The
school year has begun. Daniel still has a few more weeks of freedom with George
Eliot and Melville and Calvin and whatever else he decides to read next, but
Soloda Elementary School is in session. On Monday morning I observed the three
5th-8th grade English teachers. Until Thanksgiving, we’ll
be spending most our “school time” observing classes and clubs, getting clubs
and new programs rolling, and interviewing or surveying teachers—all to get an
idea of what we should focus on, in helping them, for the next two years. Here
is a rundown of my comical Monday morning.
First
period 8th grade English is taught by Teacher Hailu. He reminds me
of the Ethiopian version of my grandpa Gene. He couldn’t wait for me to observe
his class; his delight was apparent, as he left his classroom to come wait for
me at the office, beckoning me proudly. Once the class began, it was apparent
that this wasn’t going to be a typical class necessarily, but rather a
conversation between the teacher and the American, with 45 students in our
midst. After the first two students recited an English dialogue in front of the
class, he turned to me and loudly called: “Well? What is your comment?” To
which I naturally said, “Beautiful!” So he allowed everyone to clap for this.
“You must tell us how we do, and if we make mistake.”
He
often came to stand at the desk where I was seated to say the likes of, “See?
There are no books. They do not bring their books. Write that down. Report
that.” And when he informed the students that he would not teach them again if
they came without their books, he turned to me: “What do you say? Am I right? I
told them I will not teach them if they have no books. Am I right?” And yet he
snatched one of their books to give to me, so that I could follow along with
them.
Further
on in the lesson he came to me and said, “How do you find it? What is your
comment?” When I told him the class was good, he very enthusiastically said,
“Tell Director Isaac. Tell Vice Director Haftay. You must tell them what you
see here.” I later explained that I’m not evaluating them for anyone’s sake but
my own, to get an idea of how I can help them later on. I don’t think this got
through, however. Later, while the students were supposed to be answering
questions silently in their notebooks, he came and sat beside me at the small
student-sized desk in the back of the room.
“You
know, I like you. You speak Tigrigna very much. Where is your husband?”
The
second class, 6th grade English, was taught by my favorite teacher,
Gebre. He may be the only person in Adwa currently who knows my last name.
(Here, last names are the first names of your father. So our little Elsabet is
Elsabet Fikadu; and Meron’s full name is Meron Girimkil. So we needed to come
to a decision: when we’re asked, “What is your father’s name?”, does Daniel say
James, and I say Charles? Or do we say Luttrull? I decided to say Luttrull when
Gebre asked. And, oh, how I love to hear him pronounce this, especially when
it’s the odd name combo of Danayit Luttrull. At the same time, I hope they
don’t think Daniel and I are siblings; married couples don’t usually share the
same last name here). I won’t say much about this class, except I’ve never been
more embarrassed to sit in a classroom, with the exception of an incident in 10th
grade when my fellow Math students revolted against Mrs. McCormick, all
planning to applaud in unison at exactly 3 o’clock. (She threw down the chalk
and refused to commence the lesson, said we could figure out our homework
without her). The students didn’t pay a lick of attention to the teacher, his
quiet “shhhhhh’s” or when that didn’t work, his resorting to hitting them with
his stick. He was so nervous of my presence, and so agitated that he couldn’t
gain control of the students.
What
followed this class period was the most uncomfortable half hour I’ve spent in
Ethiopia (maybe with the exception of Saturday, when we discovered the reason
the manager at the post office has been triple-charging us: he can’t read the
scale. When we attempted a mini Math lesson, explaining that each tally mark on
the scale means 5, and it’s not “5, 10, 25” as he explained to us, he threw our
letters at us like Frisbees. Will we ever get a fair mailing price without
intervention?). So onto what may have been my second-most-embarrassing half
hour in Ethiopia: Apparently there is a 30-minute shay-bunna break for the
teachers between third and fourth period. Unsure of how to spend this time, I
began walking through the courtyard, followed and surrounded by maybe 100
students pouring out of their classrooms to get a fair look at me. Maybe touch
my hair, if they could reach or get close enough. I don’t mind the children in
small doses, or in our neighborhood, but to be called Money in the school
setting, and mocked in a place where I should be an authority figure, is
difficult. Completely flustered and needing to escape, I decided to go early to
my next classroom. Wrong choice. I took a seat at another student desk in the
last row, and was immediately surrounded by maybe 30 fifth graders, all pushing
to be nearest me. I tried handling this calmly, answering all their questions
and trying to keep Claustrophobia at bay. A few times throughout the course of
this half hour, when it got a bit crazy, shoes were flying, students were on tops
of desks screaming, etc., I decided it would be okay to reign in their version
of recess and speak up. But each time I stood and yelled, “Baka!” (Enough!), no
effect. More questions.
What
is your name?
What
is your friend’s name? (This likely meant “husband”)
Where
is Daniel?
Is
Daniel your brother?
What
is your father’s name?
What
is your mother’s name?
Where
is your house?
Do
you know Amharic?
What
grade are you in?
What
is my name? Her name? His name?
Do
you like injera?
Do
you eat injera?
And
then, as if it were as natural as the other questions, a fifth grade boy who
had remained quietest thus far, and sat atop my desk, closest to me, leaning
back against his outstretched arm, asked,
What
is the advantage of love?
That’s
when I realized that Daniel and I are also meant to be the sages of Adwa. That
was my only moment of relief, and uncontrollable laughter, during this entire
tea break.
Following
this wise question, the 4-foot Ethiopian female look-alike to Andy Sandburg
stood on her desk, shoe in her hand, calling for me to see the largest gecko
I’ve seen here yet, atop the window, minding his own business. (Sadly, my own
instincts reflect the following theory: the larger the animal, the more cruel
to kill it. Somehow, the greater the body mass, the more alive it is).
“Ay,
ay. Nimintay?” (No, no, why?) I asked her, breaking my own
only-English-with-the-students rule for a brief moment, in efforts to spare the
sorry gecko’s life.
The
only result was she, Hannah, was joined by more students with shoes, shrieking,
pounding at the gecko. Once the gang of four students commenced War Against
Innocent Gecko, and the animal’s body was in at least two wriggling pieces,
Hannah took delight in picking up the still-quaking tail of the corpse with tiny
sticks, and placing it in front of me on my desk. When I didn’t react as she
hoped (disgusted and afraid), but rather angry and disappointed with her, I
flung it to the ground, she proceeded to carry the tail to various girls in the
class, who shrieked and jumped atop their desks. I think you can imagine my
relief as Teacher Birzaf entered the room and taught one of the best English
lessons I’ve yet seen in Ethiopia. All the while I was inwardly solidifying my
new decision to never, ever remain at the school for tea break again.
Our
neighborhood is full of comedians. At least four, anyway. Capital, Nahom, and
either Philemon or Adonai (the latter two are brothers, and I always forget who
is whom) are Adwa’s version of the Three Stooges. Capital (pronounced Cop-ee-tahl) is Mo, the obvious ringleader. So tiny and thin in
stature—always always wearing a devilish smirk—and he won’t let us call him by
his name anymore. No, no, not Capital. Nigus. We must call him Nigus. Which is Amharic and
Tigrignia for “King.” And so, we naturally bow to him when we greet him. (If he
begins wearing a mouthguard with Roman Numerals, or makes reference to “his
greatness,” only then we’ll become concerned. That, or, feel more at home).
One
of my favorite Adwa visual memories has been Philemon-or-Adonai holding onto
the tail of Nahom’s shirt, who held onto the tail of Nigus Capital’s shirt, and
Capital whipping them all around like a human snake, down the street. Their
favorite pastime is to wait for us to pass by, then call after us, Daniel
mainly, whom they may be trying to recruit: “Daniel! Danny!” When we turn
around in response, they do a crazy, American-ish-style dance move, or do back
flips, or stand on their heads. Last week, after Capital did his suave
snakelike version of the Robot for Daniel, Daniel said to me, “The funny part
is—he thought I needed to see that.”
Our
fourth comedian is our little Meron. Adwa’s own Harpo Marx in miniature. Our
greatest issue with Meron is that we can’t be in her presence without laughing;
we can’t leave her presence without our cheeks hurting—you know the kind of
ache that follows wedding photos: you’ve been smiling too long, too
strenuously.
Meron’s
usual smiles for us are performed with her head down, chin touching her chest,
her eyes raised. We think the ridiculousness of her unique grin lies in her
lack of proper teeth. While her lower row is in tact, her top row is rotted out
and pointy (she is the designated finisher of the sugar in the popcorn bowl at
every bunna ceremony). So she smiles like Harpo, moves around sneakily like
Harpo, and is mostly quiet, like Harpo. But can she play the harp like Harpo?
Now
for some bunna ceremony greats. What I remember about our first bunna ceremony
with the Girimkils is, first, Girimkil imitating the popping noise of the
popcorn. He called it a battle, as if we were listening in on musket shots.
Pop, pop, pop. Very entertaining. Later on in the conversation, when his wife
asked us if we have any children, and we explained we are not allowed to be
parents while Peace Corps volunteers, and sadly must wait two more
years—Girimkil explained, “For ferenjis, it is a program. For Ethiopia, there
is no program.” By program, he means plan, or schedule. At that moment I felt
so sad to agree with him. Another weird, ugly side of America’s beloved birth
control: the parents, the humans, choosing when the babies come. It’s very odd
and unnatural, really. I wanted to tell him this, to tell him it’s true, but we
don’t like it, we’d rather step back and let God plan it—but hypocritically,
here I am willfully, agreeably putting “my” family plan in the hands of a
government organization. They may make a Catholic out of me yet—something the
Peace Corps has probably never boasted of. Then, too, I wouldn’t have to wait two
years to take communion. (If you can believe it, I physically long for the
Sacrament perhaps more than fall weather and my mom’s German pot roast).
Last
bunna ceremony—number 7 on the tally—was our own. We’ve decided a French Press
will do the trick for us, but not for our neighbors. We caught the bug, more or
less, and began buying from the long list of necessary traditional bunna
supplies last market day—something we never envisioned doing; yet, we never
envisioned neighbors we’d love and want to please so much. So we were the bunna
hosts last week, though Girimkil says I’m still in my period of “training,”
where the older girls, Nesanet and Luam, show me the ropes. They still
disapprove of our using a metal curtain rod we found in the house as our pestle.
(FYI, What we found was that all the bunna materials combined: charcoal stove,
charcoal, fan for stove, jebina [coffee clay pot], mortar & pestle, etc.,
are cheaper than one kilo of bunna. A kilo of bunna is the same price as a kilo
of meat, and Ethiopians rarely eat meat because it’s so expensive. But bunna is
daily! Interesting).
During
said bunna ceremony beneath the shade, Daniel was peed on, or very cleanly
pooped on, by a bird. While we found this a tad funny, a tad gross, and Daniel
hurried away to wash off his arm, Girimkil was most delighted. “It is good
luck!” he said. Oddly enough, this matches our Tigrignia teacher, Gebre’s
response when Joel, another volunteer, told him his little host sister peed on
his Tigrignia notebook. Gebre explained there is an Ethiopian proverb that
claims if the cat pees in your bed, you must be grateful; it is good luck.
“That’s
the problem here!” Joel exclaimed. “You don’t sit back and let it come in, pee
on you, and then say it’s good luck, Gebre! You shut the freaking bedroom door
to keep the cat out! You have to do something to get different results! You just don’t accept the results and
pretend they’re good.” It was funny how snugly the proverb fit into what we
were learning about this culture thus far.
We
should also mention our time at the police station. We went twice last week, to
give the officers an invitation to a community meeting, in which our Peace
Corps Director came to Adwa to explain our roles in the community. Both times
we were greeted with the same question in English: What happened? This question
didn’t put me at ease, (Why do you think something happened? How likely is it
that something’s going to happen?) and made me hope I wouldn’t have to answer
this question to a policeman here again. Failing the first visit because it was
Saturday and the station was closed (it was the guard we spoke with), we
returned Monday. During a very comical scene in which one lady officer read the
Tigrignia letter to herself, then read it again, said something to us we didn’t
understand, then another officer joined and read it to himself, twice, then
discussed it with the lady, followed by another office who came in to read it a
few times—all the while we’re trying to hand-gesture that this is optional,
invitation protocol, you don’t have to come, really—and we hear in the
background, “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to kill you.” We look at the
speaker and it’s the guard, sitting relaxed, holding his rifle. Obviously
joking. But why was he saying it to his friend in English? It was his friend he was talking to, right? Later in the week, as
Daniel and I stood at the door of the meeting, greeting our guests, you
couldn’t guess how surprised we were to see a police uniform walking towards
us. They actually came.
Thursday
Daniel and I went to the Woreda office—essentially the town hub where the mayor
works, and where social services offices and the education office are located.
We went to gather some statistics from the education office, for the reports
and action plans we have to write. It was a surprisingly productive visit; the
staff was so attentive, and gave us what we needed. (I now finally know all the
names of the 13 schools I’m assigned to, and found out one is a prison school).
As we left, and started walking back home, we were joined by a ragged-looking
older gentleman wearing a very dusty open-jacketed 2-piece suit, and carrying a
large dusty blanket over his shoulder. His right hand fingernails were painted
a shiny orange. What followed was one of the clearest conversations we’ve had
here with someone in English, with the exception of the college staff. If it
weren’t for one thing, he’d make a great addition to Soloda Elementary’s staff
of English teachers. He told us that he lived in Los Angeles for 12 years (to
prove it, he named lots of streets in California). He said, “What a good life.
I want to be living there, in America. Living there is so nice. I do not like
that I have to return here. Maybe six years ago I was deported for some crime,
and had to come back here.” (I hoped he didn’t notice my flinch away from him
when we said ‘crime’). I told him, “It is nice here too, though. Adwa is
beautiful. Look at all those mountains.” It appeared that he thought this was a
stupid thing to say. “I can’t EAT a mountain,” he said. “Even in America, if
you have nothing, there are shelters, there is help, there is the Salvation
Army. Here, nothing.” Looking at the blanket over his shoulder, wondering if he
was visiting the social services office when we saw him at the Woreda, we
realized we were talking to a former LA homeless man. And yet he still dreams
of life back in the states, in shelters. Our experience in Adwa thus far, again
aside from the college staff—when we hear really good English, it’s normally
coming out of a crazy person. The town crazies know the best English—which is a
bit disconcerting for us English teachers. But we were glad for our
conversation with Edris, who seemed in possession of most or all his faculties,
and who didn’t even ask for money when he waved goodbye for us. An Ethiopia
first.
Today
at market we had two noteworthy experiences. Experience number one was standing
behind a man in an orange shirt in line at the post office. My eye caught the
cursive words “Willoughby Supply” on the back of his shirt, amid other
ads—another mentioning Mayfield. I nearly shrieked. The closest I’ve come to
this is seeing a man wearing a Cincinnati University shirt. But my hometown!
When he turned around and I saw the front said “Mayfield Village,” I nearly hugged
him. “Gazay! Nay betasabay gaza! Sibuk!” I told him. “My home! My family’s
home! Beautiful!” Then we went to market, in search of various overwhelming
household items, but it turned out beautifully. We ended up buying almost the
rest of what we need for our bunna ceremonies—we’re only missing a wooden
sitting stool. And we bought two tables to set side-by-side in our kitchen for
our workplace (so we could have our kitchen table back); and a spare cot for
visitors. I was so proud that we neglected to go the easy route, to call the
college car, and we arranged—cheaply—renting a horse cart by ourselves! Later,
when I saw the man and his horse turning the corner down our road, I was so
relieved that he didn’t run off with our property. I tipped him in excitement;
though I didn’t explain, “This is for not stealing the stuff, and for finding
our house.” And now our home looks even more homey. Our first kitchen table! In
our previous homes we used our large coffee table, and an island—and it just
feels so “adultlike” to take tea, or to write letters, at a kitchen table. I
keep envisioning sharing coffee with Daniel’s mom at the table, when she comes
to visit next month. Eeek! We can’t wait.
Other
things you should know: Daniel got a haircut at an Ethiopian barber shop this
week. It was well-documented, don’t worry. He wanted a buzz cut, thinking
that’s all they’re really used to doing; but when they asked him, or indicated,
what cut he wanted, we noticed that other than the photo-shopped Avril Lavigne
poster on the wall, all we had to work with were photos of Ethiopian men and
their short haircuts. Thankfully, though, there was also a poster of the
Manchester United team. I scanned the heads of the white English soccer players
until we found something like a buzz cut. Both Daniel and I, and the 4
Ethiopian men in the shop, laughed so hard at the irony of this, of our elation
when we found our solution: oh! There’s a poster of white men! Come, look! (The
haircut was a success—though the electric razor was very slow and dull; he says
it felt like it was ripping his hair from his scalp).
Another
of the week’s successes is that I’ve finally felt useful to Soloda Elementary.
They asked me if I knew how to “maintain” (fix) computers, to which I said I
would try. Korom, our town’s school sports guy, said, “That is perfect for me.
That is what I want. Only to try.” In their office they were only using one of
their two computers, because they couldn’t get the one printer to work. How did
I fix it, you ask? How did I leave the office a room full of smiling, ecstatic
Ethiopians? Well, I plugged the printer into the computer. All the way. I was
relieved how easy it was to please them. I then explained to the secretary that
the computer makes a pretty brooping sound when it recognizes new hardware. If
you hear that, I explained, then it’s in all the way. I immediately regretted
giving away my secret.
We’d
like to close by saying that our last trip to Axum—to buy two pretty lamps that
can finally replace our fluorescent living room lighting—included a return bus
ride on a 12-passenger van, all windows closed so that “no one becomes sick
from the air.” This 12-passenger van held how many people that day, sitting
every which way on strangers’ laps, as we flung around dangerous mountainous
curves? Twenty-two. Twenty-two people.
P.S. We enjoyed two forms of audio evening entertainment
this week. The first was a superb radio theatre murder mystery by Orson Welles:
“The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.” The second was the presidential debate. If the
latter had the neat intermittent old-time 30’s Campbell’s Soup ads (and a few
minutes of debating issues instead of debating what the candidates stances were
on the issues), it would have been nearly as cool as the murder mystery.
Enjoy the following photos! Click below:
