Monday, December 31, 2012

Let's Keep These Books Coming!

People have been amazingly generous (we can't thank you enough). So we've added more to our request list, to make sure that everyone who wants to donate gets a chance to. We've included more advanced books to give Daniel's college library.

All but 8 or so of the first list have been taken, and we have some duplicates, so below are the ones no one has bought yet, with additional requests.

(See previous post for more detailed instructions):


Updated List plus Extras

When I Get Bigger (Little Critter): Mercer Mayer
The Little Engine that Could: Watty Piper, George Hauman
The Cat in the Hat: Dr. Seuss
Green Eggs and Ham: Dr. Seuss
Rootabaga Stories, Part 2: Carl Sandburg
Goodnight Moon: Margaret Wise Brown
Chicka Chicka Boom Boom: Bill Martin, Jr.
All By Myself: Mercer Mayer
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day: Judith Viorst

New requests:
The Giving Tree: Shel Silverstein
The Velveteen Rabbit: Margery Williams
Stone Soup
The Naked Mole Rat Gets Dressed: Mo Willems
The Pigeon Loves Things That Go!: Mo Willems
The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dot: Mo Willems
Don’t Let the Pigeon Stay Up Late!: Mo Willems
Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus!: Mo Willems
The Tale of Peter Rabbit: Beatrix Potter
Noah Barleywater Runs Away: John Boyne, Oliver Jeffers
Probuditi!: Chris Van Allsburg
Ben’s Dream: Chris Van Allsburg
Guess How Much I Love You
Harold and the Purple Crayon
Olivia
Curious George: H.A. Roy
Tikki Tikki Tembo
The Runaway Bunny
Madeline
We’re Going On a Bear Hunt
Llama Llama Red Pajama: Anna Dewdney
Russell the Sheep: Rob Scotton

More Advanced Books for Daniel’s College: Adwa College of Teacher Education
The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe: C.S. Lewis
The Magician’s Nephew: C.S. Lewis
The Horse and His Boy: C.S. Lewis
The Silver Chair: C.S. Lewis
The Last Battle: C.S. Lewis
Prince Caspian: The Return to Narnia: C.S. Lewis
The Voyage of the Dawn Treader: C.S. Lewis
*Any novels, books of poetry, or dramas that are appropriate for a 6th grade reading level

Again: thank you, thank you, thank you! We couldn't do this without you (volunteers make no money). So we are thankful for your giving hearts. Bravo!

Saturday, December 29, 2012

Donate Books!


(the promised post)

Keywords: Free shipping. Five bucks. Easy.

If you would love to have a hand in our work here, or impact loads of Ethiopian kids, we’ve got one word for you: books. Daniel and I know from experience that reading as a child is crucial. It not only develops literacy and vocabulary, but also a love for reading as you grow old. We are lucky: reading is engrained in the culture of America. Unfortunately, that’s not the case everywhere.

I’d start a bet with you that in our two years of service, we won’t be in a family’s home that has a book for enjoyable reading. Textbooks? Sure. A picture book? What is that? Well, since the kids can’t read at home, good thing their schools have libraries, right? Wrong.

Adi-Mahleka, a school where I have English Club every Friday, has not a single children’s book in their library. Not in Tigrigna, not in Amharic, not in English. Zero. They’ve got textbooks galore, but what child is going to read those? Adua, another of my schools, has maybe 10 children’s books: a feat I nearly jumped and sang for.

Betterworldbooks.com is a website that works much like Toms shoes: you buy a book online (free worldwide shipping!) and they donate another to someone in need. We know firsthand that this donation process is legit; just two months ago, a handful of our volunteers received 500 boxes of books from this donation program (some of which were given to us for Adwa schools, when they had overflow). Daniel and I have created a wishlist for the schools in Adwa: which means, if you buy one book (average cost 5-7 dollars, again no shipping!), another is still being donated. That’s two books for children who have none, for the price of two Starbuck’s drinks.

In other words—pretty please?

Here’s how it works: Below are the list of books we’d like. Repeats are great too, but we’d prefer a versatile library for Adi-Mahleka, versus 10 copies of Green Eggs and Ham. So peruse the list below, email me at danielle.luttrull@gmail.com, and let me know what books you want to buy. This way, I can tell you, “Aunt So-and-So just emailed me that she bought such-and-such. Can you choose a different one?” Then go to betterworldbooks.com, click Used Books from the categories on the left, type the book you want in the search bar, find your best price, and buy! Did I mention it’s free shipping?

Please have the books sent to:
Daniel and Danielle Luttrull
P.O. Box 227
Adwa, Ethiopia

Also, if there’s a children’s book not on the list that you really like, have at it! All books are welcome. When in doubt, the authors we’ve chosen below are great starts. When your book arrives to us, we will write on the inside cover: “Donated by __(name)___ from __(city)__, __(state)__, USA.”

And, God-willing, if we have an amazing response, we’ll make another list. Meles Zenawi is a tiny school in my district and given the size of their campus and their newness, I’d venture to guess they too are bookless. We surely can’t be sent too many: the need is great.

Where the Wild Things Are: Maurice Sendak
When I Get Bigger (Little Critter): Mercer Mayer
There Was an Old Lady Who Swallowed a Fly: Pam Adams
The Very Hungry Caterpillar: Eric Carle
The Mitten: Jan Brett
The Little Engine that Could: Watty Piper, George Hauman
The Foot Book: Dr. Seuss
The Cat in the Hat: Dr. Seuss
Green Eggs and Ham: Dr. Seuss
Oh, the Places You’ll Go: Dr. Seuss
Hop on Pop: Dr. Seuss
One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish: Dr. Seuss
Rootabaga Stories, Part 2: Carl Sandburg
Just Me and My Dad: Mercer Mayer
Just a Dream: Chris Van Allsburg
Jumanji: Chris Van Allsburg
If You Give a Mouse a Cookie: Laura Joffe Numeroff
Goodnight Moon: Margaret Wise Brown
Corduroy: Don Freeman
Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs: Judi Barrett, Ron Barrett
Clifford’s Manners: Norman Bridwell
Clifford’s First Autumn: Norman Bridwell
Clifford the Big Red Dog: Norman Bridwell
Clifford and the Big Parade: Norman Bridwell
Chicka Chicka Boom Boom: Bill Martin, Jr.
Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See?: Bill Martin, Jr.
Are You My Mother?: P.D. Eastman
All By Myself: Mercer Mayer
Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day: Judith Viorst
Go, Dog, Go!: P.D. Eastman

If you decide to participate, thank you a million times over. You’re lovely. You’re making a difference.

Other things:

-Christmas in Bahir Dar was amazing. It was wonderful to be with friends; to watch Rudolph on the big screen; to swim at a gorgeous resort; to make and enjoy donuts Christmas morning; to eat injera with fish from the Nile; to eat stuffing, yams, cranberry sauce, ham, and turkey (thanks to a volunteer’s dear mother who sent her visiting son to her other son with a suitcase full of cans); to make instant snow from a can; and to even record an Ethiopian rap. (On our route home, we stopped in Gondar and saw castles!)

These are our closest friends we spent Christmas with (among several other volunteers): Sarah, Amanda, Aaron, Tyler. Sarah & Aaron are the married volunteers in Bahir Dar.

 

-We finally bought a fridge! Here is a photo of its home-delivery:



While we could do American things like play with the fridge box with our neighbor kids (it quickly became a bajaj, and we dragged Meron in the box around the yard), there were some non-normal things: like the loads of cockroaches who were living in the box, because of an infestation at the fridge store (this is no Home Depot, people). We hope we got them all; we want a fridge, but certainly not cockroaches. But now we can have ice, cold water, mayo (deviled eggs and candied orange peel for New Year’s!), and our fruits and veggies will last a lot longer.

-Our friend Sarah’s aunt (married volunteer in Bahir Dar) sent her three black baby dolls. Unfortunately, two of Sarah’s neighbor girls moved away hours before the package arrived. Fortunately for Meron and Rodas, Sarah is generous and gave them to us. Here is a photo of Meron after opening her gift (which was the longest gift opening ever, complete with 3 nose-blowing-and-carrying-tissue-to-the-garbage intermissions; we believe it was her first time opening a wrapped present):



-We were super pumped about the fact that a new cobblestone road is being constructed outside our house: this will mean a much less dusty living room, once the dirt road is covered. However, when you put three teenagers on a bulldozer who don’t know what they’re doing, bad things happen. They broke a water pipe outside our house, which meant no water for five houses. We left for Bahir Dar the day after it happened; but of course, when we returned, it still wasn’t fixed. It took one week to be fixed, with very little help from the city workers (we had to hire our neighbor boy to dig out the pipe so the city could see it, because they arrived and said, “Where is it?” then lazily left). Thankfully, we can hopefully shower today after 7 days of dirtiness; we only had to live out of a bucket, and fetch water, for 2 ½ days. Could’ve been much worse. But I sure miss construction and city laws in the U.S. Why should our landlord have to pay and hound the city workers to fix what they broke in the first place? What was once unbelievable is now the expected, ridiculous norm.

Saturday, December 15, 2012

The Hunger Games: Peace Corps version


*Preface: If you haven't read the series, this satire may not make as much sense or trigger as much laughter. But sure, read it anyway:



We started with 70 volunteers. As we sat in the terminal, waiting to leave the capital, some volunteers said final goodbyes on phones in the corners of the room. The rest of us sat eyeing each other. Just as we did the previous evening. The previous day and a half were spent in last-minute prep, training, and eating as much as we possibly could. While we were still safe, in a place where food is easy to come by and still tastes like home. So we traveled in packs across the capital, enjoying in dim lighting what we knew would be one of our last good meals. But even then, we were stealing peaks from the corners of our vision whenever we had the chance, studying our peers and asking ourselves, “Will he make it? What District is she from? How long will she last?” We knew the statistic too well: after two years, ten percent of the group who arrived in the capital together would be finished, gone. At our five-month mark, we had already reached that ten percent: seven gone.

Kerry was the first one to go. I remember meeting her in the training center in the capital, catching her name tag as I came out of a restroom, and sitting beside her again as we all waited in the terminal the next day. She had graduated only two weeks before. It was my first time meeting someone from her District: Delaware. I know now that all Delaware people must be lovely. At least now, they’re 1 for 1. Kerry was our immediate favorite, and we were delighted when she was placed in our smaller training group of ten. So early in the Games, we forgot we should be careful about getting too close to the others; it was difficult to remember we wouldn’t all come home together. The morning Kerry left, one month later, we all tried hiding our tears. She was too sick to stay, but she didn’t want to return to the capital. As we said goodbye, she remembered my telling her awhile back that I couldn’t handle the pillows the Gamemakers gave us. In the arena, I would fall asleep by inflating a tiny travel pillow my sister gave me before I left, and wrapping it in a comfortable sweatshirt. That’s when it happened. Kerry handed me her own pillow from home. This meant more to me than she’d ever know.

The others we lost by choice: they had enough of the harassment in the arena, the discomfort, the distance from family and significant others, the issues and needs that the sponsors wouldn’t fix and the Gamemakers ignored: like adequate shelter. We do miss them, especially when a favorite leaves, someone we’ve grown close to. And it’s difficult to imagine them among friends and family now, in their comfortable homes with full refrigerators, when we’ve only known them in the loneliness and hardship of the arena.

As we sat in the terminal that day, I wasn’t eyeing the strangers from other Districts. I sat stealing glances at the man across from me, the one I came with. I was overwhelmed with relief and thanks that I wasn’t alone and had him here with me. Only three other sets of volunteers came in pairs, four couples. Everyone else was heading into the arena alone. As I watched him, the person I know and love best in the world, I wondered his thoughts. “Is he nervous? Excited? Regretting we came?” I grabbed his hand (something we wouldn’t be allowed to do in the arena) and we decided to find breakfast. Our last meal in the capital, where meals still come by standing in lines. In retrospect, I would’ve put more cream cheese on that bagel. It was the last time I would eat that creamy delight for 365 days, and I knew it, but in those days I was still too shy and weak to ask the Avox for an extra container. But we enjoyed it. We mentioned our fears, worries, and the thrill of it all, with full, sticky mouths. I told him what a comfort it was to be with him. Before we left, my grandmother instructed him to take care of me, protect me in every way he knew how. And I knew that he would, without being asked.
We didn’t eavesdrop on purpose. But two volunteers sat at a table near us, obviously thinking along our lines, and spoke a little too loudly. A crushing reminder that there are others, and that at least seven must go before our time is out.

In the beginning it seemed the Gamemakers were setting traps early, putting certain volunteers at a disadvantage. They told us we could bring 80 pounds from home, whatever we chose. Daniel and I thought strategically, and followed the suggested packing list to a T. We brought cooking supplies that wouldn’t be available in the arena, vegetable and herb seeds to provide our own sustenance, bulky raingear, fabric and sewing supplies, a roll of duct tape, knives. But when we finally unpacked months later, we saw our bags had been rifled through at the terminal. It was likely done by the Peacekeepers, before we boarded the plane. But why they took a pack of wet wipes and our cilantro seeds, we can’t quite understand. Nonetheless, when we reached the capital we were told we could have brought 100 pounds, and several of the volunteers from other Districts did. A last-minute policy change for the benefit of some, and detriment of others. We have a term for those of us who packed light, maybe the highest term of respect among the volunteers: a one-bagger. Those are the volunteers who thought their 80 pounds could only be in one bag, and so they brought much less than they could have. We don’t have a term for the ones who brought everything; one of our favorite volunteers even brought his baseball bat. I’m surprised the Peacekeepers didn’t snatch that one. I suppose the term for him could be fiancĂ©, as he overpacked on supplies, but left his most prized part of himself back in his District.

Only a handful of us are lucky enough to think of the arena in two shifts: we’ll get a few weeks of respite at home with family after one year. Most can’t afford this. But our strategy isn’t one that considers price. We’ll take that respite regardless. Almost every month a baby is born into one of the volunteers’ families back in their Districts, which means the child will be walking before they meet it for the first time. For morale’s sake, we want to meet our own when he turns one.

Living in the arena has actually become comfortable. The shock of our new and difficult surroundings has faded into normalcy, and now our conversations shift to the shock of returning home some day. Do you think we’ll have panic attacks when we step into a grocery store? Will we remember how to speak with people in English? Will we greet every stranger, holding out our right arms to shake theirs, as we support it at the elbow with our left hand—a cultural thing in the arena? Will we get sick by eating too much, too quickly, too richly? And we fear how we’ve changed since leaving the capital. Just yesterday I spoke with a man in the arena, and he said he would meet with me. “Yes, if you are voluntary,” I said in a high-pitched question. Daniel spoke in disapproval: “You probably shouldn’t reinforce his bad English.” The trouble is, it wasn’t intentional. I thought I was speaking normally.

The nightmares have nearly stopped. But just last night I dreamt I was at an 8-table feast, with foods you could never imagine, that I’ve never even seen. Giant sausages and cakes, various varieties of green beans, and drumsticks you could only find on your plate at Medieval Times. Standing in line at one of the tables, in my shock and excitement, I grabbed a piece of chicken and put the whole thing in my mouth, biting into the bone and all. I was confused, you couldn’t blame me. And the night before that I was in the terminal again, perusing donuts and hot dogs. But Daniel tells me the nightmares will stop, and soon I’ll forget the things I long for. While walking in the arena one day, he even told me with a shaky laugh, “I don’t even remember America.” And then I fear for him.

But I think we’re in this for the long haul. The number of couples from the Districts is down to three. But just as those from District Texas are at an advantage in the afternoon heat; the Career volunteers have the advantage of this being their second time in the arena; and the well-trained volunteers who already knew how to read the strange language of the arena before they left the capital are obviously at an advantage—I know I have the greatest advantage. I get Daniel Luttrull. And he gets me.

Friday, December 14, 2012

Homemade Christmas

If you're wondering what a homemade Christmas looks like...








It does the trick. The only regret is that we discovered Meron likes to use our toilet paper roll collection as building blocks, and right now they are in use.
Daniel won't allow the stringing of popcorn in our house because one, it's a waste of food, and two, he threatens to eat it all off the string when I'm not looking.

Below is a photo of our trial run mini-garden. If the veggies/herbs grow fine in this clay-like soil, we will expand.


Have a joyous, seasonal week! Throw a snowball for us. (We are saving up our Ethiopian birr for an artificial snow machine). Well, no. We're not.

Monday, December 10, 2012

From Valentino and Michael Jackson


 We remember when Daniel’s friend Josh came home mid-way through Peace Corps service for a friend’s wedding, from Azjerbaijan, and exclaimed, “Wait! You guys are using internet on your PHONES?!” So we often wonder what’s going on on that other side of the world. Last week we laughed and shook our heads at some music videos playing on MTV at one of our favorite cafes. Two for two: both young men singing in separate music videos had 80’s haircuts; the sides of their heads were shaved, and curly masses of New Kids on the Block Mohawks were flowing out of their scalps. Is that really happening over there, people? Maybe we shouldn’t take select MTV videos as reflections of an entire country—but when two back-to-back curly/puffy American Mohawks air in our cafĂ©, we naturally grow suspicious. What other weird things are people doing? For humor’s sake, we’re a tad curious.

You should know that while this music video played, a man in his 20s stepped into the café, and addressed us like so; he waited for no answers (which is common), but just rattled off an obviously rehearsed speech:
“Hello you guys. Where are you from? England? (No, America). Are you rich like Bill Gates? You (to Daniel) are beautiful like Michael Jackson. You (to Danielle) are handsome like Valentino something-or-other from Russia. Okay, of course now I leave you.” And he’s gone.

In a previous evening venture to this cafĂ© we enjoyed our macchiatos while watching MTV’s Teen Cribs. Take our word for it: there is nothing more embarrassing to watch, surrounded by 11 Ethiopian college guys, than a spunky blonde preteen girl guiding you through her parents’ mansion, complete with movie theatre, backyard jungle, swimming pool, hot tub, and toilet with a button panel that includes seat-warming and buttocks-blow-drying options, etc. etc. etc. I consciously averted my fellow patrons’ eyes. I just hope they realize we are not rich like Bill Gates, would never live in anything like that, nor want to. But to watch gross extravagance alongside our poor neighbors was humiliating. Especially when the blonde teenager on the screen was the only other person of our race in the room. I wanted so badly to not be placed in her category of people. I wanted to turn to them and know how to say in Tigrigna, “We’re with you. Like you, we wonder if people have anything better to do with their money.” But they’d probably tell us they’re not with us. It seems they’d reply, much like the woman buying the sailboat in Napoleon Dynamite, “I want that.” Many of them want America, they want mansions. And it seems this is what they think is waiting for us when we return home.

I take that back: it’s perhaps more embarrassing to watch a sexy movie with your parents.

What we realized in Axum, with Mom here, is that it’s not nearly as much fun to be a tourist—experiencing new things, seeing all the sights—than it is to be someone else’s “new thing,” to be that sight others want to see. We laughed so hard as another volunteer, Doug, had to pose for various photos with a stranger. No introduction or even a “How are you?” Just a shoulder hug and long pose as the stranger excitedly passes off his camera and phone to his friend. The same man then held his phone up to my face, and had me smile various times for him.  We’re all like Santa Claus, and our neighbors are all in line behind a green velvety rope. If we could count our awkward laughs in this country! For instance, see below.




Mom’s camel had to wait to rise until this guy left her side. What we thought was a photo shoot for Mom and camel shamelessly became a photo shoot of Mom, camel, and man we don’t know. As I sat on my own camel (a 2-minute stand-still for 10 birr and photos), I felt a cold hand touch my bare leg as I struggled to keep my skirt as far down as it could go (it is incredibly difficult to sit on a camel while wearing a skirt and remain modest). This is my thought process: 1. What is this college-aged guy doing holding my bare leg? 2. What a creeper. 3. How long will he pose for his photos? 4. What will he do with these photos? 5. Too bad I haven’t shaved for a week and a half. But it’s his own fault. 6. He doesn’t even care.

Back to being the sight-seer:
When I spotted a certain 13-year-old in the large crowd of Axum, scurrying to the bus station, I almost peed myself. I shrieked, held my hands out to him, and yelled, “Kabay? Kabay? Universityay, bet timhirtay niustay niustay!” (From where? From where? My university! My small small school!) It may have been the first time the tables were turned: where we, the ferenji, frightened an Ethiopian with our stares and shouts of Tigrigna. He looked stunned, confused, and he awkwardly allowed me to take his photo, staring at me in disbelief as I panted in excitement. Why the excitement? Check out this photo:



Adwa feels a bit more like home, now that Daniel’s mom has been here. In some way it felt like a reassurance that this is actually happening, this is our home, and a home that our family can visit. It was unbelievably good to have her here; suddenly family didn’t feel so far away (just 16 some hours on a plane! It’s magic).

While I was nervous about preparing for and spending Christmas in a place where Christmas isn’t even on December 25 (but January 7), the advent season also has made 52B Adi Haki feel more like home. We have a Christmas tree hanging on our wall—made out of old toilet paper rolls wrapped in green fabric—stockings and wooden snowflakes from Aunt Cheryl and Aunt Sandi that I stitched up fancy-like, and glitter-glued, respectively. These lovely ladies also sent Mom with some red and green construction paper: this girl’s dream. It’s not Christmas without a Christmas countdown chain. (Well, it is, but—let me have this one). Daniel’s parents also prepared for us a beautiful advent “calendar,” with letters from friends, and Christmas poems and anecdotes to read each day. Couple all these things with non-stop carols playing from our Mac, and voila! It’s homey here. Not quite snowy here. But it’s Christmas here. Tonight we have a date with some hot chocolate and It’s a Wonderful Life. That’s because Monday is milk day. (Did we mention we discovered a way to get milk? We buy it from the college’s cafĂ©, and can do so once a week. This will be easier when we buy a fridge; it requires creativity to drink/cook with an entire liter of milk in one day). Anyway, we’re thankful that rather than overwhelming us with homesickness, Christmastime is making Adwa more like home.

Wins for this week:

1. We successfully cooked and baked with an actual pumpkin, making our own puree for pumpkin bread and pumpkin pancakes—and other savory sides, i.e., failures. The seeds were delicious: Halloween a few months late.
2. We planted a garden! Basil, Oregano, Cilantro, Tomatoes, and Cucumbers. If these grow well, we will expand to growing maybe zucchini, broccoli, radishes, spinach, etc. We made a make-shift stick & rope fence to keep out the family of chickens who roam our yard.
3. Instead of selling full-sized gardening supplies, i.e. hoes, here you buy the important part, or head, of the tool. You find your own stick (this is true DIY, yes?). And so, Daniel fashioned us a hoe from a branch in our yard.
4. We planned to add some compost beneath the soil of our garden, but remembered all the manure lining our yard, which would be better. I put on a latex glove (thank you, PC med kit), walked toward the manure piles and called to Teddy:
DANIELLE: Teddy, kabay? (Teddy, where from?)
TEDDY: Ox. (His grin widens, he lifts his leg, tilts his whole body, and makes a loud farting noise through laughter)
What I wondered was, did they buy it? Were they going to use it for their own garden? Maybe I should’ve asked in Tigrigna: Teddy, why the heck are there piles of manure lining our stone wall? Instead, I received a much better, more hilarious answer, by asking where the manure came from. What followed were five boys grabbing handfuls of warm manure, with their bare hands, as I grabbed some with my gloved hand. Before we rewarded them with bananas for helping us work, Daniel conducted an assembly line of hand-washing at our outdoor faucet.
5. I have my first English Club today, for 30 5th-8th graders; and Wednesday I have my first training for teachers, on Continuous Assessment. We are starting to finally feel busy.
6. I was chosen to be co-coordinator of Peace Corps’ International Creative Writing Competition, Ethiopia. Some wise PC volunteer serving in Georgia created this competition a few years ago, to have students from all over the world submit creative writing pieces, via their PC volunteer, to an international pool of stories. We’re excited to work with our students on this! This is right up our favorite alley.
7. Meron now has daily coloring time in our living room. Whenever she sees us, her eyes widen in expectation, and she makes a sketching motion in the air with her hand. It’s a daily joy.
8. I know now that I am as handsome as Valentino so-and-so from Russia, and Daniel as beautiful as the King of Pop.

Things to come: In our next blog we will present you with a way you can become involved in the education of Adwa’s children, if you choose, via book donation.

Monday, December 3, 2012

“I can’t wait to get home!”


“I can’t wait to get home!”  I have heard that many, many times over the years—from our three boys—at the end of a vacation or a long weekend at soccer matches or on the way home from the required attendance at a function where they were sure they would die if they couldn’t leave soon.  “Going home” meant they were free to play in the side yard with the neighbor children, read or ride bikes or do whatever else they couldn’t do while they were away.  They were going home to a place where they were loved, a place of familiarity and a place that was not for just anyone, but was certainly a place for each of them.

Last Saturday night, Daniel and Danielle met me at the Addis Ababa airport.  We spent one night in Addis, and on Sunday morning flew to Axum, where we spent the day seeing the sites of this ancient place, including the resting place of the Ark of the Covenant, the tomb of King Balthazar, the haunts of the Queen of Sheba, and numerous monstrous obelisks, not unlike the standing stones in Scotland and England.



Now I must preface this next comment with these words:  It was not Daniel and Danielle’s fault that we spent our night in Axum in mosquito-infested rooms.  So dirty!  They asked another PC volunteer who lives in Axum to make our reservations.  And obviously, that friend’s standards are different from ours.  Mid-way through the night Danielle called out, “I want to die!”  I was reminded of a book that I had to read for one of my sociology classes in college entitled, None of These Diseases.  I decided I could write the sequel, which I would entitle, All of These Diseases.  Because I was pretty sure in the middle of the night, with the music blaring in the streets and the mosquitoes buzzing around my head, that All of These Diseases was happening to me.  We did wake up the next morning, and we got on a “bus” and headed for the village of Adwa, Daniel and Danielle’s home for the next two years.  This bus was a twelve passenger rusted van, crammed with 19 people and our luggage, strapped on top.  The kids had been gone from their Adwa home for more than two weeks.  As we got outside of Axum, the driver weaving around goats, donkeys, other absolutely crazy drivers, and lots of children walking to school, we could begin to see the splendid mountains that encompass Adwa.  I was sitting beside Daniel.  He and Danielle were happy to see their beautiful countryside once again and happy that they were going back to Adwa.  That’s when I heard Daniel say those words.  He said them under his breath, but with the same excitement and longing that he had as a twelve-year-boy.  “I can’t wait to get home!”  Not surprisingly, this mom’s eyes filled with tears as I heard those words once again, so grateful that our kids have found a place, a home, eight thousand miles from their most familiar one.  And what a lovely home they have made for themselves here in Adwa, Ethiopia!  God has certainly been gracious and abundantly kind, giving them loving neighbors, and colleagues at their respective schools who have welcomed them so warmly.

Adwa—40,000 people, living side-by-side-by-side, down dirt roads which would be great if they were simply dirt roads.  But these roads are riddled with sharp rocks—some big and some small—that poke at your feet.  (Makes me think of another sequel: No Country for Old Women.)  A souk is a small store that sells foods and soaps and other necessities.  And if they don’t have yeast today, they may not have eggs tomorrow.  If the owner of the souk is your neighbor, then his home, which is also his store, is right next to yours.  Most likely, he and his family sleep behind the store shelves.  Danielle has her favorite souks, and can usually find all they need by going first to one and then to the next.  These are one-room houses with mud floors, no running water or windows or electricity.  Reading the account of the annunciation and the travels of Mary and Joseph, the shepherds and wise men, makes sense here.  Looks like it all could have unfolded yesterday, in this little town of Adwa.

On Wednesday, I went with Danielle to one of her elementary schools, where we observed a preschool class of 42 children, taught by a young and energetic teacher named Helen.  These five-year-olds were learning English.  And they were happy to show us all they were learning.  Then Thursday, we went to another of Danielle’s schools, a boarding school for blind children.  This time it was second grade and another English class.  The students ranged in age from five to nineteen.  Their classroom was a tiny one—no door, a dirt floor, corrugated metal walls, the students sitting with their Braille tablets, and me, crying in the corner.  When we arrived, one of the teachers explained that there is a lot of shame that accompanies blindness here.  What beautiful work is done at this school.  These attentive and patient teachers are giving these young people many gifts, including the dignity that accompanies learning.  Each of these young people knows more English words than I know Tigrigna.

The Grimkils—the family that lives next to the Luttrulls.  Grimkil is the name of the father of the family, and serves as the guard of Daniel and Danielle’s home and large yard, just as his father and his father before him, have done.  Grimkil’s oldest son, Samuel, helps his father with his guard duties.  About seven months ago, Grimkil went blind.  So sad, but such a loving and lovely family!  So gentle and kind-hearted, you couldn’t ask for better neighbors!  Their home is about the size of my kitchen.  Dirt floor, no window and home to Grimkil, his wife Missalal, Samuel (15), Luam (13), Teddy (11), Meron (4) and a hen in the corner, laying and hatching eggs.  Because of the size of their home and the size of their growing family, Grimkil, Samuel and Teddy sleep in a room in the D’s yard, just outside the D’s window.  The family was overjoyed to see Daniel and Danielle return home from their two weeks away.  Missalal hosted a coffee ceremony for us.  It was so touching to see her work so hard to honor us with coffee.  I brought glow sticks and bubbles for the Grimkil kids.  It was fun to watch them in the darkness throw the glow sticks high in the air and then hear their joy as the sticks rained down like fireworks.





We had an early Friday morning.  Got up at 4:45 to catch a 5:30am bus leaving the college for Axum and the Hidar Tsion celebrations there. What an experience these buses are! Probably left Adwa around 6:20.  Halfway to Axum, a man standing in the middle of the roadway motioned for our bus to pull over to the side.  Then a very serious border police came aboard and asked everyone on the bus (but not the white people) for their ID.  Checking for aliens from Eritrea.  Hidar Tsion is a yearly holy day, celebrating Mary, to whom the historic church in Axum is dedicated.  Some say 200,000 pilgrims descend upon Axum, a town of 50,000.  Seas and seas of people, all dressed in white. We got to Axum and followed the crowds, all of them heading for St Mary's.  We walked around the church and past all the pilgrims coming and going and begging and eating and resting.  We decided to exit the churchyard through an open gate leading to the obelisks, because we could tell that there was something happening out there.  Throngs and throngs of people were trying to get through the eight-foot-wide gate.  Some coming in and some going out.  So much pushing and shoving!  Daniel got spun totally around, 360 degrees. I think some of my friends would have had a panic attack.  We really couldn't control our movement, we just went as the crowd pushed.  I felt like we were traveling down the birth canal, and was sure that Kate was in labor and we were all channeling her experience—there was this remarkable pressure from the front and the sides, and then this big push from the back and finally, after a few of those, we were through the gate.




Some shepherds brought their camels and parked them in front of the obelisks.  For ten birr (60 cents) you could sit on a camel and get your picture—so we all did. Gracious, it was ridiculous.  First of all, you get on the camel and then the beast stands up, but not without some movement back to front, and front to back.  Think of a rocking chair that almost tips over backwards, and then nearly throws you on your nose going forwards. Do that a couple of times and the camel is standing up.  Now imagine the shrieks from me and the camel answering me with this strange growl of sorts and craning his long neck back to look my way. I tried to pat him as if to say "there, their, they're," and he scolded me with an angry growl, showing his large yellow teeth.  A few more shrieks and now all the Ethiopians are looking at me on this camel, and I'm laughing, and they are all laughing at me, and they are all taking my picture.  Then repeat the entire process as the camel folds his legs back up and lays on the ground.  A m a z i n g !



After all the excitement, we walked around Axum and got in on a couple of processions with the priests and crosses and lots of chanting until about 12:30, when we returned the same way we came, nearly rear-ending another bus that had come to a total stop on the roadway.

Oh, and by the way, Daniel and Danielle would want me to relate that I was interviewed for a segment on Ethiopian TV (or ETV, as we like to call it over here.)  The correspondent wanted me to talk about my impressions of the festivities and how I would suggest that they could increase tourism to Axum. He got my credentials, Debra Luttrull from Indianapolis, Indiana USA.



Saturday night on the way to church, we met the obituary bicycle man.  And we met lots of children who most likely watch Daniel and Danielle each week as they walk through town to church.  Many of them called out to Daniel, “Sister, sister!”  They must think Daniel is a monk from Don Bosco Catholic Church, but they are confused in more ways than one.  What a lovely service, led by a visiting priest from Italy.  So the mass that is typically led by an Ethopian in English, for Italian congregants who speak English with a thick accent, was tonight a mass in Italian, with the singing led by an Italian nun, in English.  A friend of Daniel and Danielle’s, Brother Fabio, sat behind us.  This congregation has welcomed Daniel and Danielle.  Don Bosco’s Catholic Church is now their church, proving true the words to this great hymn:  “In Christ there is no East or West, in Him no South or North, but one great fellowship of love, throughout the whole wide earth!”  Thanks be to God!  It was dark and the air was cool as we walked home from church.  But the sky was filled with thousands of bright stars.  Growing up in Kansas where the stars shine brightly, still I had never seen such a nighttime sky!

When we arrived back home, we got the news from Andrew, that Kate had delivered a precious baby boy.  They gave him the beautiful name Samuel James.  Everyday this week, the Grimkils had been asking us if the baby had come yet.  They were so happy when we hurried to their home and told them the news and that the baby was given the same name as their oldest son.  There was lots of excitement in a language that I couldn’t understand, but somehow I knew every word of what they said.



Sunday we went to our second coffee ceremony, hosted by another sweet neighbor.  Near the end of our two-hour coffee, she wanted me to know that her brother lives in Sydney, Australia.  She then fetched a large envelope that was addressed to her brother, but she let me know that she didn’t seal the envelope, just in case the authorities at the airport wanted to see the contents.  I was following her reasoning, saying things like “uh-huh” and “I see.”  And then she said that she had already told her brother that I will be traveling to Sydney this week. “Oh!” I said.  “You would like me to deliver this to your brother.”  “Yes!” she said. “He knows you are coming, and will be expecting a call from you.  See, I have written his telephone number on the envelope.”  I looked at Daniel and Danielle and said something about feeling like Bilbo Baggins, and we were laughing, and I was hoping our hostess couldn’t understand our conversation, and that she just thought that I was happy to do her bidding.

So in the morning I will leave this wonderful place, with a grateful heart.  I am so thankful to have been able to visit Daniel and Danielle and see the good work that they are doing here.  I leave with the words of the Grimkils in my ears as we said our goodbyes.  “Peaceful road.  Beautiful road."

 Samuel here I come!

Tuesday, November 27, 2012

So What if I Cried Quite a Bit When I Saw a Decorated Christmas Tree in Ethiopia?


Here are some photos from our two weeks in Ambo. We had a great time reuniting with friends, learning helpful stuff, participating in paper football tournaments, running into Christmas trees, hiking a crater lake, having tea with tortoises and hares, eating Cocoa Puffs, perusing stationery shops for the craziest English, and anxiously awaiting the arrival of Daniel’s mom. Now Debbie is here in Adwa with us; today I enjoyed hearing all the gasps, and seeing the smiles and hands thrown in the air, and hearing the “We are lucky”’s when I told my colleagues at school that, “Nay Daniel addo ab Adwa”—Daniel’s mother is in Adwa.


 This was a volcano. Now it's a lake.


A 9 mile hike around Lake Wenchi. There were four phases: 1. the downhill dustbowl (lots of bums hitting the ground), 2. swamp/lilly-pad jump (lots of muddy legs and faces), 3. boating the lake (lots of Ethiopians in matching T's singing at the lakeside for their family reunion), 4. the upward rocky climb through a secluded neighborhood (lots of "Give me pen!"s)



And a dus-ty hike it was.


Proof we participated in said hike.


 We found this Christmas tree in a hotel lobby in Ambo.


And I didn't expect it to be a bawl-fest. But it was our first tangible sign of Christmas here. (It feels like summer, Ethiopian Christmas is in January, and it's under-celebrated).


Paper football! A well-organized tournament with a 2-birr buy-in.


We had two tournaments in Ambo.


In tourney # 2, I came prepared, but only lasted a few games.


Thanksgiving with our great friends! At the French restaurant "Loti" in Addis. Our first time having pork in 6 months.


We made turkeys, writing our thanksgivings on the feathers. It was a lovely Thanksgiving.


Stay tuned for a blog post from Debbie Luttrull. Ethiopia seen through a new set of eyes.
 

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Good Culture


Last week we broke our poor-grammared record: we-ain’t-gonna-get-sick-in-Adwa!, wrestling some highly uncomfortable bug. Thankfully, though we went to bed miserable and hunched over on night # 3, the next morning we woke up as if nothing had happened. But amidst it all, we experienced a new face of Ethiopian culture, their how-we-handle-the-sick face. Think of your most sickly flu moment: lying in bed all day because aches won’t allow you to move, remnants of dried vomit-spatter in your bangs—and your friend decides to come visit. That’s what happens here. As Getnet stood in our bedroom doorway, and I weasled my hand out of the mosquito net of our bed to shake his, I was thinking, “Have I ever before welcomed a guest into my home while lying in bed?” Getnet was so concerned, explaining that I may have Malaria and must get to the clinic right away, and “I am so sorry I did not bring fruit. I came straight from a meeting at the college.” We thanked him for coming, and told him, “Good culture. This is good culture.” In America, of course, you don’t visit your flu or cold-infested friend unless you are bringing him the last three days’ homework—and in that case, you likely pass it on to his mother, with a Get Well message for him. Americans like to be alone when they’re not pretty and smell like puke; we don’t want to be seen. We visit the hospitalized or the terminally ill, but that’s where we generally draw the line. As I lay in our bed, overhearing Daniel and Getnet’s conversation in the living room and Daniel subtly protecting my privacy from intruders, I groggily and childishly thought, There’s no way I’m missing out on this cultural experience, so I called to Getnet to thank him for coming: my yes-you-may free admission ticket, welcoming him into our bedroom to visit the sickly, which is what he came to do anyway.

Another unfortunate experience last week transformed itself into a window through which we could see another beautiful side of Ethiopian culture. We’ve heard tell of volunteers who get stolen from, and yell, “Leba!” (thief!), only to watch handfuls of strangers immediately chase after the suspect, tackling him to the ground, and commencing the shaming process (i.e., beating him and calling him names before taking him to the police). But it’s awfully reassuring when it’s you, and your colleagues who only vaguely know why you live in their town. It’s an opportunity to see that they care for you, will protect you, and most importantly, value you. 

When I arrived at my school’s pre-class flag ceremony after a startling repeat of harassment from the same man in town, administrator Gebre Heywot greeted me with the usual smile, “How are you? Are you fine?”, and uncapable of lying, I began crying to a very startled man—what followed were two hours of said reassurance. Enter montage: Gebre Heywot yells to interrupt my counterpart, Haftay, who is speaking into a microphone to the assembly of students. “Haftay! Haftay! Na’a! (Come!)” Haftay leaves the outdoor stage to hurry beside Gebre as they sit me down and ask the details (So embarrassed to relate the details, I was hoping for once they wouldn’t recognize some of my English). Overhearing the details, principal Yisak hurries outside to the stage, telling me as he scurries, “It is our fault. We did not tell the students to protect you.” He picks up the mic and proceeds to inform the students to walk with me to and from school and keep a look-out for me at all times.

After having to re-tell the story to several concerned teachers, each time with fresh tears, I wondered at the cultural motions of shame (very Shakespearean: throwing your arm over your head, groaning, covering your eyes, shaking your head—all in a way that suggests you yourself were the guilt-ridden culprit). My favorite was my friendly encounter with the oh-so-gentle Hailu; it made me wonder if he has daughters, and if so, hope that they go to their mother for comfort:
ME: Teacher Hailu, can we make the announcement now for English Club this afternoon?
HAILU: (roughly) What happened to you this morning?
ME: It does not matter. Right now we must give the announcement while the students are here. Can we?
HAILU: Tell me what happened.
ME: (releases fresh tears) Can I tell you after? We must make the announcement.
HAILU: Why are you crying?! You say it is nothing, but you are crying. Why? Why? Tell me.
ME: Hadagana waddi ab magadi. (Dangerous man on the road).
HAILU: So why do you cry? He has done it. It is over, and what can you do? So how can you cry?

You’d have to know bloodshot-eyed Hailu to realize that this entire conversation was a series of crescendos and decrescendos: I being the one in quiet tones, wiping off the spit from his energetic yells. Gebre Heywot saved me from this conversation with Hailu (the announcement was never made, if you’re wondering; and hence, no English Club that day), to comb the surrounding area with Haftay and me. We retraced my steps to try to find the man, as they plotted ways they could catch him in the future: my favorite being their following me to/from school at a distance, hiding behind bushes, and jumping out at him to “give him a box.”

I left school that day feeling loved, appreciated, and safe—with a new knowledge of which colleagues were our neighbors: I had several bids for a new walking buddy, though I settled on Luam, Teddy, Sammy, and Shewit. But the shower of concern wasn’t over. Haven and Mabrit (our 8th grade friends) showed up in our yard after school.

ME: Haven, Mabrit! How are you?
MABRIT: We are not fine. We feel sad. (First time getting an honest
answer here to "how are you?")
ME: You feel sad? Why?
HAVEN: This morning, you feel cry. You feel cry. Why?

Adorable, yes? About as adorable as Mikaal and his posse escorting Daniel and me home from school that afternoon—he made grunting noises and WWF moves most the way home to scare off the invisible perpetrator, repeating, “Bi hada kayidna”: “We go as one.” Mikaal is Adwa’s Godfather. For a 6th or 7th grader, he has the scratchiest, most endearing voice. Being one of few children who haven’t asked us for money yet (oh yes, kids, we remember), he is one of our favorite Adwa boys.

(Sorry that I like to write in drama format. I’m sure all the ME: HAVEN: -ing gets old blog after blog).

Walking to Adi-Mahleka this week, my one school I can’t pronounce, I was reminded of one of the job perks: walking past a fake-crying child and his crocodile wails halting as soon as he saw me. What followed, of course, was that familiar look of utter bewilderment at seeing a white person. I hope you see the irony in this “perk.” We have to find ways to enjoy or tolerate the constant stares, and this is one way. One of the pitfalls of this job: when you start becoming far too grateful to horses, donkeys, dogs, and cats who you notice treat you exactly as they treat every other human in Adwa. There have been times I’ve almost thanked these creatures aloud, after long sentimental moments of eye contact. Is this how people felt in the 50s and 60s? Other than from Adwa’s blind residents, we can’t get such neutral, nonplussed treatment anywhere. And for that, Mr. Camel on market day, we thank you. You’re somehow keeping us saner, by not turning your head or catcalling when we pass.

Delights of this week?
  1. Discovering that Uziel, our Filipino volunteer-neighbor, was right: you can successfully bake a pizza in a closed frying pan.
  2. Listening to Orson Welles’s War of the Worlds on Halloween night (though, due to sickness, eating far less candy than the projected amount). As the sun set, we brought our neighbors a basket of guava, oranges, and bananas, and a plastic soccer ball, explaining, “Nay America bahili”: American culture. Daniel made the wise recommendation of not giving candy to a family whose four-year-old daughter has a top row of fully-rotted teeth and the only cavities I’ve ever seen. Cavities really are holes.
  3. We had our ex-pat friends over for a presidential breakfast the day after the election. It was a lovely morning of banana pancakes, hashbrowns, and fresh fruit. There were 6 of us, with the addition of our new Peace Corps Health volunteer, Lauren, who was visiting for the week. We are so grateful that we got a good one! What a great attitude—which, we’ve noticed, can be hard to come by in this occupation. We lucked out.
  4. Opening our regular 3x-a-week video from our nephew Zach, during which my sister asked that we be his godparents. He is being baptized on Sunday, and there’s nowhere else I’d rather be than in a certain sanctuary in Mentor, Ohio that morning.
  5. And now it’s Sunday! And we just attended Zachary’s baptism via Skype! I finally felt like an aunt, crying into my hand while videotaping the computer. Joining in with the church to recite the Lord’s prayer across oceans. So beautiful. So thankful for technology.

Today we arrived in Addis, for a two-week training with our fellow volunteers. We’ll be in a town called Ambo, about 2 hours outside of Addis, until Daniel’s mom arrives to join us back to Adwa!

Saturday, November 3, 2012

Tidbits

False alarm! Today we bring you only our new address and two views of Adwa.

First the address:
Daniel and Danielle Luttrull
P.O. Box 227
Adwa, Ethiopia

Today was the first day we checked the PO Box, and we had 2 letters postmarked from only October 22. Twelve days!

And now for the main feature.



This first shot is the view from our church, what we think (appropriately) is Adwa's most beautiful vantage point. (In the foreground is the Catholic mission's track and some classrooms for their students). You can imagine what these silhouettes look like at night, as we leave Saturday mass. Sorry it's not panoramic; the grand Soloda is hiding off to the left. But you can see her below, while boys play "football" at her feet:




This is the view from Danielle's primary school's front gate.

And so, if you're wondering if we like it here, if we're comfortable, or as the Ethiopians would say: "if the conditions are suitable," it's a hearty yes. How could we not love this place? We're in a constant state of gratitude and joy--as much as is humanly possible. We thought Peace Corps was summed up in self-sacrifice: but instead we feel like very blessed beneficiaries.

Friday, October 26, 2012

The Obituary Bicycle



As the days advance, we are content to say that we miss American food less, and enjoy Ethiopian food more. You may count this a small feat. But, unlike my husband, much of my happiness sits atop my taste buds (this girl likes to eat!). So while my desire for pumpkin & cream cheese combinations flits away like it’an smoke (incense), my cravings for injera and kay watt replace them. Grace has also been given in that, as our bodies long for Midwest autumn, Adwa has lately been offering strong, cool breezes. As of this week, I’ve now worn pants, and sweatshirts, for the first time in Adwa.
            Our happiness of the spirit is also fully intact. This place is lovely, and we’re often poignantly conscious of it. Two years is seeming like such a small time, especially as we near the 5-month mark. I can compare my rushes of content-with-Ethiopia-giddiness to the days of our engagement. I remember the early morning after Daniel proposed, I couldn’t sleep any longer so I climbed into bed with my mom and stared at my ring for an hour, turning it against the new sunlight to make tiny crystals on the wall, until she woke up. We’re getting married. We’re getting married. We’re getting married. And the butterflies wouldn’t settle. I feel this way in Adwa, when stepping on the rocks across the creek on my way back from school; when, on this walk, greeting the old man Berhane with his head wrap, walking stick, and Ethiopia’s most convincing smile; when Yonas, manager of Abay Restaurant, places our bowls of ful in front of us; when leaving the chapel after Saturday mass to our weekly nighttime view of Adwa’s mountain stretch; when sharing bunna with the Girimkils; and when greeting our favorite children in town. We live here. We live here. We live here. It’s awfully overwhelming, how blessed we feel to be residents of Ethiopia. And then I remember this is a trend, nothing at all out of the ordinary. The Lord is always placing us well. I felt the same We live here! awe while at IWU and then in Waco, surrounded by incredible and creative God-fearing peers, in Mukono with Uganda’s best family, and at my Salvation Army Camp in the summers, etc. etc. etc., always always always. And the more good people we meet, the more the blessings pile on.
            Which brings me to our special surprise of last week. Now that the number has reached 3, I can say I’ve started a collection of English letters from Ethiopian preteen girls. Last week two 8th grade girls knocked on our kitchen door, introduced themselves as Mabrit and Haven, and handed me a letter. They asked me how they could improve their English, could I start teaching them English?, they would make me perfect in Tigrigna and Amharic, will you read the letter and write a response? It was a refreshing non-awkward letter to follow up Zinash-of-Sagure’s Song of Solomon-esque poem she wrote for me. The girls asked about our country and culture, and how we liked their own, could they introduce us to their mothers and invite us for coffee?, and of course, how we felt about the death of the prime minister. (When their friend Emebet gave me her own letter days later, this same question was present). I gave them my written response at school that week. Two hours later, they were at our kitchen door again. (I do hope they keep their knowledge of our whereabouts quiet; Soloda has 900 students). They wanted to know when we could come for coffee and if they could show us Mabrit’s brother’s language center. When they left twenty minutes later, we had three of the next four days booked. Thursday: tour of the language center. Saturday: lunch and coffee at Mabrit’s home. Sunday: lunch and coffee at Haven’s home.
            We felt hoodwinked as we walked with Mabrit Thursday evening toward the main road and language center. We weren’t heading towards just a quick tour, from which Daniel and I would walk to Abay for some kay watt. As we asked more questions, she told us it was a daily evening English class from 6 to 8 PM. When we arrived, her brother (who once helped us get a taxi from Axum’s bus station) offered the next surprise, explaining that we could teach whatever we wanted: “As you want, as you like.” When they weren’t looking, Daniel and I exchanged deer-in-the-headlights expressions and mouthed, “What should we teach?” And just as quickly as this surprise came, it vanished. When class started a half hour later, we realized, graciously enough, we weren’t teaching after all. In all, it was a three hour event with 20 teenagers and young adults, our sitting on hard benches, slightly confused, with hungry bellies. And yet it was all so humorous. We plan to return, maybe once every two weeks. It is a fine forum for practicing English: each student stood, introduced themselves, and welcomed questions; the remaining students shot them questions like, What surprises you in the world? It is said that money is a good servant, but not a good master. Do you agree? What are the advantages and disadvantages of HIV/AIDS? (When the boy on the spot replied that AIDS decreases the world’s surplus population, we had to interject). They like debates here, or what we could also call Miss America pageant questions. I think I realize now where the 5th grade boy’s question for me came from: What is the advantage of love?
            Lunch and coffee at the girls’ homes made for a great, but full, weekend. Their homes and their families are lovely. At Mabrit’s home we were introduced to red injera, the injera less expensive to prepare, but the injera with the most iron. It was delicious, or as we told her mother, andtena. Number one. We felt so welcome and loved; Ethiopians are great hosts who know how to deal hospitality. As we walked home with delighted stomachs, we thought, What fine neighbors we have!

 (Haven on left, Mabrit on right. In the background is part of a homemade sign in English: "Home Without Mother is Desert").

             Our work is also becoming more rewarding, or at least more existent, which feels rewarding. School has finally begun for Daniel, and research and action are paying off at Soloda. The head of the English Department has told me that I am his best friend, and the 7th grade English teacher told me he loves me. So at least they’re happy we’re here. (Insert recurring sample conversation):
            Me: Teacher Gebre Selassie! How are you?
            Gebre Selassie: (throws arms up in air) I am fine! I am happy! I am happy except you!
            Me: Happy except me? What do you mean?
            Gebre Selassie: I am happy except you! Because you help me—you are here with us! Because I love you!
            Since we accepted our Peace Corps invitations, many have asked us what we’ll actually be doing at these schools. Until now we haven’t really been able to answer. We initially thought Peace Corps was being cryptic so they could tell us in person when we arrived in D.C. We know now that little information was dealt because little information is available. Our work here is an open-ended question, with the design that we as volunteers can shape our projects according to our community’s specific needs, and our special strengths and desires. So we’ve been compiling data and info on these schools, getting to know the staffs, observing classes, and reaching decisions (via a 15-25 page report) about what we think these schools need most, and how we plan to help. So, if you’re interested, this is what I’ve come up with so far, for my own work (every volunteer’s will be different). I will be working with four schools in the area, one of which is a precious boarding school for blind children:
            (Side note: the 3 goals of the Peace Corps Ethiopia Education program are to improve the teachers’ English-teaching proficiency, to improve the English proficiency of the students, and to support community development).
            *I want to strengthen (entirely rework) the English Club at my four schools. What “club” means here—we are finding out—is not an extracurricular regular meeting, but basically only a label. The students choose their club, and then each morning during the flag ceremony, a different club “presents.” So when I asked when the English Club meets, I was told Wednesday (was also told Tuesday and Thursday, incorrectly [a very common occurrence]). That means that on Wednesday mornings one student from the English Club list is chosen to hold the microphone and ask three questions in English to the rest of the student body, i.e., “When it is time for bed, what do I say to my uncle? A. Good morning, Uncle. B. Good night, Uncle, C. How are you, Uncle?,” etc. It took twenty minutes of broken English and Tigrigna with the head of the English Dept., one of the English teachers, the 5 student board members of the club, and myself, for me to finally realize that “club” means something entirely different from what it means in the states. They were so confused by my asking, “But when does the club meet?” as the echos of the uncle question covered the grounds. “Now, it is now,” they said with dumbfounded faces; they must’ve thought I was crazy. So, here I come with my every-Monday-at-4 o’ clock-for-one-hour English Club meeting. Soloda’s first one is this next Monday. Now I have to work on developing this for the other 3 schools. Hopefully this is a success; I think the need is great for working English clubs, and venues for student practice.
            *I’m going to offer a 2-week mentoring program for the English teachers at my four schools: I observe their classes for a few days, and give feedback for improvement; then I teach their class for a few days while the teacher observes and gives me feedback; then we co-teach and plan the lessons together for a few days; then he/she teaches alone again while I observe. They can participate in the program as many times as they’d like.
            *I also want to offer a weekly English “club”/meeting for all the teachers at Soloda, my main school. The teachers want and need their English improved, so if we meet casually for a half hour each week, discussing debate topics, studying poetry, conversing in English, etc., it should be beneficial.
            *A common event in Ethiopia schools are “English Days,” a monthly or weekly day devoted to English-speaking. Everyone on the school’s campus is encouraged to use only English for that day. My schools don’t have these yet; I’d like to start a weekly English Day at each of my four schools.
            *One of the gravest problems in the classrooms here is lack of active-learning techniques. There is very little to keep the students engaged in the learning; it’s not fun for them; and there is very little “play” in the learning process here. We want to offer trainings in this area for the teachers (and this is the main reason for the 2-week mentoring program), but I also want to create a handbook filled with active-learning ideas and activities that correspond to popular topics taught in the English classroom. They have very little resources in this area (I doubt the teachers have ever seen a “worksheet,” and likely have never used a game in class), so I want to provide a sustainable resource for them that can still be in use once we leave. (Teachers, if you have any favorite teacher websites to recommend, suggestions are welcome!).
            *In terms of community development, there is a need for gender programs: to empower women, teach hygiene and life skills, broach the subject of HIV/AIDS, and provide mentorship. So! Daniel and I are conveniently placed at a college and elementary school just across the river from each other; a linkage between these two schools already exists, in fact, but needs to be strengthened. We’d like to begin a female mentoring program between the college girls and the girls at the primary school.
            *We’d also like to provide the community with a monthly English film night, followed by a discussion, at the college. This gives more than just our academic communities opportunities to practice English, but will be open to all Adwa residents.
            This is just the beginning, so we shall see what other ideas take shape! Adwa just received two more volunteers, with the U.S. organization IFESH, a really neat older couple who spent the last year in Jimma, Ethiopia. We look forward to partnering with them, as some of our ideas already seem to intersect. We also receive a Peace Corps Health volunteer named Lauren in December, and we’ll meet her next week when she visits. Adwa’s ferenji population is indeed growing.
            When the general population decreases, however, Adwa has a most fascinating way of printing their obituary column. The man on the bicycle (which is decked out in tassles, a mini Ethiopia flag, and a megaphone on the handlebars) who has been hollering in Tigrigna at all hours of the day and night—we just found out—isn’t crazy. You see, if you don’t understand the words coming out of the megaphone, you have no idea whether or not the speaker is insane, whether or not we are in danger. He plays his police siren and then informs the town, loudly, of recent deaths in the Adwa community. We like him a lot more now. I also now know that when I woke up at 5AM to his magnified yells outside our gate, and I swore he was yelling, in English, “You are surrounded! Put your hands up and place them on the wall!”, I was obviously delirious with sleep. Which is unfortunate. For a brief week, I thought we had an impressive police force.
            My recent longings for injera and watts were answered by our propane running out, which meant lots of restaurants and PB&J as we waited for the gas man to call us back. This inconvenience was joined by the breaking of our hot water tank switch. While these were unfortunate and took much longer to repair than they should have, we’re thankful they happened before Daniel’s mom came to visit. Our home wouldn’t have been nearly as fun with cold showers and zero American cuisine.
            Another important bit of news to report: Africa has squirrels! The few we’ve seen have been terrified, and much less bold than American squirrels—hence, sighting them is rare. But they do exist.
            

I suppose we can’t exactly say our standard of eating has lowered; we’re still eating like Americans. Grilled cheese and tomato soup! (Thanks, Mom, for the Velveeta).

 
And gnocchi! With fava beans and oregano butter. Donna Hay’s delights are reaching Ethiopia.


Even more than our food, we’re thankful for our neighbor family. On this particular day, we spotted Teddy tangled halfway up a tree in our yard, rigging up a rope. Moments later, his sister Luam was pushing him on the swing he made. We can’t tell Girimkil enough how golden his family is: Kulu betasabkum betami betami s’ibuk. Bizuh nifatu ina. Gorabetna andtena. (Your entire family is so so beautiful. We like you so much! Our neighbors are the best). But our Tigrigna can only go so far. I hope they know how we love them.