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