Not Quite Laketran

Coming Sequel: About a Boy and a Dog 

            There once was a girl who dreaded traveling in this country. Every time she stared fear-stricken out the window, watching the aloof driver attempt to pass another bus around a blind turn on a 2-lane road, without speeding up considerably—this girl was never comforted by the infamous statistic: Ethiopia is ranked number one in the amount of traffic deaths per year.

            So when the girl was told she had to travel an entire five hours up and down a mountain, with a limited number of guard rails, remembering horror stories from other volunteers who have traveled the same road, she feared her chances of survival. Death seemed likely. She thoughtfully considered emailing her boss, explaining her fears, and begging for a plane ticket in lieu of a bus ticket. She decided she was silly, and began praying for the trip one month in advance.

            Three days before the long-dreaded bus ride, her husband was bitten by their neighbor’s dog. He had to fly to Addis, according to Peace Corps precaution, to protect him against the slim possibility of Rabies. This left her to take this bus ride alone, her first time traveling alone in Ethiopia. And she had to take two different buses—transferring in another city. If only “bus transferring” were anything like you’re picturing. Anything American or close to it. Instead “bus transferring” means sitting on a rock in a dusty parking lot (these “bus stations” are where most thefts occur), and when you see a bus, pushing past swarms of people to dive into the bus, before the other passengers even leave it. Single-file lines and the logic of letting people exit a bus before more enter—neither exists here. It is a shocking, painful, embarrassing, and often unfruitful process, and in this case, located in a city where Peace Corps volunteers are not permitted to spend the night (so she better push hard to get a seat) because it is too near Eritrea and moderately unsafe.

            Because keeping up the third person is difficult, I’ll admit it: the she is me. I brought six plastic bags with me in my purse. I hadn’t yet been on a minibus for longer than two hours without vomiting, so I had to come prepared for these five hours. The ride to Mekele is notorious for its prolific vomit. And all Ethiopian buses are notorious for keeping all windows closed. The passengers will ask you to close your window if you insist on keeping it open—the superstition, according to culture, is that since sickness travels by air, you must not let air into the vehicle. So, put these two items into side-by-side frames in your mind: puke, and closed windows. Depending on the hour, add 90 degree heat to the mix.

            I summoned mind over matter, and lasted longer than I thought. The curves weren’t all that horrible, by Ethiopian standards—even though the driver propelled the van beyond its limit around every single mountain curve (at times, driving in the wrong lane around the blind turn). When others began vomiting, one by one, I kept my head down, and tried blocking my ears and reflexes. But I was forced to look up every five minutes, when a person tapped on my shoulder asking for a bag. And another. And another. I was the only one on the bus who brought bags (I don’t want to think what it would’ve been like if I hadn’t). Four bags later, it was my turn. I was the fifth to lose it, of six. Unfortunately, the first puker who began the domino effect was too involved in her Lamaze (she was hooing and howling into the shoulder of the man next to her—a stranger—the entire ride) to think straight. Instead of throwing her sagging plastic bags out the window like the rest of us, she set them on the floor, loosely tied. I didn’t realize the result of this until it was too late. As I exited the bus while refusing a young man’s invitation to breakfast, I grabbed the strap of my backpack to strap around my waist, grabbing a handful of vomit that coated the strap. “Ugh. Awesome,” I said, placing the bag on the ground, rubbing it into the dirt, and swiping the sick off with my shoe. I told myself it could only get better. (Don’t ask when was my next opportunity for hand-washing).²

            A few unsuccessful episodes of shoving-through-bus-doors later, I decided it was very likely I wouldn’t succeed. I’m too timid. Daniel is the designated pusher of this team. He’s like my Jenny Shimrock at concerts. So when the first puker of bus number one, head buried in her elbows, looked up at me in the parking lot when a bus arrived, and asked pleadingly, “Hada bota?” (one place/spot?), I pitied her choice to ally with such a weak person. It was unlikely I’d secure one seat, let alone two. “You need someone like Daniel,” I thought. When I returned to tell her, “Bota yallan” (there is no place), I felt a failure. I needed a new strategy. This became pouting as visibly and horribly as possible, purposely twisting my features into the ugliest form possible. “Looking ticked” is too soft a statement for the glares I was giving people, but we may have young readers; so let’s call it ticked. I was sending out the following brainwaves: I am a young girl, obviously a foreigner, traveling alone. Be hospitable. It is too dangerous for me to get stranded in this city. Just ask my boss; he won’t allow it. Give up your seat, or get me one. I’m the guest. Baka. (Enough).

            And it worked. I hear, “Madam, are you traveling alone, or with someone?” “Alone,” I say in half-real, half-forced desperation, the tear stains mostly real. “Where do you come from?” “Kab Adwa. Baal gazay ab Mekele, selazi ana nab Mekele ikad iya.” (From Adwa. My husband is in Mekele, so I am going to Mekele). At that moment I remembered my dad in Home Depot, telling the cashier that his daughter was Valedictorian, as the disinterested man rang up the paint. Dad’s arm on my shoulder, then patting my back, then contemplating a Noogie. Daniel wasn’t even there, but I felt I could and would tell everyone I saw that our four days apart were at an end, and that I wouldn’t sleep alone and afraid that night: “My husband is in Mekele! I will meet my husband in Mekele! And it doesn’t matter how many of you puke on my bags, today I will see Daniel.” The man looked pleadingly at the people in the bus, relaying the answer that I was alone. But his attempts to make room on the already-bursting bus failed, so he got into the front seat without looking back at me, and they drove away.

            Just as I felt compelled to tell this man about my husband, I did the same with Meron the day earlier, as she came over for her daily coloring session. As she drew much-improved stick figures on the page, I gushed in Tigrigna that there was a problem in my household—a phrase we’ve heard more than once here. Because I didn’t know how to say I was sad in Tigrigna, I told her, “Hagos yallan.” There is no happiness. My longest conversation with Meron in which we both understood each other (aside from greetings), then followed:

(Translated in English)

Where is Daniel? Daniel is in Addis. Daniel is so beautiful and good.

Who?

Daniel.

Yes. Looks at young woman with compassion and pity, saying so much.

            It was horrible being separated, without free mobile-to-mobile minutes. Rushed conversations at night and extremely long days that I prayed would go quickly. When the fourth day was done, I felt I was more anxious to see him in that brief time period than when I was awaiting our wedding. It is hard living alone in a foreign country, and I want a Girl Scout badge. For goodness sake, it took me five minutes to open the peanut butter jar without him. I had to dance around the living room to do it, finally prying it open with a spoon. I nearly walked over to the neighbors.

            But I was well taken care of. Girimkil informed me the first night that he would let the dog roam the compound free all night (she is normally tied to a tree all the time). There were lots of ajokis being said. (“Be strong”). They invited me for coffee. Sammy and Solomon walked me to the bus station at 5:30 in the morning in the dark, waited there with me for 45 minutes, and Solomon dove into the bus for me to save my seat. As I sat in the bus station parking lot, my counterpart, Vice Principal Haftay called me at 6 AM to tell me he was on his way to see me off. I had to convince him I was safe with Sammy and Solomon. On the second bus, when the best I could secure was a seat on the floor, on the tire hump, and another bus drove alongside us, the man next to me called out to the other bus driver, indicating me pathetically: “Bajaka. Ferengi.” (Please. Foreigner). I got to leave the least comfortable seat on that bus, for the front seat of another (seatbelt included)—making the second leg of the trip one of the most comfortable trips I’ve had in country.

            When people asked how the bus ride was, by reflex I said it was good. I was alive. And then I mentioned the vomit-coated bag strap.³

* * * *

            Post script. Before those four days, I really did respect the other 200-some single Peace Corps volunteers in this country. I knew I’d never do this without Daniel, and have always given them lots of credit for going it alone. But actually having to live out the boredom, the loneliness, and the fear that a man in town would ask me where Daniel was, and know I was alone—let’s just say the respect I have for my colleagues (especially the women) has grown by leagues. I work with some amazing, brave individuals. They trade two years of comfort for two years of being so very alone. For what? Pro bono.

            I like knowing such people.

Additional and miscellaneous funny things:

* Gorohead, the shopkeeper of our main shop, won’t let us buy bananas until they’re ripe. We tried explaining they could ripen in our house (and save us a trip), but he wouldn’t hear of it. We returned a few days later.

* Teacher Hailu referred to a funeral as a “sorry house.” I almost didn’t want to tell him the real word. He should go on saying “sorry house,” obviously.

* When a friend asked Daniel this week to seek God’s favor on his behalf for a job interview, the text read: “Pray to me.” Daniel didn’t.

* This week, Daniel had to remove a poster from the college’s “student center” window. It read, in honor of Reading Week: “Book bear him up a while, and make him try to swim with bladders of philosophy.” It will soon hang on our guest room wall—the benefit of removing offensive English.

Not funny, but important things:

* When we watched the movie Lincoln in our home on President’s Day, I nearly hyperventilated at every scene with a thunderstorm. It’s been 6 months since we’ve seen any form of rain. My internal Adwa rain-clock has been pining away for late May/June. And this week, my craziest week in Peace Corps to date, I count it a hand-delivered gift from God that He gave me rain and Zebra Cakes.⁴ (Thank you, Marcos and Christina for the best care package I’ve ever seen. It should last us until the next time it rains.)

* When we returned from Mekele (the beautiful Tigray capital that sells zucchini), we were welcomed by mouse droppings in our home. At least she knew well enough that those sorts of things are done in the bathroom. (However, she used the kitchen on her way out as well). It was a scary two days. But we’ve seen no sign of this being a permanent roommate situation. She must’ve been a squatter in transit. (If she had come to join me in Daniel’s absence, you can rest assured I’d be in Ohio at this moment. Or Addis on medical leave, i.e., counseling.)

* We’re coming home this summer! We bought the tickets today. It will be my 2^nd birthday home in a span of 8 birthdays. It’s about time, Mom.

Stay tuned in the next few days for our upcoming Peace Corps challenge, for a chance to win Ethiopian goods, delivered right to your door. It’s like a Tough Mudder scavenger hunt, in your country’s honor. We’re serious.

Footnote

¹Laketran is Lake County, Ohio’s public transportation system.

²I confess that when relaying this bus-nightmare-puke-on-the-bag anecdote with a more polished, cultured, and older volunteer whom I deeply respect, I changed the story. Staring at me in disgust, she asked, “What did you do? How did you wash your hands?” I stammered, “Hand sanitizer,” which I definitely didn’t have. I just couldn’t bear to disappoint her/make her believe I was helping this poor country spread more germs.

³Would you believe us if we told you how incredibly lovely the return trip was? We won’t gush romance all over you: it wasn’t just because we were together. But we rode back in a large bus, rather than a van. Physics forces the vehicle and driver to go slower, and hence safer. Because our heads didn’t need to be buried in our arms to remain stable, we were able to enjoy one of the most gorgeous views we’ve ever seen. Our first time seeing Adwa’s skyline distant mountains up-close-and-personal. And canyons.

⁴A grown woman’s confession: Zebra Cakes weren’t the only Little Debbie product on my documented birthday list. It’s like this lovely former boss and coworker of ours somehow knew. Legitimate tears when I got to that part of the overflowing package. (Before you judge our cravings, I double-dog-dare you to leave the U.S. for 9 months. You’d crave processed things too.)