Good Culture

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

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

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

After having to re-tell the story to several concerned teachers, each time with fresh tears, I wondered at the cultural motions of shame (very Shakespearean: throwing your arm over your head, groaning, covering your eyes, shaking your head—all in a way that suggests you yourself were the guilt-ridden culprit). My favorite was my friendly encounter with the oh-so-gentle Hailu; it made me wonder if he has daughters, and if so, hope that they go to their mother for comfort:

ME: Teacher Hailu, can we make the announcement now for English Club this afternoon?

HAILU: (roughly) What happened to you this morning?

ME: It does not matter. Right now we must give the announcement while the students are here. Can we?

HAILU: Tell me what happened.

ME: (releases fresh tears) Can I tell you after? We must make the announcement.

HAILU: Why are you crying?! You say it is nothing, but you are crying. Why? Why? Tell me.

ME: Hadagana waddi ab magadi. (Dangerous man on the road).

HAILU: So why do you cry? He has done it. It is over, and what can you do? So how can you cry?

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

I left school that day feeling loved, appreciated, and safe—with a new knowledge of which colleagues were our neighbors: I had several bids for a new walking buddy, though I settled on Luam, Teddy, Sammy, and Shewit. But the shower of concern wasn’t over. Haven and Mabrit (our 8^th 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 6^th or 7^th grader, he has the scratchiest, most endearing voice. Being one of few children who haven’t asked us for money yet (oh yes, kids, we remember), he is one of our favorite Adwa boys.

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

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

Delights of this week?

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

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