Pigeon Whisperers and More

            We moved into our new home on Saturday. We followed about twelve Ethiopian men and women into our compound, each of them carrying a mattress or a piece of our bed. Entering the blue gate, we were overwhelmed anew at how spacious our yard is—not even noticing until later that the yard descends into a second yard with a garage, and a driveway and greenway leading to our second gate. We could play baseball catch at several different angles and not exhaust the possibilities for quite some time.

            The house itself is also a size we’ll probably not be able to duplicate for our lives in the states anytime soon. Here are a few other differences between “our Ethiopian villa” and a house we may someday own in the U.S.:

            -Unless we get a fixer-upper someday, we will likely not see this much dirt caked on so many different things. We’ve got some serious cleaning to do.

            -Upon doing such cleaning, we will likely never again ask each other, “Is this salamander in the door handle dead or alive?” (It was alive).

            -Upon washing new dishes, I will likely never again have to scrape off bird poop with my fingernails. God willing.

            -Most importantly, in the states, anything and everything is so darn easy to get. So decorating is easy. America would do so well with just one store like Target, and one like Lowe’s. But that’s not enough—there’s Wal-Mart too, and The Home Depot, in case you want a different color uniform to look at, or slightly different products. But here? If we want shelving, we will go to the carpenter with a sketch we’ll draw. If we want curtains, we will go to the fabric shop and then to the tailor. If we want lamps or clothes hangers—well, we still haven’t figured these ones out. If it is possible to buy a lamp or a hanger in Adwa, we’ll let you know.

            Sunday night we called our host family to check in. When I dialed the number, I still didn’t know how to check in or chit-chat with people I saw the previous week, and especially when they know very little English. But Gebre told us we should; he says familial relationships in Ethiopia are based on quantity, not quality. Not keeping in regular touch with your relatives is disgraceful. When I asked him how often we should keep in touch with our host relatives, he said to call at least every two weeks. Sounds excessive. But when Fikadu answered the phone, all fears of not being able to carry on a phone conversation dissipated. I believe we’ve already told you how incredibly lengthy the greetings are in this culture. In America, I’m so embarrassed if I accidentally say, “How are you?” more than once in a greeting; this implies I wasn’t listening the first time. This happens to me often. Well, praise God, there is a place for people like me; and it’s Ethiopia. As we said before, the rule of thumb is to repeat every different version of “how are you?” as many times as you can stomach. I am banking on, whenever people come to visit us, their believing we’re fluent after witnessing a few greetings. Because so many words are said, to the untrained ear, we could be discussing philosophy in so many minutes. No joke, this is how our conversation went (and yes, I laughed through much of it). Feel free to skim to get the general gist:

            FIKADU: Hello?

            DANIELLE: Fikadu! Dehna neh? (How are you? [male, 2^nd person])

            FIKADU: Dehna, dehna nesh?  (I am well, how are you? [female, 2^nd pers])

            DANIELLE: Dehna, igzyaber meskin. Dehna neh? (I am well, thanks be to God. How are you? [male, 2^nd pers])

            FIKADU: Dehna. Dehna no? (I am well. Is he well?)

            DANIELLE: Danny? Dehna, dehna. (Danny? He’s well, he’s well).

            FIKADU: Dehna nachu? (How are you? [plural, 2^nd pers])

            DANIELLE: Awo. Dehna. (Yes, we are well).

            FIKADU: Igzyaber meskin. Salam no? (Thanks be to God. Is there peace?)

            DANIELLE: Awo, alla. Salam no? (Yes, there is. Is there peace?)

            FIKADU: Awo. Adwa waym Addis Ababa? (Yes. Adwa or Addis?)

            DANIELLE: Ahun, Adwa. (Now, Adwa).

            FIKADU: Konjo no? (Is it beautiful?)

            DANIELLE: Awo, konjo. Tell Selam, Timkat, and Elsabet we say hello. (Yes, beautiful).

            FIKADU: Awo. Mimi? (Yes. Mimi=nickname for Selamawit)

            DANIELLE: Iwa, I mean, awo, Mimi. (Yes [Tigrignia], I mean, yes [Amharic]).

            MIMI: Hello?

            DANIELLE: Mimi! Dehna nesh? (How are you? [female 2^nd pers])

            MIMI: (sound of delight) Dehna. Dehna nesh? (I’m well. How are you? [female 2^nd pers])

            DANIELLE: Dehna. (I’m well)

            MIMI: Dehna nesh. (How are you? [you female 2^nd pers…again])

            DANIELLE: Dehna. Dehna nachu? (I’m well. How are you all?)

            MIMI: Dehna. Danny, dehna no? (We’re well. Danny, how is he?)

            DANIELLE: Danny dehna. (Danny is well).

            MIMI: Dehna nachu? (How are you all?)

            DANIELLE: Dehna, dehna. (Well, well).

            MIMI: Adwa?

            DANIELLE: Iwa, awo, Adwa. Igzyaber meskin. (Yes [Tigrignia], yes [Amharic]…thanks be to God).

            MIMI: Izosh, izosh. Adwa. Izosh. (Be strong [female 2^nd pers], be strong)—what I take to mean, “you poor thing.”

            DANIELLE: Chigga yelem. Konjo no. (No problem, it’s beautiful).

            MIMI: Ishy, c’iao. (Okay, bye).

            DANIELLE: C’iao.

            FIKADU: Dehna nesh?

            DANIELLE: Dehna. We miss you guys. Betasabacin iwadalo. (….We like our family).

            FIKADU: Dehna idaru. (Goodnight [plural 2^nd pers]).

            DANIELLE: Dehna idaru. C’iao.

            Intensive, right? So little is said in so many words, but at least it makes for a lengthy conversation, where otherwise, our mutual vocab would be exhausted much earlier. I’d like to point out a theme during our stay in Sagure: Selam telling Daniel and me “Izo, izosh,” respectively, for having to move to Tigray, a place most Oromians would rather not visit. What they don’t know is how beautiful Tigray is, how incredible the food is, etc. (in the meantime they tell us, “There is no injera in Tigray, only bread. There are no trees). Both are actually rampant here, injera and trees. Our way of countering the “be strong, you poor thing,” is our reply: “We’re going to Tigray, igzyaber meskin. Thanks be to God.”

            The college continues to be far too generous to us. They’ve already helped us save so much money by providing a kitchen table and four chairs, four loungey couches/chairs, three nightstands, our bed, an extra mattress, and a kitchen storage cabinet—but our next major expense, a propane stove, they wouldn’t even allow us to buy. Instead, we were escorted to the college’s chemistry lab, and a man in a white jacket handed us a full propane tank. As we protested, Getnet explained, “This is excess. No problem, they have two.” Daniel commented on later: “We just depleted the science department’s resources by 50%.” But Getnet assures us we can “repay” them by returning it to them in two years, as a full tank. Far too generous. But we are so grateful. And at this moment our bellies are full with minestrone, thanks to the propane tank that brings cheap ferenji food to our fingertips. What a joy and relief to finally cook for ourselves again, after almost 3 months of eating whatever is set in front of us, which was usually saturated in oil.

            We’ve been in and out of countless suks the past few days, acquiring the foods and soaps and cooking utensils we’ll need. A suk (suk=Amharic, shuk=Tigrignia) is about the size of the smallest country gas station you’ve ever been in. But, without fail, each time we step into one, an average of 8 children follow in behind us. This in addition to the other customers already in line, or trying to squeeze past the children. The kids want to listen to and giggle at the ferenjis going shopping in their language. While endearing, it’s also frustrating to be trying to barter and calculate a total price in another language of numbers, when Hanna and Lela are pulling on your skirt and pants: “Give me money! Biscuit! Give me biscuit! Danayit! Daniel!” The most humorous instance was our first purchase, when the group that followed us were all females. The oldest, about preteen age, indicated Daniel with her eyebrows and told the others, “He is beautiful.” We all laughed. “Iwa, ifalit iya. Sibuk iyu. Sabayay iyu,” I said—“Yes, I know. He is beautiful. He is my husband.” And they laughed some more.

            In case you covet a larger Tigrignia sample, for a taste of the language, have at this classroom assignment from a few weeks ago, in which Gebre asked us about our previous evening:

            Timali mishat innoyay dawila. Ni isra dakika awirina. Haftay hishuni, illa. Kas’ilu, host haftay ni Daniel safiato. Host haftay baaligay iya. Nissa idmi’a salasta iyu immo hadagana iya. Kas’ilu, dirar balia. Dihiri’u, dakisa mikniyatum k’iris’at nayiruni.

            Translation: Last night my mom called. We talked for twenty minutes. My sister is feeling better, she said. Then, my host sister hit Daniel. My host sister is rude. She is three and is dangerous. Then, I ate dinner. After that, I went to sleep because I had a stomach ache.

            That account actually seems to summarize the main themes from our time in Sagure—with the exception of the stomach ache.

            One of the surprises since our move-in is our limited privacy, when we thought it would be abounding.            While we technically have a spacious yard to ourselves, it seems that a young man is living in one of the outdoor rooms on our compound—no biggy, except at first we weren’t sure whether or not the house-owners were aware of this arrangement. At this point, we’re assuming someone knows he’s living there. A neighbor, Samuel, about 12-14 maybe, guards our yard by sitting in it. Today we came home to him sitting on our stairs with a pigeon on each of his knees. Daniel says Nathaniel Hawthorne would not only love Samuel, but would give him his own short story.

            After making a deposit in the bank today, we finally felt comfortable to leave all six grand windows open. What breezes and smells and views! [Adwa may be the first place where, while indoors, I feel like I’m camping. From inside our living room, or while cooking, it smells like I’m in the woods of Hidden Falls Salvation Army Camp, and there is very little lovelier than this]. This was going to be our first night sleeping with the windows open. (You see, the massive bolted shutters are a pain to open and close—so you’re either all in, or you’re not). Following an after-dinner rainstorm, though, Samuel knocked on our kitchen door and told me to shut our kitchen window. Confused, we did as he said. But he then walked around the entire house and closed all the shutters for us. “Okay,” we said to each other. “We'll open them again before we sleep.” An hour later, Samuel returned with his old father to knock on our door. They had noticed that our shutters were only closed shut—not bolted. So, they on the outside, Daniel on the inside, they went window and window together, ensuring we bolted them. Really? We can’t open and close our windows when we want to? At this point, we’re unsure if this was a friendly, neighborly suggestion implying, “We want you to be safe”—or if these are the rules of this compound. What’s perplexing is that these neighbors live in a different compound; and if our gate had a proper door handle and keyhole, it wouldn’t be an issue. Or would it? Samuel’s dad told us that he has been guarding this yard his whole life—before him, his grandfather—and now to Samuel, his son. While we do want the freedom of evening breezes, on the other hand, this event was not only humorous, but indicative of a romantic family career history that I don’t necessarily want to stand in the way of. So, we shall see.

            If you were ever looking for a reason to come to Ethiopia, today we bought 2 pounds of avocados for the equivalent of 90 cents. What makes it even better: yesterday we went to the market to no avail. No one had avocados. But today, while standing in the same spot we were the previous day when we asked for avocados, a tall Ethiopian woman stood behind me while I was getting prices for carrots. “Do you want avocados?” she said quietly. After my repeating “Avocados abay iyu? Avocados allaki doe?”—“Where are the avocados? Do you have avocados?” several times, (because the only response was shifty eyes), she then led me to an abandoned “market cubicle” with no avocados in sight. But then she pulled away all the burlap sacks that were hiding them. If she had been in an Italian man’s body, offering me anything other than avocados, it would have been the perfect scene for a mafia movie—I mean, she even gave me change from a pouch she retrieved from inside her dress top. Toting our goods away from the market, Daniel asked, “How did she know we wanted avocados?” My point exactly.

P.S. Maybe the craziest thing we heard this week is that Adwa has weekly trash pick-up. We were deciding between burning and composting, when someone throws in this wild card. We’ll believe it when we see it. But maybe Tigray really is that rich and favored.

Daniel’s token additions:

1.     Danielle is downplaying our guards to make us sound less rich, but I won’t. Sure one is old and blind and the other one is a twelve-year-old with a mystical connection to nature who probably wouldn’t hurt a fly, but I’m sure they’d do in a pinch. The main point is we have a huge house with guards. You should visit!

2.     I felt like a real Ethiopian yesterday when I asked a bajaj driver in Tigrinia if he was a thief. He tried to charge us 15 birr (about $0.90 US) for a taxi ride all the way across town. We talked him down to 8 birr, but I still feel like we got ripped off.

3.     I started reading John Calvin’s Institutes yesterday (which is not to say that I will finish it), and I’m surprised at what a great writer he is. His preface to the king reads like someone mixed the Bible, Thomas Jefferson, and the early fathers in a blender and then poured it into a book.

4.     People are chanting things outside accompanied by what sounds like those awful instruments from the last World Cup. Danielle won’t let me investigate.

New Address and Photos

Our new address:

Daniel & Danielle Luttrull
c/o Adwa College of Teacher Education
P.O. Box 91
Adwa, Ethiopia

And copy & paste this link to see more photos:

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

Saints and Martyrs

            I think movies trained me to cry at standing ovations. Every film that has a standing ovation also has that accompanying music that reaches its peak the very moment the two loyal, standing clappers are joined by three, four, ten others who decide yes, yes, we should stand for this too. This ploy leaves your tear ducts no choice, I’ve realized. As a new arrival to College Church last summer, I remember feeling silly needing a handful of tissues when we celebrated Pastor Steve’s 10-year-anniversary at the church. Why am I crying? I’ve been here a month. These people celebrating have been here all ten years. But there’s something incredibly beautiful about a church standing for her pastor, about an audience standing for Mr. Holland, about a café full of men standing for their country.

            Daniel and I were quite lucky to “shay-bunna” (perhaps our new favorite verb?: “tea-coffee”) at Harar Hotel last Sunday, at just the right time. Tiku Gelana was running in the women’s marathon in the Olympics, and our usual hang-out spot was packed. We caught only the last thirty minutes or so, and we watched respectfully as three Kenyans, a Russian, and our Ethiopian led the race. Daniel pointed out how neat it was to recognize the woman as an Ethiopian—and how easy this would be even if she were in another uniform. Ethiopians are beautiful, and have very distinct features. Watching her run, we saw our neighbors in her face, and we delighted in knowing her home was twenty minutes away from us at that second, her family and neighbors likely huddled around a TV just like that scene in Cool Runnings. And as the kilometers dwindled down and the Kenyans slowly fell away, our fellow café patrons rose, clapped in beat, and chanted her on. We believe the word they were chanting was “hid” (pronounced “heed”): hid, hid, hid, with claps and hip-shakes mixed in. “Hid” means “go,” which we know because of our host mother’s communication with Elsabet and the cat. Two men were curiously dressed in red jumpsuits, one of whom pumped his red ballcap in the air in beat with the “hids.” (We have some of this on tape, Igzyaber yimeskin, thanks be to God). Needless to say, Gelana took first place, and the whole place was in an uproar. What a beautiful and genuine celebration. We were so thankful we could share in that win with our neighbors.

            After the race, our host father Fikadu approached us, explaining such a celebration warranted his buying our drinks. What we thought would be a quick shay-bunna (avg. length 30-45 minutes) turned into a four-hour event with four Ethiopian men, and eventually Joel, another volunteer. The men, whom Joel now refers to as “The Council of Fathers” had much to drink; it was so entertaining to see what this did to their English and their enthusiasm. It was one of those time spans where you’re consciously aware of how odd and how lovely it is, and how you wish it could stretch on. You think, We should be recording all of this, Daniel’s dad would love this, my grandpa would love this, anyone would love this, why didn’t I bring an easily hidden tape recorder to Ethiopia? every few minutes.  So far, this sort of thing happens several times a day, which is how I’ve been measuring our happiness here.

            Joel, the volunteer we’re closest to in proximity and relationship (he will be in Axum, only 15 minutes from us) likes to talk. He’s a funny guy. But, with the exception of Joel’s host father Abbiot, The Council of Fathers were most intrigued and confused by his eloquent waxing. This is something else about Ethiopians: they like to size you up, compare you with others, out loud. It is culturally appropriate to say, “You are fat, but he is thin,” “You are clever, but she is not so clever,” etc. There is one girl in town (one of our students) whose common greeting to me is: “You are thin (pronounced “teen”). What do you eat?” and once a border-line crazy man in town rated two other girls and me in order of beauty. It drives us nuts. So at the table with The Council of Fathers, Getacho asks me as Joel is talking: “Why so long? This is a short program. This one talks long.” I was hoping he would keep it between us, but then he, and then Fikadu decide to point this out to Joel: “Why to talk so so much? Ethiopians we talk short. You are history man. In Ethiopia we say if you talk long you are history man, because history lasts hundreds of years, and so does your talk.” How awkward. And yet it’s so funny, because they don’t see it as awkward.

            On the flipside of the Olympic spectrum, the American side, we are noticing we feel a bit more patriotic out of country (this is likely to happen if you leave “commercial paradise” for a third-world country; you realize how much you have, what with hot showers and stores stocked with powdered sugar and vanilla extract). We’ve considered teaching the kids to, instead of yelling China! when we pass, chant U-S-A! U-S-A! We tried implementing this a few times, but sadly, it didn’t stick. But the night an American girl won gold in Judo? or some other sport I can’t spell, we Americans in Sagure were at the same café (Harar Hotel). After hearing those first few bars, most of us stood, put our hands on our hearts (Joe removed his hat), and sang the anthem. Yes, it was beautiful. The café staff and patrons were tickled, staring at us (like normal) and smiling. We all clapped afterward, thankful for this girl and her sport and the opportunity she gave us. Ironically, just as it’s more exciting cheering for the Ethiopian athletes while in Ethiopia, it’s somehow more special celebrating your homeland when away from your homeland.

            Girma Café recently hired a young man who loves to practice his English with us. Gosa. He is the one who says, “What is your command?” when asking our order. After only a week of serving us, he had all our names memorized. When some of us are missing, he lists us by name: “Where is Ashley?” His second week on the job, he puts my bunna be wetat (coffee w/ milk) in front of me and says, “Danayit, what is that letter?” and points to the foam atop my coffee. Beautiful and foamy, outlined in brown coffee foam against the white, there sits a capital letter “D.” I look up at Gosa, beaming, and realize that the heart I had in my foam the previous day was no coincidence.

            Gebre is another Ethiopian gem in our daily Sagure life. About our fathers’ age, he is well-equipped for teaching us Tigrigna, the Cookie Monster language, with his smoker’s cough and giddy attitude. Gebre likes English clichés and slang, so I find it appropriate to keep a Gebre page in my Tigrigna notebook, on which I jot down some of the things he says:

            “So…you enjoy very much imagining things that do not exist?”—Gebre, on Joel’s re-telling of a dream

            “You have to dance the dance of the prevalent times”—Gebre’s translation of “When in Rome…”

            “It is very hotty”—Gebre, on the weather

            And I realize I’ve been neglecting to mention Zinash. She is a girl who sometimes fills her jerry can with water from our family’s compound faucet. A ninth grade student, brimming with fresh English, Zinash took to us quickly. She, like many others, asked me to teach her English. “Okay, tomorrow,” I said. “Come tomorrow at one, and I will teach you.” I prepared a lesson on colors/fruits, and she didn’t show.

            But what’s significant about Zinash is our abruptly short relationship. Upon returning to Sagure from our site visit to Adwa a few weeks back, she welcomed me in our compound with a note.

            “It’s a poem,” she said. And just to emphasize again our family/our community/any Ethiopian’s confusion at my and Daniel’s name similarity, the poem is addressed in the margins like so: Welcome Back to Dalio, or Other Name. Thankfully, this is just the beginning. The lengthy poem goes on to tell me things like, “Let not the grave touch you or the earth eats you I am ill tired and I like a remedy.” I do believe that the line, “your two beasts are saints and martyrs” was intended to be “your two breasts....” A bit disconcerting. But the Bible themes aren’t over. The last line of the poem? “I am like Uriah and you like David.” Well, awesome. My young friend in-country views me as the seducer and murderer of her spouse. Is this perhaps why she didn’t show up to our one-on-one English class? Maybe. After she had me read this poem aloud, she instructed me to write one for her. Which I did. And, siga adday (“I swear by the flesh of my mother,” in Tigrigna), it was a sweet, short poem. But since that day, our biggest fan Zinash has barely looked at or spoken to either of us. A mystery.

            But the coolest teenage girl in Sagure is, by a long shot, Timkat. As I write this, we’ve already left Sagure. Yesterday we said our goodbyes to our host families to head to Addis and then our new homes. I was a sloppy mess, crying all over our family’s cheeks, and Timkat’s devotion to us is perhaps the main reason. What a hard worker, what a sweet girl, and what a difficult situation. A few weeks into our stay in Sagure, I asked Timkat about her family. What’s so eerie is that, much like our use of Amharic, Timkat’s subject/verb agreement is almost always off—each time she means to say “I” or “my,” she instead says, “you.” So it is startling when she says to us, “You mother, konjo konjo (beautiful). You mother, two degrees. You mother dead. You father two degrees. You father dead. You baby dead. You brother dead.” And the more she uses her hands to explain, the wetter her eyes become. “You why? why? why?” She begins a mime to demonstrate what happened to her family; it takes about ten minutes for us to reach understanding. She demonstrates a person spraying something in the air; then she takes us outside our bedroom window to point in at the roach spray in our room; then she demonstrates pouring something into a glass. “You mother, dead.” 

           With our Amharic/English mixture, what we came to understand is: the “best” friend of Timkat’s father poisoned her mother in a drink, then shot both her father and baby brother. She would have been around eight at the time; it seems she survived because she was visiting family in Addis when it happened. Suddenly she has no family. She is forced, by circumstances, to live with her father’s sister, Selamawit, and family. From her story and gestures, we also gathered that Selam, our host mom, was (at least beforehand) friends with the murderer. Timkat then showed us beautiful photos of her young family and explained that the remainder of her photos of her family were burned and tossed down the shint bet, along with her mother’s computer and other possessions. For such reasons, Timkat not only suspects foul play and maliciousness (and towards herself), but she has to suspect these absurdities against the people she lives with, her own relations. Whether or not the understanding of an eight-year-old girl during a traumatic time was accurate, the reality is she believes herself to be waiting hand and foot on a woman (and her husband and unruly toddler) whom she believes is bad. What a miserable thing. And what an ache to watch for weeks after, as she tangibly sets aside her childhood for this family, for the four to six tasks she juggles at once, throughout each day, running and panting almost always for our sake. Maybe the best reason we no longer live in Sagure is not that we finally get to live on our own after 8 months of being others’ guests, but rather that Timkat may get an extra hour of sleeping in, since the ferenjis in her house no longer need an early breakfast.