someone, show
their devoutness , dedicate themselves to a cause or belief, or
otherwise hurt someone. One thing I haven’t witnessed so much in
Ethiopia is moderation.
I hope this email finds you all well. For those who have written me
personally, I’m trying to write back as soon as possible but I hope
this email will tie you over for a short while.

Cheers,
Virginia/Van/Va

Rules? There are no Rules

Hello wonderful people, some of whom are very nice to look at,

I know this is late, but happy 4th of July for all you Americans, and
everyone else you can just simmer in your envy of the Greatest Nation
on Earth. I think we should add that to our country name. Only seems
appropriate.

I’ve been racking my brain to figure out something interesting that I
can actually tell you in this update, but many things I must keep mum
about (sorry, I know that’s tantalizing) and I haven’t had any real
events. I didn’t get to go on holiday, and I’ve just been terribly
busy with all the kids’ activities. I think I’m turning into a soccer
mom.

But then I realized, unlike most of you, I’ve been living in a third
world country for some time (and visiting many others prior), so what
I now find mundane and ordinary is actually quite hilarious. This
will be quite long, so I’m numbering the sections so you can break up
your reading time appropriately.

1. Kushasha means dirty. I suppose one thing I haven’t mentioned as
of yet is that I live next to a garbage dump. Correction, Kushen, the
garbage dump for the city of Addis, population some 8-11 million
people. I can see it clearly from the window and most of the kids I
work with live directly behind it (within a few hundred metres) or
some, on it. Its not just a mountain of trash, but a living, fuming,
mountain range full of life and a culture of its own.

There’s the women who everyday dress in whatever plastic they can find
to protect their clothes and themselves from the liquids and ooze that
seep from the bags of rotten household refuse they collect and haul on
their backs to Kushen and then have the privilege to pick through
those bags for whatever discards they may find of use.

Then there are the gangs that proudly and viciously fight over
territory on Kushen. Anyone with sense does not walk the path behind
the cascading slopes of rubbish at night because they are likely to be
robbed, pummeled or worse. The gangs take ownership of territory on
the waste piles and will harass anyone without permission to rummage
through it.

And lastly there are the children. With no semblance of a parent or
guardian, the children take refuge on Kushen. As you walk or drive
past it, you can usually find at least one bathing in the pools that
collect on top. And you’ll certainly see the excitement as one child
makes a new discovery of some dilapidated piece of machinery or
furniture that some fool mistook for broken junk. It’s a playground
of used thingamabobs and whoswatsits.

2. Waaredg allah! The next joy I took to noticing lately was the
personality and sometimes comic nature of the public taxis, or
minibuses, I ride in nearly everyday. In a 12-passenger,
blue-and-white Toyota van are usually crammed 17 people plus driver
and, for lack of better words, cashier. Each van is owned by one
person but usually shared by a group who take turns driving with their
respective cashier partner. Always men, the driver stays silent and
uncommonly focused, while the cashier calls at rapid fire the
destination and places passengers on bench seats oil cans and the tire
humps.

For some reason, the vans are, as it seems, required to be decorated
in some bizarre fashion. Most have pictures of the Virgin Mary or
Jesus or some other favorite saint of the country. The rastas drive
with printouts of Bob Marley pasted to the windows while blaring
reggae on the radio. But every once in a while, you some van picks
you up that’s truly unique. Some of my favorites included a van with
the front seats covered in purple-black zebra striped fur and the rest
covered in some orange patterned plastic. One had a picture of the
Virgin Mary in plastic covering the entire ceiling of the van. It was
blurred as if the picture had been made too large on a computer, but
still, the mother of God was watching all of us.

Then, just today, I had one taxi which had a box of Kleenexes glued
upside down to the ceiling above the driver. I’m not sure who this
was suppose to convenience, but I think its an addition I’ll make to
my next vehicle. I didn’t understand why he also glued a perfectly
good CD to an otherwise bare ceiling. Maybe it’s a start to his
redecoration. By the time I get him again, perhaps I’ll understand
what he’s going for.

Even though I travel the same route 3-5 times a week, I hardly ever
remember getting the same taxi twice. This city is so crowded with
people and cars, that it would be difficult to find something familiar
other than the beggars who usually occupy the same piece of sidewalk
from one day to the next. And if I become something familiar in one
place, that’s when I might find myself in a bit of trouble. But no
worries so far.

3. Be jealous, Paris. I also forget that it’s not normal to
constantly hear farm animals in the middle of the city. Herds of
goats aren’t allowed within the inner limits of the city, but most
rest just outside, occupy any area or neighborhood where the can find
good feed. Luckily, I live in a construction site with almost no
vegetation, but I often run across the herds and their droppings on my
way to the other compound.

We do usually a small number of cows that roam in an out of our
compound. An extra one is made ready on feast days for either the
teachers or the security guards to share. Usually if you walk outside
at about 6:00 or 7:00 a.m. on that day you can watch the ritualistic
slaughter. As my student informed me, only men can do it, and usually
inebriation is involved. The dogs remove the carrion to various parts
of the compound, including our front porch. Its taken time, but I’ve
learned to step slowly out my front door.

The more usual chickens can be found on any street corner attached to
their peddler by a foot leash. On non-fasting days you can see any
number of people walking with their fresh live chicken either held
upside-down by its feet or under the arm like a small pet. This image
has become such a stereotype for us here that we now refer to the
chicken as the “Ethiopian Chihuahua”. We imagine carrying it around
in a cute bag and putting on a collar that matches our outfit.

4. Speak I Little. As for a more personal anecdote, I’ll recount my
recent adventures in language. As most of you know, I am not talented
in languages other than my mother tongue. For many reasons, I’ve
decided to take this as a challenge this year. Not only am I
desperately trying to grasp a vocalization of Amharic, but I’m also
taking on a well needed French course. C’est bien!

Somehow I passed my placement exam to put me in the highest level
currently offered at the Alliance Francaise. This also makes me the
dunce of the class. The entire class is conducted in French and even
in our break time we’re required to form stiff lips and speak through
our nose. While I’m quite good in grammar, I’ve forgotten (or never
learned) much vocabulary and I’ve hardly practiced speaking. So today
I had to argue with the professor about a particular grammatical point
which, thanks to another brighter classmate, I knew I was right about.
However, when trying to argue my point my command of the language
only led my argument to include “Future of the phrase is need, but say
you us from before. Why?” I didn’t win this debate.

My Amharic is also struggling but I trying to enact my own “Shock and
Awe” on the language. I took some teenage girls to go see an Amharic
movie about a foreigner who is making a movie and he falls in love
with an Ethiopian girl. It’s a comedy where most of the hilarity
comes the translator Samson who doesn’t actually know English. I had
my own translation problems on the way to the movie which made the
entire event all the more comical. On my way out with the girls, I
was explaining to them my rules of outings. It came out something
like this. First, what I meant to say, then the Ahmaric, and then
what I later learned I actually said.

“Rule no. 1. Do not die.” - “Hedg undenya. Al-motachum” – “Rule
first. She not die”
“Rule no. 2. Do not run away.” -“Hedg huletenya. Al-shishushum”
–“Rule second. Do not pee.”
“Rule no. 3. Don’t argue with me.” “Hedg sostenya.
Al-chikachi-kachem” – “Rule third. Do not ----(incomprehensible)”

5. Conclusion. I hope I’ve written enough to entertain some of you
and not bore the others. As always, I appreciate you writing back,
and also as always, I apologize for being slow on responses. I should
have 1-2 weeks break in August where I’ll make an effort to reply
more. Take care of yourselves and I look forward to many stories from
you.

My best,

Virginia/Van/Va