Happy Fourth of July!

From Danielle:

Sagure is charming: she has her winding red country roads and her cheerful, curious people. Though the people stare and congregate and follow, they are always glad to practice their English with us: HellohowareyouIamfinewhatisyourname? (all in one breath), and to correct our Amharic.

The weather is doubly charming. Nights and mornings are cold (which makes our cold bucket baths a tad icy), and the rain (zinab) has averaged to about once a day. It is beautiful and refreshing: who knew blankets could be necessary in Africa?

We are staying with a family of four: Fikadu the father, Salamwit (Salam) the mother, Timket (age 12-ish) the niece whose parents have died, and Elsabet (age 4). The ruler of the home? Elsabet. Daniel has adequately compared Timket to Cinderella: she has to be the sweetest soul in Sagure, and is by far the hardest working 12-year-old we’ve ever seen. Not once have we heard her complain. She dutifully works all day (and somehow finds time to run to school), while young Queen Elsabet orders her around.

One of the most special sights is watching Daniel play music for the children here. At home, Timket is his biggest fan. Usually, within the first 10 minutes of our returning from Amharic class, Timket says, “Danny musica?” and he obeys. (We are both called Danny here; they cannot notice or understand the difference in our names). Timket enjoys the background banjo and harmonica tunes as she cooks. Once while I watched and “helped” her cook (the knives are dull here; I felt like an invalid), and Daniel provided the soundtrack, Timket swayed back and forth with the beat, and said with the most elated expression, “Musica iwadalahu,” (I like music). Her voice and her volume rose: “Be tam be tam be tam IWADALAHU.” (Be tam = very much).

Later Daniel will mention a certain gorgeous Sunday afternoon walk, during which 25 or so of Sagure’s children clung to and joined us. Atop a gorgeous red crater of sorts, my husband stood and played the daylights out of his harmonica, while the crowd of kids surrounded him. When I approached to take a photo, he was panting; it was quite the performance.

The six of us live inside one large compound, consisting of a suk (the small shop our father owns), a shint bet (“toilet” house), a house for the cows and sheep (this means fresh milk for our coffee), an outdoor kitchen, and our home. It’s a medium-sized house with a living area, a bedroom (where we sleep; we assume Fikadu and Salam have given up their room for us, as their bed is in the main living area), and two storage rooms (one of which houses the shower bet, where we are supposed to bucket bathe—though we prefer bathing in our room).

As I type this, my right hand is wearing purple glittery nailpolish while my left hand wears none. Today Salam insisted on painting my nails. On one of my hands. Hers look the same: I am guessing she keeps her right hand free, since she cooks and works mostly with this hand? As she sloppily painted them, I remembered my refusal at painting them before we left America: I have no nail polish remover, and it is a pet peeve of mine to let it slowly chip away on its own. But in this, like at the dinner table, we have little say, or reason to say, what we want or don’t want. All I know is, I picked the wrong day to “gorsha” Daniel. At dinner I fed him directly from my hand to his mouth (a cultural symbol of friendship—our first time doing this in Ethiopia). While it got the expected laughs from our family, Daniel grumbled under his breath. “All I taste is your nail polish.” We tried explaining with our hands and laughter what had happened—what Daniel tasted. I’m not sure our mother understood, but Daniel muttered to me, “I’m going to pee on my hand and then gorsha you later.”

I’ve come to believe my stomach is schizophrenic. I alternate every three days between, “Injera is horrible”; “Injera would be okay if I didn’t have to have it once or twice every day;” and “Oh my goodness, injera is delicious.” Thankfully, the past week has been the latter. I am finding that the more time I spend in the outdoor kitchen with the ladies, for “training!”—one of the few English words Salam knows—the more I enjoy the food. There must be something in watching familiar ingredients, so fresh and delicious, fall into the pot, and smelling the lovely aromas of preparation. Either way, I am happy to say I now even crave the Ethiopian food.

When we first arrived in Sagure, I was confessing to Daniel: “Wow, this is so cool. Look how much communication can be had between people who barely know each other’s languages. See? You don’t need language to communicate. There are other ways.” I was excited about this find—even though I enjoy learning Amharic, and we’re here to teach people English; but it is nice to know that the tower of Babel didn’t ruin everything. Timely enough, surrounding this moment of my “language can be superfluous” discovery, I miscommunicated in the worst way. And it was hilarious.

Here’s how it happened:

(Setting: Living room. Dinner time. Injera, shuro, gomen on plates).

*PRELIMINARY NOTE: “ferenji” means foreigner, but is associated with white people. Upon walking down the street, we are hollered at in every direction: FERENJI! CHINA! Because of recent construction work done in Ethiopia by the Chinese, any white person can also be mistaken for an Asian at any time.

SALAM: (smiling, eyes wide) Black ferenji in Sagure? Ferenji black?

DANIELLE: (nods). Awo (yes). Black ferenji. Sime Marcelle naw. Elle. (incorrect Amharic for “her name is Marcelle”)

SALAM: Black ferenji in America? Black?

DANIEL: (nods). Awo. Bizu (many). Marcelle in Sagure.

SALAM: (laughs uncontrollably in disbelief)

DANIELLE: (curious about how quickly word travels)** Did you see her? (dramatically indicates own eyes) or did you hear about her? (dramatically indicates own ears).

SALAM: (gasps in surprise, nods, indicates eyes and furiously shakes head, indicates ears and furiously shakes head).

DANIELLE: Did you see her, or did you hear about her? (again indicates eyes and ears)

DANIEL: Danielle, she’s going to think—

SALAM: Black ferenji no (points to eyes, furiously shakes head), black ferenji no (points to ears, furiously shakes head).

DANIELLE: (gasps). NO!

ALL: (laugh furiously, continuously)

DANIELLE: No! She can see. She can hear. No, no. (violently shakes head) I’m sorry.

SALAM: (laughs, voice rises) Black ferenji no (indicates eyes), black ferenji no (indicates ears)!

ALL: (laugh)

DANIELLE: Aye, aye (no, no)! Aznalo (sorry). Ibid. Ibid (points to self). Ibid (crazy). I am ibid. I didn’t mean that. (points to self) Ib-id.

DANIEL: Oh no, Danielle—

SALAM: (gasps) Black ferenji no (indicates eyes)! Black ferenji no (indicates ears)! Black ferenji ibid! Ibid!

Yes, it is entirely my fault if all of Sagure now believes that Elle, the black ferenji, is blind, deaf, and crazy. As we retired to our room that night, our stomach muscles sore from all the laughter, Daniel chided me: “Language isn’t important?”

**Note on word traveling fast here in Sagure: there are 10 of us living in this town. We hear facts about each other each night from our host parents. For instance, “Ashley no injera, no meat, no milk, no eggs,” or “Your friend is sick,” or “Joel did such and such,” or “Today you Girma Café?” because the café owners, or everyone in town, announces where we go, where we are. All the time.

Daniel’s Sagure Journal

19 June 2012

How could you keep from Romanticizing the Peace Corps? Yesterday a teacher from a high school here in Sagure asked me where he could find me. I said, “I live with Fik’ado, the merchant.” Yesterday, I also played Dock Boggs and Woody Guthrie tunes on the banjo while a four-year-old Habesha girl named after a British queen danced.

Also, I haven’t been able to eat properly in weeks and my stomach hasn’t felt right in days. And I had to watch that same four-year-old breast feed during dinner. But, hey, I’m in a temperate, tropic, scenic mountain village (probably one of the only places in the northern hemisphere where you could comfortably look at the Southern Cross while wearing a coat). Here even the frustrations with eating or bathing or speaking have a sweetness like exercise and a quaintness like a family lake house that is maintained without modern amenities out of nostalgia or maybe something more like reverence.

22 June 2012

For the last three days, I’ve been The Spotty Man. Hives in America are miserable; here they’re worse. Today the hives are on my hands and feet; tomorrow, Lord willing, they’ll be gone. Poor Danielle, she had to spend her 25^th birthday with a vomity, itchy, feverish husband and got sick herself to boot. We’ve agreed to forget yesterday and make believe that it’s her birthday later.

24 June 2012

Our Peace Corps friend Paul from Idaho has said a few times when telling stories about back home—and then s*** got Western. I was never really sure what he meant, but yesterday, s*** got Western. We were leaving shai/bunna (tea/coffee break) with some friends when a beggar came up to us asking for money, grabbing at our arms, and following us. It’s annoying, but not uncommon here, and I would be terribly surprised if any of the beggars became dangerous. Anyway, we crossed the street and looked back and saw the beggar face down on the ground with Abdul—a local acquaintance—kicking him while another man slapped the beggar on the back and shoulders. We asked Helen, our Amharic teacher why Abdul was kicking the man, and she said, “Well, Abdul is the Homestay Family Coordinator.” Danielle and I had just recently tried to figure out exactly what that job title meant. Now we knew.

Other ways s*** got western:

1.     We were walking to this beautiful church on a beautiful hill on the outskirts of Sagure with about 8 other ferenjis, and we attracted a crowd of kids. The gang of kids was half Peter Pan’s lost boys and half the gang of good-for-nothings from Pinocchio that eventually turn into donkeys. The good-for-nothings started throwing stones at the women in our group when we were walking back, and a few of them flipped out, picking up rocks they could hardly carry and swearing to maul any child that got close to us. It was almost exactly like Lord of the Flies except, thankfully none of our otherwise kind, understanding women decimated a Piggy.

2.     The four-year-old Elsabet gets less cute the more Amharic we learn. Just before dinner yesterday we were lounging around the living room when Selam—Elsabet’s mother came in. “Give me cookies!” Elsa shouted in Amharic. “Dog! Theif! Bring me cookies!” Selam looked up briefly and then decided to ignore it.

Today I went to an Ethiopian Orthodox church for the first time. I had no idea what was going on, where to stand, or what to do. Selam came with Danielle and I, but men and women attend separately, so she and Danielle went one way, and I went another. I stood outside the church gate with some other men (I’m not sure that anyone was inside the church, which looked under construction) and spent about an hour and a half in prayer and meditation. The men I showed up with left, so I went too. Apparently I missed half of church (the sermon, sacraments, and a good chunk of more liturgical prayer). I’m not sure what church is like for the Ethiopians, and though I’m sure I experienced it totally differently, I did enjoy it.