Going to Mars (but everyone looks like you)

Are you curious what it would be like returning to your home country after 380 days in a very very different place? Let’s cut right to it: we’re not ex-pats living in London. If we were, we’d return shocked by the lanes we drive on and the accents we hear, but with no feelings of deprivation or cartoon-like Let me at ‘em! Let me at ‘em! squeals each time we saw a donut.

We thought American accents were beautiful, instantly. (Donuts too.) I wanted to cry at the poetry of it all when the African American gentleman asked if I wanted to buy peanuts for the game: “Cheaper outside than inside!” he yelled, to everybody. But if it were a movie, all else would be fuzzy, save for the image (slow-motion?) of the large African American man selling his peanuts and T-shirts, and the Peace Corps volunteer who was so happy to again see a black man bigger than her, and loving every bit of his English and accent she had missed.

Our first night sleeping in America, on a real mattress (those things with springs in them; no foam understudies) in a land with laws limiting volume after 10 PM, was—angelic. I woke up around two AM to a stillness I forgot existed anywhere. I couldn’t hear a sound. We were a homerun hit from the nearest church and not once did they turn on their Turboload loud speakers to chant prayers for several miles of parishioners. Our neighbors didn’t wake us up by peeing on the paneling just under our bedroom window (thanks John, thanks Terry). Not a chicken squawk for miles (roosters are confused here and operate at all hours). No goats. No hyenas. No 101 Dalmatians scene of all the Adwa dogs passing messages to each other. I sat up in that Willoughby bedroom, looked out the window, and chuckled, amazed. Is this real life?

I was introduced to someone at church our last Sunday home. (After three weeks, you’d think I’d have adjusted.) But on meeting him for the first time, I went to shake his hand, but he was holding three or four buckets, en route to his car. Did I wait for him to put the buckets down like a normal American? No. I forgot that was a “thing.” I reached, and reached far (because he was trying to pull away to put down the buckets) and grabbed his wrist, to shake it. The Ethiopian way. You don’t wipe the shuro or snot off your right hand, you don’t offer the left (you never offer the left), and you don’t put down what you’re holding. You extend your wrist, dirty or occupied hand tucked under, and your greeter will shake that instead. So when I did this in Marion, Indiana, this new stranger looked at me with such confusion—She wants to shake my hand so badly that I can’t even put down these buckets first?—that I was quite embarrassed.

Daniel had a similar experience. Our first full day in America, we saw a family friend/coworker who Daniel only knows from a few encounters. When he went to shake this man’s hand, he also instinctively went in for the shoulder bump. The shoulder bump is not always, but often used, when greeting a friend in Ethiopia. If you have not seen each other for a long time, it is always used. And the longer it’s been since you’ve seen each other, the more bumps you do, i.e. Misilal gave me three bumps after returning from our trip home. So when Daniel went to shoulder bump an American who’s never been to Ethiopia, it turned into an awkward hug.

Our first time in a grocery store line was also embarrassing. Lines. I forgot about those too. I had daydreamed so very often about walking into a Giant Eagle or Meijer, but in these daydreams I never left the vegetable section. I ran my fingers over the green beans, I held the butternut squash up to test the weight, I smelled the dill and the mint, I let the water-sprayers squirt me because I couldn’t wait to hold the asparagus. Get them in my imaginary cart immediately. Same with zucchini, bell peppers, snow peas, parsnips. These daydreams were long enough; naturally, I never made it to check-out, where I could prepare myself for standing in lines. So at the Family Foods on Lakeshore Blvd., right after I received my change in cash, an old friend greets me from behind. Caught up in the hellos and hugs, and now a good seven feet away from the cash register, I forgot I was in the middle of something—something important to all Americans. Order. The clerk had to leave her station, grab all my bags, and plop them at a place nearer to me, “I’ll just put these over here,” she said, frustrated, returning to her long line. Where am I? Shouldn’t she be ululating at me with joy, because I just did a transaction in her language? (Am I not as entertaining here?)

Have you ever seen The Hurt Locker? You should. You’ll gain quite a few gray hairs, but you should. One of the last scenes of the movie brings the soldier back to an American grocery store for the first time. His wife sends him to the cereal aisle. The camera focuses on him standing amid rows of hundreds and hundreds of cereal boxes. He is motionless, staring blankly. We watched this film in our Adwa living room, and said a few Whoas. We got it. We knew it would be overwhelming to be instantly surrounded with abundance when you’re used to living on little, buying groceries from stores a fourth the size of a gas station convenience store. A fourth. So when my mom sent us to Giant Eagle to buy tortillas and coffee, I almost had a breakdown. There were at least 8 different options. Bags of 8 tortillas, bags of 12, bags of medium-sized, of large, of small. Ortega brand, other brands, is this the generic brand? Should we be standing in the Mexican aisle, or are these more expensive? I think there’s even more by the milk and cheese. How many does she need? I paced, cell phone at my ear, trying not to breathe too heavily, as Daniel calmed me. It doesn’t matter. Just pick one. If there’s one thing I know, it’s this: if it were ever possible to buy tortillas in Adwa, Ethiopia, there would be one option and one option only.

Want to see where we buy groceries?

This is Gorohead (Gebre Wehad)'s suk, our standard shop, where his daughters Bisirat, Berhane, and Samrawit run the place when he's absent. Unfortunately, we’ve never taken a photo of Market, where we buy most our produce and spices. We promise to do so ASAP.

I’d like to print these out and carry them in my wallet; if I have another grocery store run-in in 2014 where I make a fool out of myself, I can say, “Look, lady,” and whip out these photos like a police badge. Street cred, why many of us join Peace Corps in the first place.

I’m not the kind who carries pictures in her wallet. Maybe they don’t even make picture-inserts anymore; I don’t know. But late May I tried commissioning our friend Seble to crochet a cardigan for our nephew Zachary, and I started carrying around a picture of him printed from a computer, folded in fours right behind my cash. (This was so she could see the size of an American one-year-old, see that it varies from the Ethiopian one-year-old by at least six months. That’s how malnutrition and genes work.) Zach is wearing bunny ears in the photo, and is surrounded by Easter eggs. I took the photo out maybe four times on the plane ride home, gearing myself up for the real thing. It was difficult to keep the tears at bay, knowing we were fourteen hours, thirteen hours, twelve, etc. away from meeting him.

Nephews. The craziest (and best) part of coming home. But knowing that all this happened: eleven months of growth (Zachary Alexander), seven months of growth (Samuel James) while we were away, in that very different place where the toilets don’t flush and seatbelts are a rare find, was a bit much. It seemed a very uneven trade. We’re missing all this for…for…for what? was a recurring thought I had to keep burying, with Daniel’s help, our three weeks home. One afternoon it spilled over and down my cheekbones at an inconvenient time, and I had to keep running upstairs to hide the teary evidence. When Daniel noticed, he followed me, and let me cry on his T-shirt for a good ten minutes. We stated the reasons we had to go back, wanted to go back. But still. At such a lofty price.

Remembering the teary goodbyes to my sister and her 8-months-pregnant belly, and now greeting a boy who can furniture-walk, whose first birthday is this week. Remembering Daniel playing the harmonica to him in my parents’ sun room, when he was still on the inside—and now seeing Zach hit the guitar and pull at the strings as Daniel plays him a new instrument, this time Zach on the outside.

We hadn’t seen Daniel’s older brother and sister-in-law for a little over two years. Last time we were with them, she wasn’t pregnant. This time, poof, here’s a seven-month-old.

Your siblings’ babies, generally, aren’t things you should have to miss.

We had dreamt and talked of meeting Zach and Sam for months. It was the initial reason for the trip, beginning the week we knew my sister was pregnant and would have a child while we were in Peace Corps. Our Ethiopian friends and neighbors knew we would be meeting kilita hadush mamush (two new babies), and anxiously awaited this alongside us. In short, we were expecting the moon. But it was even better than that. As much as I’ve always loved children, I foolishly assumed babies at their youngest are easy to say goodbye to. They’re just…babies. If you’re not Mom or Dad or Grandma or Grandpa, they don’t really know you, so it’s easier to leave and come back later. The toddler age is when they get cool.

Well, I’ve never known a baby closer than a cousin, and apparently nephews are an entirely different ballpark (sidenote: while home, we saw a major league baseball game, a minor league, and a little league; how American are we?). I didn’t know you could love a baby so much. We were set to leave Willoughby for Indiana on Saturday, and it was Wednesday when I saw Saturday closing in, and the tears started. I would look at Zach and start bawling. This blue-eyed ticking time machine. My mom, my dad, my siblings would all look pretty much the same next time I saw them. Not Zach. And so, I couldn’t be around him enough. I tried to hold him as much as anyone would let me, as much as he-who-wanted-to-crawl-crawl-everywhere would let me. I cried myself, and Daniel, to sleep our last three nights in Willoughby, waking each morning with puff-balls for eyelids. When my mom started telling me in March that it would be harder saying goodbye this time than it was last year, I didn’t believe her. But she knew what we were missing, and we didn’t. She was right. Our nephews are amazing, adorable, perfect little boys who we wish we didn’t have to leave.

Zachary

Samuel

What Else Was Different?

- Air Conditioning, when you haven’t felt it for a year, is c-o-l-d. Our teeth chattered all the way down the moving walkways of DC Dulles airport, as we wished we had dressed for winter.

- Flush toilets, tap water we could drink (available every day), machines that wash your clothes for you, steady electricity and wireless internet. We kept quickly pulling our hands away from pans on the stovetop, expecting them to electrocute us, like our Adwa kitchen.

- We could have filmed a “People Come in all Shapes and Sizes” Mr. Roger’s episode in the three U.S. airports we visited. Viewers would have seen the co-hosts looking bright-eyed and gaping-mouthed into the camera, yelling, “Look at her!” “And him!” “Golly gee, folks, Americans are beautiful!” In fact, we did do this. Only in whispers, to each other. After a year of being the tallest two in the room, of awkwardly hearing our average-sized friends be told they are “fat,” (because Ethiopians have very few other body types besides really really thin), it was glorious to look up to people, to see people who weren’t skinny. (Note: I can name one man in Adwa who is taller than Daniel.) I stood in line behind a young man, very tall with big build, as we entered our last plane to Cleveland. Behind him, I pointed up to his bigness, giving Daniel my “Eek! Can you believe this?!” smile, and giggling quietly. Variation! Variety! Variation! After 16 hours in the air, we suddenly weren’t giants anymore.

- Our first full day in country, my birthday, was what spa-going ladies probably say the spa is like. You know that brief window in the morning where you wouldn’t be caught dead in public? You’d hate for even the postman to see you: your spouse, your parents are the only ones allowed in your general vicinity in the pre-shower period. The past 380 days, on the vanity spectrum, have sort of been like that. Instead of pajamas they’re frumpy skirts or pants that don’t fit you anymore. You can’t wear contacts because your doctor tells you, “You can’t buy contact solution here, so Volunteers hoard their solution for too long, dangerous bacteria grows, you put it in your eyes, and some Volunteers have nearly gone blind. Don’t go blind. Wear glasses.” (But you don’t even want the postman to see your glasses!) You shower every other day because something about living in Africa makes you want to conserve water more (and you already have to wear those unattractive glasses anyway, so what the heck). You don’t have a blow dryer, curling iron, or straightener; you have the air. No make-up. (If you have long eyelashes like mine, you can’t wear mascara with glasses.) So, yes, using a high-pressured shower, then a blow dryer, then a curling iron, then contacts, then make-up, then getting to wear your wedding ring and favorite, fitting jeans again—you finally feel unembarrassed to look in a mirror, to have the postman see you. You feel like yourself. Peace Corps is like a really awful middle school haircut, extended: it’s an awkward two-year stage where you won’t have a single flattering photo of yourself. This isn’t London, people. (Tip of the day: Did you know your hair oils adjust to your washing pattern? An Environment volunteer told us she went six months without washing her hair, and after month three or four, her hair wasn’t greasy anymore: her hair adapted. I didn’t fully believe this at first. But those three weeks of washing my hair every day in America really messed with my Ethiopian every-other-day pattern, and now on Day 2 my hair is incredibly greasy, whereas before our American hiatus, I could go three days before the grease set in. Biological science!)

And Ethiopia Welcomes Us Back

- It is chilly and rainy here! This was hard to believe, as we left a very hot and muggy Indiana, and landed in Ethiopian winter. The season we’ve all been waiting for! Everything about it—minus the finicky electricity and phone/internet network—is lovely. We’re in long sleeves and pants, something possible in Adwa for only three months each year. And it’s easier getting Daniel to agree to drink hot chocolate at night.

 Meron jumping in puddles.

- Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in America anymore instance # 1: I walked into every bathroom stall in Addis Ababa airport, finding zero toilet paper. I walked back to my backpack, pulled out the ready roll, smiled at my husband and quoted Dorothy.

-Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in America anymore instance # 2: We flew from Addis to Mekele to stay the night with friends, before bussing six hours from Mekele to Adwa the next day. Our Mekele friends were on their third night without water. We still had DC water in our nalgenes, and it would last us until Adwa, or at least until we could buy a bottle of water. This meant less tooth-brushing, a smelly bathroom/house, and a dehydrated next morning. There was one bucket of water to last the four of us the night, for flushing. Oddly, this wasn’t too shocking, but felt normal. Aaaaand, we’re back!

-Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in America anymore instance # 3: Halfway through the bus ride, the bus stopped in Adigrat for a 20-minute breakfast/potty break. Ethiopia affected me the way I thought America would and didn’t—and I had been needing a bathroom since the previous night in Mekele. So we left the bus to grab some tea and use the shint bet. I quickly entered, only to start gagging, nearly vomiting, and quickly leave again. Mind over matter didn’t work this time, as 20 plus flies circled me, and next to the hole sat a one-pound pile of...waste. Obviously someone missed, and left it there. Needless to say, I waited for our Adwa toilet, though I washed my hands anyway, feeling dirty after having seen human waste the way it should never be seen—outside the walls of a toilet.

 We've never been so ready to pay a bag-man 5 birr. He's carrying all 49.5 pounds of that suitcase on his head and neck, freeing up his hands for the ladder, only to carry our second 49.5 pound bag the same way.

The view from the bus, going up and then down the mountain between Adwa from Mekele. Notice the four tiers below as we continue to climb. Of the few guard rails we see, some are bent down, hanging off the cliff (evidence of those before us). It's a sickening drive on a minibus and a beautifully scenic one on a large bus.

* * *

Other than the few moments of culture shock, or culture confusion, where it seemed we landed on Mars, we were more shocked at how natural it all felt. After the first hour or two, it all felt normal. Oh, yeah, pizza—with cheese on it—for dinner, no big deal. My sister's brownies with chocolate chip cookie on the bottom, Reese’s cup in the middle, brownie all around: ain’t no thing. (It obviously was, and we were like Peace Corps Volunteers in a candy shop. But it didn’t feel weird. It felt familiar, like home. Like riding a bike.)

And returning to Ethiopia, gross welcomes aside, it feels so good to be back. Our intention was that those three lovely weeks would be a sort of re-fueling, and that’s exactly what they were. We’re at peace and we feel at home.

Tomorrow we leave for six days in Axum, where seven of us volunteers will be leading and running Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World). We have 43 campers. We had 10 counselors, then 4, then 7, a change that happened over 24 hours: All our Adwa counselors are nursing students who had an exam last week that the regional examiner never showed up for; so the exam was postponed a week, the girls had 24-hours notice, and we had to scramble for new Adwa counselors. The Ethiopian work ethic and lack of time management makes it difficult to run a camp.

The seven of us have been running around like beheaded chickens this week. And next week will be crazy. But hopefully good, as we give the girls training in different life skills (leadership, teamwork, self esteem-building, relationships, etc.), volunteering, HIV/AIDS education, nutrition and sanitation education, and just have fun. Pray for our sanity and the girls’ growth. (Pray we’re not eating shuro for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I may have to boycott meals by Tuesday.)

When we get back, it’s time to relax, read, and officially start our winter vacation in Adwa.