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
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
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