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?
- Discovering
that Uziel, our Filipino volunteer-neighbor, was right: you can successfully
bake a pizza in a closed frying pan.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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!
