America Ihite

Majamariya (first), what trumps any news in Africa is the news we hear from America: we are aunt and uncle to whom we are told is the most beautiful baby boy. Any free moment my mind catches, it’s wandering down a hospital hall, peeking through every window, trying to find that head of curly black hair. I’ve contemplated finding/making something 21 inches long that weighs 8 pounds and 1 oz., but one, I think it would take days to find a ruler here, and two, the scale in Fikadu’s suk (shop) weighs in kilograms. And three, maybe it could be seen as creepy, me rocking a heavy stick or humming to a bag of flour, just to get a feel for the weight and size.

What I thought could be horrible—being separated by seas from my family during this colossal, beautiful thing—was actually lovely. My parents were so generous with their time, with their phone calls, to keep us at the center of this alongside them, and we have been so blessed. Even the small fact that, on whim, I got to speak with my sister only 9 minutes before her water broke—the Lord knows how important that was to me, how much I required even that small thing. And to be passed around the delivery room, to talk to the new parents and grandparents, and then to hear Zachary cry. I could rattle on for awhile about this, and how it made my week. Some day I will tell Zach about trying to fall asleep after his grandma called and said he was on his way—and not being able to, being full of giddiness late into the night, listening to the hyenas howl and the dogs chatter, watching the lightning light up our room, reading Psalms and writing poetry by flashlight while the rest of Ethiopia slept. All things fantastic.

And yet now, here I am wondering just how many times in this life I will find myself in a “shint bet”, crying. There aren’t many bathrooms in the states where I’ve found enough solace to just weep with God, but it seems to be a theme for me in Africa. Today was our last day of practicum—a tiresome 2-week stint of lesson-planning and teaching at the local elementary school—and we had a sort of celebratory field day with our students. Alicia and I were in charge of “Alicia says/Danayit says,” and I was in the middle of round two with this: “Danayit says dance! Danayit says turn around! Danayit says jump! Touch your nose. Ah, ah, ah, Danayit didn’t say,” when I got a call from my mom. All I know at this moment is that the epiderral my sister has been dead-set against for years—because of her respect for the workings of her spine—ended up doing the very thing she feared. We don’t know much of anything, and so my phone is now acting as another of my limbs (as it has been all month). But we are praying she will be fine, that it was caught early enough, that the Lord will hear all our prayers. It isn’t fair or logical, or at all simple, to listen to horrid news from your crying mother, and to then have to hang up, slip your phone into your pocket, and return to 90 more kids to touch your nose and head and toes just as you did before the phone rang. Or to walk down the road with your husband, praying aloud together, inadvertently ignoring the people you’re normally smiling at, greeting, asking their names—and to see confused looks on their faces. (This was our first time “ignoring” people we passed in Sagure, and it was interesting to see the extent of the shock on their faces as they grabbed for our hands and we brushed past; Daniel had to say “aye ahun,”—not now—and I had to explain, “lela kan,”—another day). Can you comprehend this? Having to apologize to strangers in the road for not shaking all their hands and speaking English and Amharic with them? It hasn’t really seemed all that exhausting, having to be “on” 24/7, answering to everyone, chummy with everyone: this should be the life of the Christian in the states anyhow, to not be so self-absorbed that you ignore eye contact, any contact with the strangers around you. However. There have never been so many eyes vying for contact with mine, ever. We are followed, swarmed everywhere. I’m not complaining: these children, these people are precious, and when they yell, “I love you!” they don’t even need to—the kissing of our hands and the yelling of our names through the fence as we sit in our language class—they’ve told us already. I’m just trying to convey the craziness of being a minority. Of being an American in Sagure, Ethiopia.

And right now I’d rather be in Willoughby, Ohio beside my sister. We are thanking and praising God that she and Zachary are alive, with no threat to their lives. But we are also begging Him to be near our family right now, to give John strength, to hold Christine so tightly, and to heal her.

Until now we’ve been loving most minutes of our time here. All the changes and oddities that come with living in a new country, in a third world country especially—they’re mostly quite exhilarating.

Like the time our family killed a chicken for us when we returned from Adwa. (I’ll let Daniel talk about that one. He may have gotten the bigger kick out of it, as I was the one with the warm blood on my hands).

There’s the interesting English we see on clothes here: the silky bandana our host mother wears periodically, which sports a picture of Bob Marley, and in an interesting font, the bold and only word on the bandana: Marijuana. And the boy at my primary school in Adwa who wore the brown zip-up sweater with the large pink word in capital letters across the front: GIRL.

The interesting English we hear here: the waiter asking us, “What is your command?” and telling me “Your answer is three birr,” meaning, I’ll give you three birr change; and a teenage friend of ours in town asking us, “Where is Fikadu’s habitation?”

There’s the new and different fruits: in Adwa we had a few “beles,” which we are told are like, or are indeed, prickly pears? We wouldn’t know. But they grow from cacti, and look like baby cacti, and are sold at the corner of every block and are, in fact, delicious.

There’s the confusing but hilarious miscommunication that happens daily: when my dad called us two minutes after Zachary entered the world, and after Daniel and I celebrated for awhile, and I cried for a bit, I knew I had to return to the living room sometime. I dried my tears, breathed deeply, and joined our host family again on the couch.

FIKADU (host father): (smile beaming brightly). Lij? (Child?) You, akist? (aunt?)

DANIELLE: Yes. Awo. (nods, immediately chokes on tears). His name is Zachary. Simu Zachary naw. (cries more now, blows nose into tissue).

FIKADU: (very obviously confused, forehead wrinkled, waits and watches the ferenji for awhile) Sagure? Simu Sagure?

DANIELLE: (laughs) No, Zachary. Not Sagure. Zachary. Simu Zachary. (After repeating three times, she also cannot hear the difference between the two, and gives up).

            (She is still having trouble stopping her tears, and is laughing and crying simultaneously. Fikadu and Timkat stare in wonder, Fikadu laughing nervously, Timkat laughing with more gusto. The juxtaposition of laughter and tears seems to confuse them, and make them uncomfortable).

I am happy. These are happy tears. I am akist!

Fikadu congratulated us both, calling us akist and agot (uncle), which made me glad. Fikadu was catering his culture to ours, in our happiness: in both Amharic and in Tigrigna, there is no word for the husband of the biological aunt, or the wife of the biological uncle. In this case, Daniel would not be agot (uncle), but “husband of mother’s sister.” Which kind of makes me mad. When we drew our family trees in Amharic class, and had to introduce and describe our families, I was too stubborn to call Bob Kukula “the husband of my mother’s sister” instead of Agot Bob. He’s my uncle, and that’s too large a white flag for me to raise. Thus, I was so thankful for Fikadu congratulating Daniel and calling him “agot.” Since the news of Zachary’s birth, Fikadu addresses me as “akist”: “Akist, dehna nesh?” (Aunt, how are you?), etc. He may just be relieved that he finally has something to call me, seeing as our family is still confused about my name.

Three intermittent fun facts:

1. Daniel is currently trying to find and kill the fleas in our bed. Be jealous.
2. We learned a valuable phrase in Tigrigna last week that you use when it is both raining and the sun is shining at the same time: “zibi walida”—a hyena has given birth. I find myself always wanting the sun to be shining while it’s raining, just so I can put this to use. And, it’s raining all the time anyway. Even moreso since we’ve returned from Adwa. We’re having trouble figuring out when is the ideal time to wash our clothes. The average drying time now is three days. It just doesn’t stay dry long enough.
3. You’re going to love this one. Years ago an emperor of Ethiopia, Haile Selassie (who wasn’t emperor yet) traveled to Jamaica. Jamaica had been suffering from an incredible draught. But when this man stepped off the plane, it immediately began to rain. The Jamaicans assumed him to be their savior and god, and a small number of them immigrated to Ethiopia, believing it to be Zion. So what was Haile Selassie’s name before he changed it? Ras Tefari. I imagine you can guess what religion he inspired. I just think this is so darn funny.

So these two weeks have been incredibly action-packed. We are so thankful for this practicum, and teaching was so enjoyable and enlightening at the same time—but amidst the ridiculously difficult language classes, dang. We’ve had no time to sit and rest, other than during meals, so having no time to study Tigrigna outside of class has been frustrating. What we thought would be 12 full weeks of language training has turned into only six. And while we’re learning so much and can now talk about our families and daily routines; describe people and houses; talk about our likes and dislikes; shop for groceries; order food; and conjugate some important verbs into past, present, and future tenses; we are frustrated that we’ve not been given the 12 weeks we thought we’d have. But, shigar yalem, no problem. We imagine it will be much easier learning the language in a place where it’s actually spoken.

So the past two weeks happened like this: during week one we co-taught with another trainee; we taught two 45-minute lessons to two different grades (2-5) each day. By the end of week one we were so ready to teach on our own, so that we didn’t have to lesson-plan outside of the home with others, late into the evening (though this meant getting to see the stars on very dark walks home). And in week two we only had one lesson a day, and got to teach by ourselves. Thursday I had fourth grade, and the first five minutes of my lesson were some of the best five minutes I’ve had here. My lesson was Reading & Comprehension (something they need a lot of practice with here; the kids can de-code quite well, but actually understanding what they’re reading is an entirely different matter). So I began by reading Where the Wild Things Are to them, and their reaction was incredible. These students are not read to, at all—not stories, at least. Passages from their textbooks, sure, but that’s it. And as I weaved through their desks, showing them the pictures, their eyes were wide with fear of “the wild things” and a favorite student in front (the tallest and wisest boy) kept saying, “Yes, yes,” in agreement with each page. One girl on the right side of the classroom ducked away from me and scooted so far away from the book and into her neighbor as I came by with the “frightening” sketch of the terrible roars, terrible teeth, terrible eyes, and terrible claws. If you only knew how gratifying this moment was.

A culture of reading does not exist here in Ethiopia. Few people own books; few people read for enjoyment. While bringing a Nook and Kindle with us seemed wise, because of the volume of books we could bring, it’s a shame we can’t easily model reading in our communities. If we were to go to a café to read, the first response wouldn’t be “those ferenjis are reading,” but “what are those devices they’re holding?” But I did bring five children’s/picture books with me, and they may have been five of the smartest things we packed.

P.S. Daniel and I just returned from a coffee/tea break as a reward for finishing our Sunday laundry. When we passed our normal bunch of kids on a particular side of the main road (Wagu, Habtamu, Fikadu the kid, Buruke the boy [not to be confused with Buruke the girl], Kami, and Zarun), Wagu asked me for money, as usual. He is one of our dearest child friends (plays harmonica with Daniel, is the son of our parents’ shop guard), and yet he still likes to ask us for money. When I said no, he said “America” then something in Amharic while expanding his arms over his belly to indicate a large person. The motion that followed was similar to that of someone dropping a pail of water. He repeated this a few times. “Min? (what?)” I asked. “Algabanim (I don’t understand).” I was assuming that because I refused him money, and Wagu was pretending to have a large belly, he was telling me Americans had enough money to be fat, so I must have money. So I said, “wufra? (fat?)” and he nodded. We were getting somewhere. He repeated the motion and his phrase. Lightbulb over Daniel’s head. “America ihitish—your sister in America.” Oh! He was motioning a pregnant person giving birth! The mood suddenly changed, I confirmed the news for him, and we all laughed for awhile. Like we said before, news gets around fast in Sagure.

This is Daniel. Danielle has said about every thing, but I’ll add a few unconnected pieces of news.

First, the chicken. Before we left for Adwa, Selam told us that they’d make us doro watt. It’s a spicy chicken stew and the premier Ethiopian dish, bar none. There isn’t really an American equivalent, but for my family it may be Grandma’s fried chicken or pork chops, and in Danielle’s it’s probably German pot roast or zucchini spaghetti. The fact that I can’t name one dish per family even, shows how much more unified Ethiopia is in terms of taste. Whenever I’ve asked an Ethiopian what his favorite food is, he looks kind of confused and then says, “Doro watt,” like it’s common sense.

At any rate, even though everyone loves doro watt, you only eat it rarely, because it is an expensive and time consuming dish. Thankfully, we made it back from Adwa in time to watch the preparatory work. Here’s the play by play:

• Carlito, the big rooster I named to make the whole experience harder for Danielle, is wandering around the yard, enjoying what are the last few moments of his free-range life while Selam sharpens the knives.
• Fik’adu comes out for his sole duty in the process (the divisions between men and women’s work here are interesting). He steps on Carlito’s foot, grabs the scruff of Carlito’s head, and with a quick sawing motion cuts his head nearly off. Then he kicks the chicken under a metal container that he steps on while washing his hands off. Once Carlito’s death hollering ends, Fik’adu turns to me and says, “Dead. Ciao!” and runs back to his shop.
• Selam, with incredible efficiency, pours boiling water over the chicken and pulls/brushes all the feathers off. Women here have an astonishing tolerance for heat; I’ve seen Timkat pick up live coals from the fire while cooking (I’ve probably already written this but it never ceases to amaze me).
• Then, after Selam pulls Carlito’s head the rest of the way off and tosses it in a bin, she calls Timkat over. Timkat puts her mouth on Carlito’s bloody nub of a neck and blows into it as though it were a balloon. Selam then ties off the neck. This took a few tries because the ferenji’s shocked expressions kept causing Timkat to laugh, stop laughing, wipe some of the chicken blood from her mouth and try again. We’re still not sure why this was a part of the process.
• Next, Selam and Betty (a neighbor, whose name is oddly common for Ethiopian girls) skin the chicken, pull it apart, and take out the parts you can’t eat (I think there may have only been two things they took out, both looked like stomachs).
• Last of all, Selam pulled out all the rest of Carlito’s hairs and washed him and put him into a briny mixture of lemon and water and salt. Danielle got the job of removing blood pustules from Carlito’s liver or something.

The doro watt was spectacular, though Danielle didn’t enjoy eating it twice a day for the next three days. Also, we wondered how safe it was since our family doesn’t own a refrigerator. At any rate, we didn’t get sick.

Another thing that makes me laugh about Ethiopian culture (though at the same time it is endearing) is their insistence that guests eat. If Mattel is looking to expand their market in Africa, they might should consider an offshoot of Hungry Hungry Hippos called Feeding Ferenjis. Once you finish what is on your plate in an Ethiopian house the hostess will immediately start piling more injera and watt on. You have to be very insistent that the meal was enough and very tasty or the hostess will look at you hatefully. It’s also the hostess’s job to tell you to eat constantly. You can have food in your mouth, and she will still insist that you eat.

Since Danielle and I are in the master bedroom, Selam and Fik’adu sleep in the living room/dining room. A few times we’ve been eating breakfast when she’ll wake up, turn towards us, say, “Danny (both of our names) bella bee bee bella (eat eat eat eat),” and then roll back over and fall asleep.

I know I’ve already written about this, but it makes me laugh daily. Elsabet, who they say is four but who we think is three, still breastfeeds. Some observations:

• A few days ago, Danielle called Elsabet a trickster in Amharic during dinner. Fik’adu got a kick out of it, and Elsabet looked up from breastfeeding to yell something at which everyone laughed. We asked what she said, and Fik’adu told us, “She said I’m not her father.”
• I think she should be barred from breastfeeding on Wednesdays and Fridays since those are Orthodox fast days and none of the rest of us can drink milk.
• I don’t think anyone should be able to, at the same meal, request breast milk and coffee.

Yesterday, the Peace Corps took us to a natural hot springs resort in Sodore, about an hour drive north of Sagure. It was fantastic to be warm for the first time in weeks (Sagure has been what a friend of ours from Fort Wayne has called “Both Africa and Indiana cold” for a while, and Danielle has had a cough since last Sunday). It was also nice to see some of our favorite trainees from sites that are far away from Sagure. The hot springs were a fantastic African experience. They were separated into men and women’s sides and were like very hot hot tubs in which thirty or so Ethiopians were bathing. I hadn’t bathed in a solid week, so I got my soap and jumped right in with the habesha guys, who, thankfully, were all wearing swimming trunks, as far as I could tell. Danielle tells me that most of the women in the other side were naked, which jarred her for a bit, but didn’t stop her from washing her hair in the warm water.

Aside from the bathers, we also saw hundreds of monkeys. I’m not sure what type they were, someone said Capuchin (?) so maybe that. They were really brave, though, from being fed by people at the resort and would come up and steal your food if you weren’t vigilant. I loved walking up to the monkeys who would immediately start sizing you up, “Is he going to feed me?” you could see them thinking, “Or is he going to beat me? He’s going to feed—or wait he might beat me. Yeah he’s going to beat—but he could feed me.” And so on, they’d keep coming closer and backing off as long as you didn’t move too much.

It’s cool being here with the Olympics kicking off. Most of the Ethiopian team is made up of distance runners, and most of them grew up within 50 kilometers of Sagure. I can’t really tell how excited people are for it, but I couldn’t imagine all of the hoop-la that would be going on in Marion right now if several Olympians in running events were from Kokomo.

Paradise to Your Left

Meet Adwa’s biggest fans.

 In a whirlwind of only our first two days of visiting Adwa, we realized already that our Peace Corps service will look much less like “roughing it,” and more like living like Zorro (minus the moonlighting as a vigilante). On our drive from Axum into Adwa, amid several gasps and camera clicks, Daniel and I knew already that this was by far the most beautiful side of Ethiopia we had yet seen. The mountainous horizon looked much like a child’s drawing—mountain shapes that you wouldn’t think existed in real life, but only in pretend, in crayon. And even though we’ve seen Ethiopia’s mountains before this week, they’ve been far off, more of a soundtrack than a main feature. Not in Adwa. Our Ethiopian friends tell us “Adwa” comes from a word that means “circling”: the entire town circles around the most magnificent, towering beauty I’ve seen up close. This beaut of creation, Soloda Mountain, can be seen from nearly every corner of Adwa. But where it seems to stand the highest is from the view of our backyard.

This sounds all very romanticized, but seriously: it is impossible to exaggerate. All of a sudden we were dropped into a tropical paradise full of vibrant, elaborate birds that are new to us; flowers just as vibrant and wild; scents and sounds that I’ve only heard before in Cleveland Zoo’s Rainforest Exhibit—and a home that Daniel and I could never afford in the states. We went from wondering, “Could our parents ever handle visiting us in Africa?” to “This is a mind-boggling vacation spot—if they don’t come, they’re silly.” (Parents, the glory trickles down even to the amenities: guess who has a Western toilet and a hot shower? Please come).

We also have our own compound to ourselves, with a huge wrap-around yard (outlined by a wall made from Adwa’s well-utilized stones), that seems to be overflowing with life. The garden we’ve been meaning to start here has already been started for us, deep purple and orange flower bushes billow over our stone wall into the neighboring road, and above all this stands Soloda Mountain, who hovers over our backyard like a kind and beautiful grandmother.

And so, several times this week you could have found Daniel and me giggling like children, exchanging wide eyes and open mouths behind the backs of our tour guides, miming, “Do we really get to live here?”, “Is this happening?”, “Is this still considered volunteer service?”

Daniel describes our home as Zorro’s home. And really, all of Adwa seems to have fallen out of a Western film, or a Spanish mission. The architecture here is so different from what we’ve seen in the other regions of Ethiopia: and part of it seems to be due to the stones. All their homes are made from rocks, and it seems we’re surrounded by the American southwest. At the same time it is difficult to compare this to anything I’ve known before. I’ve never been this close to a mountain. Each time I look out our hotel window and stare Soloda in the face, I think she’s a volcano. I think “volcano movies” is the best I can compare it to. Daniel will stick with Zorro.

When we first heard of our home from our counterparts, Getnet and Haftay, they said, “And we will show you your villa this week.” We assumed it was a funny mistranslation, so until we saw it, we called it our villa in jest. Now it seems silly to call it anything but. We have three bedrooms, a living room, and a kitchen. Not only does this far exceed our expectations already, but we were also told we would have to meet with carpenters this week to order beds, wardrobes, table, desk, sofa, etc. to furnish our home for when we arrive. But the home is already furnished  by the college with everything we could possibly need—including a kitchen table (our first one, to date), and an electric stove. (Hopefully none of the other volunteers read our blog, This certainly is not the norm, and we already have children throwing rocks at us. We need no more).

Perhaps better than all these comforts is the meaning behind them: this home has been provided for us by Adwa’s Teacher Training College (Daniel’s new home) and Soloda Primary School (mine). The extravagant house they’re giving us only scratches the surface of their kindness, of the warm welcome we’ve been given. Getnet, 30 and hip as ever, is the Language Department head at the college, and Haftay, 27 and sweet-hearted, is the Vice Director of the Primary School. These two generous, fun (and great English-speaking) men have been our escorts around town and in our new academic circles. They have prepared a way for us, and have been introducing us into the community, with descriptions we don’t deserve (like already calling our Tigrigna “gobez” [fantastic]).

And not only did we completely luck out on being assigned two of the coolest Ethiopians we’ve met, but these schools are unbelievable. We’ll need to dig deep to find the best ways we can be assets to their development, as they are both already well on their way. Daniel’s college and my primary school already have a great working relationship, in which the teachers-in-training gain practice at the primary school, and the students gain from the fresh, new ideas and techniques being practiced on them. One of the expectations set for us is that by having the husband at one location and the wife at the other, we can strengthen the bond between the two schools even more, by our teaming up and working closely.

The biggest shock of arriving on my school’s grounds (after the scenic shortcut that cut through the creek from the college on the other side) is that it looked very much like what our trainers have been saying Ethiopian schools need to look like. The schoolyard is splashed in color, in English and Tigrigna text. I haven’t even seen the inside of a classroom yet, but already there is an outdoor stone stage (with two green cement lions bordering each end); several cement statues molded and painted by students; and colorful metal signs scattered everywhere, bearing pictures labeled in either their English or Tigrigna words. The outsides of the buildings, too, wear paintings of animals, the human body, the periodic table of elements, etc. Even from the short glances we’ve been given, and of only the outsides of buildings, it is no wonder this primary school is second in the region of Tigray.

And already our Tigray pride is rising. Our Oromia-region family, after crying and apologizing when they found out we were placed in Tigray, told us there is no injera in Tigray, no trees in Tigray: it is very dry and dusty, and aznalo (sorry), izosh (be strong). Lots of disappointed head-shaking. Instead we’ve found the best Ethiopian food we’ve yet tasted, my favorite weather to date (some warmth finally!), and lots of gorgeous, varied trees (lots of eucalyptus so Andrew and Kate will feel at home when they visit). Not to mention the mountain we get to live under! Getnet wants to give us two injeras to take back to Sagure, so we can educate our family. Instead, we are taking lots of photos.

It has been nice being able to practice (and hear!) Tigrigna. Two days before we left Sagure, we switched from learning Amharic, to what we are told is the most difficult of the three languages offered to the volunteers. It’s really not too difficult, but is similar to Amharic, with some Cookie Monster guttural sounds mixed in. It’s those sounds that are difficult to imitate. In Sagure, the families can speak Amharic and Oromiffa, so we Tigrigna-learners are the odd men out, who have to practice on our own. At the same time, it’s beneficial that we are learning and speaking Amharic from/with our families—most people in Tigray we’ve talked with, understand and speak Amharic as well. This has come in handy: those conversations in which we’ve used English, Tigrigna, and Amharic, lead our conversationalists to believe that we are fluent in all three. We assure them it’s not the case—but rather we just need to use bits of all three to communicate—but they won’t hear of it. They assure us if we’re this far already, in two years we’ll know their own language better than they do.

Three stray facts:

1. I finally have a new name, thanks to Getnet, who sidestepped all the confusion and christened me in Tigrigna. If it was difficult to be called Danielle last time I lived in Africa, it’s doubly difficult now, having a husband named Daniel. “Daniel” here is pronounced “Danielle,” so they have no easy way to pronounce my name—and snicker each time I introduce myself with a boy’s name. I figure a new name altogether is good, so that after a year, people are not still asking Daniel my name, like in the case of our host mother. So it’s Danait (Dan-ite) which means “judgment.” Our English names mean “God is my judge,” so I figure Getnet chose well.

2. Does anyone remember Lisa Frank folders from Elementary School? I think Lisa Frank spent a lot of time in Adwa before jump-starting her folder line. Our first view of the creek/river happened like this: we peered over a bridge to see valleys of reddish mud winding through bright green life. Standing beside the creek was a beautiful brown and unattended horse chomping on the grass. Watching him, I laughed out loud. I was either inside The Secret Garden for the first time, or had Blue-ska-dooed (Blues Clues, anyone?) myself into my 4^th grade Spelling folder.

3. We’ve been kissed a few times in the past two days (which Gebre defines as lucky). We are enjoying the Ethiopian ways of greeting: a). grabbing onto your own elbow as you shake hands, b). pulling towards the person you’re greeting and touching your opposite shoulders together, c). asking and answering, “how are you?,” five times in a row, in the same way, with some “thanks be to God” thrown in, d).  touching your cheeks together, alternately, several times (there is no set number), sometimes with kisses. But our forms of being kissed this week were abnormal. Yesterday a child with only one hand ran up to us to shake our hands; when we gave him our hands, he purposefully kissed them. It was lovely. Also yesterday we met an old man while walking back to our hotel. The ten minutes of English/Amharic/Tigrigna exchange ended in a phone number exchange. What a lovely, kind old man named Kinfe. We said we would see each other again, and sure enough, we ran into him at the college today. “Daniel, Danait.” We were happy to see him. When we grabbed hands and went in for the shoulder touch (three times), each time he kissed our opposite shoulders.

I am listening to my first hyena call right now. I had to wake Daniel up for it. Haftay has been telling us he would call our cell phones when he heard the hyena call, so we could hear it too. It’s a beautiful but menacing sound. The Lion King lied. It doesn’t sound like laughter. Apparently the hyenas live on and hide in the mountain during the day, and come out into Adwa at night to play. Getnet tells us they come down even as far as our compounds near the college. I am thankful for the stone wall already.

At this point, we are in every way thankful. And we open the invitation to family, friends, countrymen, to come and see Africa in one of her best and prettiest forms: a beautiful, historical mountain town that happens to house two likeable Americans who can now use their settling-in/furniture allowance to buy cots for their guest rooms. Afternoon hike, anyone?

Bits added by Daniel:

1.         Danielle is right on with her description of Adwa. It’s rockin.

2.         We saw a bunch of kids swimming naked in the creek that separates the college from the primary school today. They shouted “Good morning, Tee-cha [teacher]!” to us.

3.         We’ve noticed that Tigrinian speakers of English use the word play a lot—as in “When will we meet again so that we can play?” I think Chesterton would approve.

4.         Adwa is separated into three sections along one main road that circles around the mountain. Towards Axum/Eritrea is what I’ll call the first section, which is more recent than old Adwa, which is downhill and forms the third section. We live in the second section, which, along the main road, looks like it is entirely under construction. Off the main road, though, there are beautiful houses and hills and valleys in which we can play. Also, Getnet told us that not too far from our hotel is the palace of the Ethiopian Emperor Yohannes IV. This place is dripping with history like shiro dripping on the shirt of a ferenji trying to eat with injera.

5.         The staff at my college is very generous and welcoming. Right now they’re moving into the busiest time on their calendar (in the summer they train current teachers looking to upgrade their diploma and their attendance triples), but they have taken time to show us the city. On the first night we were here we had dinner with Getnet (the language dept. head), the college dean, vice-dean, and financial officer (the four people Peace Corps suggested I meet with), and last night we walked around town with the dean again before he once again had dinner with us. They seem like great folks.

6.         They sell wine in beer bottles here.

Gobez or Go Home

July 3, the third anniversary of our engagement, was probably our best day yet in Sagure. Our language class went well, and shai/bunna just keeps getting better. I don’t know how I ever functioned in the states without hour-long breaks in the morning and afternoon for tea or coffee and conversation. Also, you should know that I’ve become something of a coffee-drinking fiend here. I had probably five cups of coffee in my whole life before coming here; now I drink five cups of coffee a day (last Sunday I had seven).

After class, though, the day got really good. We came home and played a game with Timket and her friends that was a mix between London Bridge and tug-of-war. Then, Selam asked me to play banjo. I was glad for this because I never could tell if my music annoyed Selam or if she liked it. This let me know that she likes it at least sometimes. Admittedly, when I played Gershwin’s “Summertime” she shook her head and said, “Leyla, leyla,” which is Amharic for “Another, another” (though I guess she could have been requesting Eric Clapton’s “Layla”). While I played banjo, Timket and her friends clapped and danced, Danielle taught them the do-se-do, and neighbor kids gathered outside of our compound to listen and look at the strange ferenjis. It was fun.

We then had the best dinner we’ve had in Ethiopia so far. Fikadu’s mother gave us a fantastic doro watt (a cut up chicken in a red-pepper sauce with hardboiled eggs). We rarely have meat here, and I think I forget how much I like it until we eat it again. This doro watt could hold it’s own at the Distler’s or Simpson’s Thanksgivings, and that is my highest praise.

After we washed up from dinner and had our three cups of coffee, Fikadu came in with a couple other Habesha men. One was his little brother, well dressed and sober; the other seemed drunk, was wearing the boots Van Gogh used as models in his famous painting of a peasant’s shoes, and had holes in his swishy track pants—Fikadu and Selam called him the “Habesha Doctor.” He came in speaking rapid, slurry Affan Orromo (even though I don’t know the language, I still think his speech was slurred) and gestured for me to come over. He took a cup and a wrapped up plastic bag out of his sports jacket, which, yes, he was wearing with holey, swishy track pants, while Fikadu took off his shirt and laid down on the bed next to Elsabet, his sleeping four-year-old daughter. The Habesha Doctor then unwrapped the plastic bag to reveal something that looked like a piece of a tire and, with much ceremony, doused it in gasoline and set it on Fikadu’s chest. Then he struck a match and set the piece of whatever on fire. He watched the thing burn for a while, gestured to it, waved the cup he pulled from his coat around, again with much ceremony, and then put the cup over the burning thing. The thing went out just before it burned to Fikadu’s chest. The Habesha Doctor shined a flashlight to show me how tight the skin had grown around the cup. He tapped on it. Then he pushed on it. Then he took off his Van Gough shoes and straddled Fikadu on the bed with much swishing, putting his knee probably six inches from the still sleeping Elsabet. He twisted the cup a few times, and then, with much ceremony and a loud pop, pulled it off Fikadu.

The mark on Fikadu’s chest was probably the largest welt I’d ever seen. It looked like an elephant had just given him a hickey.

The Habesha Doctor gave Fikadu a few moments to rest, and then, with much ceremony, he had him roll over and he repeated the process on his back. By the grace of God, Elsabet was able to sleep through the whole ordeal. I’m sure, had she woken up, that all the ceremony and swish (and the drunken man straddling her father in bed) would have resulted in permanent psychological damage. But she slept and the doctor was able to finish his work and ask me for money (with ceremony of course, though I didn’t give him any), collect from Fikadu and swish his way out of the house. Throughout it all Fikadu and Selam laughed, but Fikadu went through with it and paid, so I’m not sure how serious about it they were. Neither am I sure exactly what was wrong with Fikadu. I think he had a cold—he was breathing deeply throughout the check up—but Danielle thinks it could have been a stomachache. At any rate it was marvelous.

Another funny part of the evening took its form in a very understandable mistake. It was dark, and Danielle and Elsabet were holding hands and walking around the compound. Salam told Elsabet in Amharic to go to Fikadu’s mother’s house. “Ahun?” Danielle asked: “Now?” Salam laughed and earnestly nodded, “awo” (yes). So Danielle let Elsabet lead her maybe ten yards down the road to the grandmother’s home that we hadn’t yet broached. Her home is only a few homes away from the Fikadus, but this was the first time either of us had been outside the compound in the dark. And a 4-year-old was leading her. Fikadu’s mother and sisters were thrilled that the ferenji had come to visit; she was ushered a seat, and greeted happily, several times—but within minutes, Timket, and later Salam, rushed over. Timket giggled nearby as Danielle was offered coffee, and Danielle accepted. Timket waved her head no dramatically, “no, no,” and pointed in the direction of our house. They then offered her a delicious fermented drink that they insisted was non-alcoholic, and Danielle accepted because Timket remained silent, though she laughed continuously (it was delicious). The grandmother then translated through her daughter to ask Danielle, “Your wife? Does he discourage you?”

DANIELLE: My wife? You mean, my husband?

FIKADU’S SISTER: Yes, your husband. Does he discourage you?

DANIELLE: Um, what does she mean by that?

SISTER: Well, is there a problem? With you coming here? Is there a reason he did not come with you?

DANIELLE: Ohhh, well. See, he didn’t know I left the house. Salam said, “Go!” so we went. Elsabet led me here.

(sister translates to mother; all laugh).

This was a very awkward 15 minutes; you can imagine showing up unannounced at a stranger's house in a different culture, without ever being introduced, would be awkward indeed. Especially if they didn't expect you, and your only commonality present is a toddler.

When Danielle eventually left the house, and assured the family that she would come back for bunna, with Daniel next time, Salam was waiting at the door, laughing. The sort of laugh she uses when she makes fun of us. The thing is, apparently Danielle wasn’t supposed to go with Elsabet. But when else have we ever heard a mother tell her 4-year-old to walk down the street, at dark, to her grandmother’s house, alone? It seemed natural to assume the adult was supposed to escort the child. But, no. We pass countless toddlers walking down the road alone, or leading their younger siblings, each day. It’s quite strange.

So tomorrow we see our new home: Adwa. This historical town is about as north as you can get, before you’re in Eritrea. We are just outside of Axum, the home of the Ark of the Covenant. In 1896, Emperor Menelik II won a decisive battle in Adwa against the Italians, who failed in their attempt to colonize Ethiopia. We are thrilled about the concept of making this our home for the next two years. We will spend the next week visiting this place, with our two Ethiopian counterparts, whom we met two days ago. After that, we will return to our host family in Sagure for another month, before we swear into service and move to Adwa mid-August.

Check out the link below for more photos!

https://picasaweb.google.com/115745669337345922210/800DaysInEthiopia?authkey=Gv1sRgCLfY4Z-h-vnS4wE

Happy Fourth of July!

From Danielle:

Sagure is charming: she has her winding red country roads and her cheerful, curious people. Though the people stare and congregate and follow, they are always glad to practice their English with us: HellohowareyouIamfinewhatisyourname? (all in one breath), and to correct our Amharic.

The weather is doubly charming. Nights and mornings are cold (which makes our cold bucket baths a tad icy), and the rain (zinab) has averaged to about once a day. It is beautiful and refreshing: who knew blankets could be necessary in Africa?

We are staying with a family of four: Fikadu the father, Salamwit (Salam) the mother, Timket (age 12-ish) the niece whose parents have died, and Elsabet (age 4). The ruler of the home? Elsabet. Daniel has adequately compared Timket to Cinderella: she has to be the sweetest soul in Sagure, and is by far the hardest working 12-year-old we’ve ever seen. Not once have we heard her complain. She dutifully works all day (and somehow finds time to run to school), while young Queen Elsabet orders her around.

One of the most special sights is watching Daniel play music for the children here. At home, Timket is his biggest fan. Usually, within the first 10 minutes of our returning from Amharic class, Timket says, “Danny musica?” and he obeys. (We are both called Danny here; they cannot notice or understand the difference in our names). Timket enjoys the background banjo and harmonica tunes as she cooks. Once while I watched and “helped” her cook (the knives are dull here; I felt like an invalid), and Daniel provided the soundtrack, Timket swayed back and forth with the beat, and said with the most elated expression, “Musica iwadalahu,” (I like music). Her voice and her volume rose: “Be tam be tam be tam IWADALAHU.” (Be tam = very much).

Later Daniel will mention a certain gorgeous Sunday afternoon walk, during which 25 or so of Sagure’s children clung to and joined us. Atop a gorgeous red crater of sorts, my husband stood and played the daylights out of his harmonica, while the crowd of kids surrounded him. When I approached to take a photo, he was panting; it was quite the performance.

The six of us live inside one large compound, consisting of a suk (the small shop our father owns), a shint bet (“toilet” house), a house for the cows and sheep (this means fresh milk for our coffee), an outdoor kitchen, and our home. It’s a medium-sized house with a living area, a bedroom (where we sleep; we assume Fikadu and Salam have given up their room for us, as their bed is in the main living area), and two storage rooms (one of which houses the shower bet, where we are supposed to bucket bathe—though we prefer bathing in our room).

As I type this, my right hand is wearing purple glittery nailpolish while my left hand wears none. Today Salam insisted on painting my nails. On one of my hands. Hers look the same: I am guessing she keeps her right hand free, since she cooks and works mostly with this hand? As she sloppily painted them, I remembered my refusal at painting them before we left America: I have no nail polish remover, and it is a pet peeve of mine to let it slowly chip away on its own. But in this, like at the dinner table, we have little say, or reason to say, what we want or don’t want. All I know is, I picked the wrong day to “gorsha” Daniel. At dinner I fed him directly from my hand to his mouth (a cultural symbol of friendship—our first time doing this in Ethiopia). While it got the expected laughs from our family, Daniel grumbled under his breath. “All I taste is your nail polish.” We tried explaining with our hands and laughter what had happened—what Daniel tasted. I’m not sure our mother understood, but Daniel muttered to me, “I’m going to pee on my hand and then gorsha you later.”

I’ve come to believe my stomach is schizophrenic. I alternate every three days between, “Injera is horrible”; “Injera would be okay if I didn’t have to have it once or twice every day;” and “Oh my goodness, injera is delicious.” Thankfully, the past week has been the latter. I am finding that the more time I spend in the outdoor kitchen with the ladies, for “training!”—one of the few English words Salam knows—the more I enjoy the food. There must be something in watching familiar ingredients, so fresh and delicious, fall into the pot, and smelling the lovely aromas of preparation. Either way, I am happy to say I now even crave the Ethiopian food.

When we first arrived in Sagure, I was confessing to Daniel: “Wow, this is so cool. Look how much communication can be had between people who barely know each other’s languages. See? You don’t need language to communicate. There are other ways.” I was excited about this find—even though I enjoy learning Amharic, and we’re here to teach people English; but it is nice to know that the tower of Babel didn’t ruin everything. Timely enough, surrounding this moment of my “language can be superfluous” discovery, I miscommunicated in the worst way. And it was hilarious.

Here’s how it happened:

(Setting: Living room. Dinner time. Injera, shuro, gomen on plates).

*PRELIMINARY NOTE: “ferenji” means foreigner, but is associated with white people. Upon walking down the street, we are hollered at in every direction: FERENJI! CHINA! Because of recent construction work done in Ethiopia by the Chinese, any white person can also be mistaken for an Asian at any time.

SALAM: (smiling, eyes wide) Black ferenji in Sagure? Ferenji black?

DANIELLE: (nods). Awo (yes). Black ferenji. Sime Marcelle naw. Elle. (incorrect Amharic for “her name is Marcelle”)

SALAM: Black ferenji in America? Black?

DANIEL: (nods). Awo. Bizu (many). Marcelle in Sagure.

SALAM: (laughs uncontrollably in disbelief)

DANIELLE: (curious about how quickly word travels)** Did you see her? (dramatically indicates own eyes) or did you hear about her? (dramatically indicates own ears).

SALAM: (gasps in surprise, nods, indicates eyes and furiously shakes head, indicates ears and furiously shakes head).

DANIELLE: Did you see her, or did you hear about her? (again indicates eyes and ears)

DANIEL: Danielle, she’s going to think—

SALAM: Black ferenji no (points to eyes, furiously shakes head), black ferenji no (points to ears, furiously shakes head).

DANIELLE: (gasps). NO!

ALL: (laugh furiously, continuously)

DANIELLE: No! She can see. She can hear. No, no. (violently shakes head) I’m sorry.

SALAM: (laughs, voice rises) Black ferenji no (indicates eyes), black ferenji no (indicates ears)!

ALL: (laugh)

DANIELLE: Aye, aye (no, no)! Aznalo (sorry). Ibid. Ibid (points to self). Ibid (crazy). I am ibid. I didn’t mean that. (points to self) Ib-id.

DANIEL: Oh no, Danielle—

SALAM: (gasps) Black ferenji no (indicates eyes)! Black ferenji no (indicates ears)! Black ferenji ibid! Ibid!

Yes, it is entirely my fault if all of Sagure now believes that Elle, the black ferenji, is blind, deaf, and crazy. As we retired to our room that night, our stomach muscles sore from all the laughter, Daniel chided me: “Language isn’t important?”

**Note on word traveling fast here in Sagure: there are 10 of us living in this town. We hear facts about each other each night from our host parents. For instance, “Ashley no injera, no meat, no milk, no eggs,” or “Your friend is sick,” or “Joel did such and such,” or “Today you Girma Café?” because the café owners, or everyone in town, announces where we go, where we are. All the time.

Daniel’s Sagure Journal

19 June 2012

How could you keep from Romanticizing the Peace Corps? Yesterday a teacher from a high school here in Sagure asked me where he could find me. I said, “I live with Fik’ado, the merchant.” Yesterday, I also played Dock Boggs and Woody Guthrie tunes on the banjo while a four-year-old Habesha girl named after a British queen danced.

Also, I haven’t been able to eat properly in weeks and my stomach hasn’t felt right in days. And I had to watch that same four-year-old breast feed during dinner. But, hey, I’m in a temperate, tropic, scenic mountain village (probably one of the only places in the northern hemisphere where you could comfortably look at the Southern Cross while wearing a coat). Here even the frustrations with eating or bathing or speaking have a sweetness like exercise and a quaintness like a family lake house that is maintained without modern amenities out of nostalgia or maybe something more like reverence.

22 June 2012

For the last three days, I’ve been The Spotty Man. Hives in America are miserable; here they’re worse. Today the hives are on my hands and feet; tomorrow, Lord willing, they’ll be gone. Poor Danielle, she had to spend her 25^th birthday with a vomity, itchy, feverish husband and got sick herself to boot. We’ve agreed to forget yesterday and make believe that it’s her birthday later.

24 June 2012

Our Peace Corps friend Paul from Idaho has said a few times when telling stories about back home—and then s*** got Western. I was never really sure what he meant, but yesterday, s*** got Western. We were leaving shai/bunna (tea/coffee break) with some friends when a beggar came up to us asking for money, grabbing at our arms, and following us. It’s annoying, but not uncommon here, and I would be terribly surprised if any of the beggars became dangerous. Anyway, we crossed the street and looked back and saw the beggar face down on the ground with Abdul—a local acquaintance—kicking him while another man slapped the beggar on the back and shoulders. We asked Helen, our Amharic teacher why Abdul was kicking the man, and she said, “Well, Abdul is the Homestay Family Coordinator.” Danielle and I had just recently tried to figure out exactly what that job title meant. Now we knew.

Other ways s*** got western:

1.     We were walking to this beautiful church on a beautiful hill on the outskirts of Sagure with about 8 other ferenjis, and we attracted a crowd of kids. The gang of kids was half Peter Pan’s lost boys and half the gang of good-for-nothings from Pinocchio that eventually turn into donkeys. The good-for-nothings started throwing stones at the women in our group when we were walking back, and a few of them flipped out, picking up rocks they could hardly carry and swearing to maul any child that got close to us. It was almost exactly like Lord of the Flies except, thankfully none of our otherwise kind, understanding women decimated a Piggy.

2.     The four-year-old Elsabet gets less cute the more Amharic we learn. Just before dinner yesterday we were lounging around the living room when Selam—Elsabet’s mother came in. “Give me cookies!” Elsa shouted in Amharic. “Dog! Theif! Bring me cookies!” Selam looked up briefly and then decided to ignore it.

Today I went to an Ethiopian Orthodox church for the first time. I had no idea what was going on, where to stand, or what to do. Selam came with Danielle and I, but men and women attend separately, so she and Danielle went one way, and I went another. I stood outside the church gate with some other men (I’m not sure that anyone was inside the church, which looked under construction) and spent about an hour and a half in prayer and meditation. The men I showed up with left, so I went too. Apparently I missed half of church (the sermon, sacraments, and a good chunk of more liturgical prayer). I’m not sure what church is like for the Ethiopians, and though I’m sure I experienced it totally differently, I did enjoy it.