The children of Layle - I'm constantly rebuking them for scratching their names into the desks with broken pencils or scrawling their initials in sharpie on the shelving unit of the office. I've also interrupted (and perhaps instigated) episodes of penning signatures across the shoulders of their football jerseys in imitation of Messi and Ronaldo. But who can blame them? They only want to be remembered - like the rest of us. They are simply trying to make a mark - some kind of mark, any mark - to affirm their existence since there isn't anyone else to affirm it with or for them.
Wouldn't you be desperate to make your mark in a parentless limbo with only two doors out - Adoption and Aging Out. It's not like the game shows where you get to choose. Somebody else - people you don't even know and might never meet - make that decision for you as they sort through referrals, searching out the imagined perfect fit. Flat out: no child is a perfect fit - including the ones you give birth to. Every child must make choices and adjustments based on how the family unit they live in functions. You can't pick if your child will have ADD or depression, so is it right to discriminate against another child who is also not responsible for the condition you find them in?
My little sister, for example, never received consistent formal schooling until Layla House because her school was too far when she lived in the village in Shashemane and besides her help was needed at home. Even then (entering 1st grade in the Layla school at the age of 10) her first formal schooling was not much help as it required Amharic and English, two languages she had never spoken and barely heard. Now 12, despite a work ethic that puts Benjamin Franklin to shame, Masho still struggles along in school. Is that any reason to discriminate?
Having been through what they have been through, having seen what they've seen, how much more do these children need us than your "average," "ok," "normal" teenager? At least these ones give a crap about their future and have enough self-respect to see school as an opportunity, a chance, a foundation for the future. No, we can't know what parts are broken ahead of time, but we can't with our own biological children either, and even when we can, it isn't our place to make a quality-of-life judgment anyway. A human's personhood, their being, is a separate entity from the physical body in which it dwells. The body merely houses the spirit and soul - it houses the
To paraphrase my dad's view of it, the more a child is broken, the more he needs love and security - and yet he is the least likely to receive it. What's really "broken" - that's what we aught to be "fixing." That is where time and attention aught to go. That is where the medicine will do the most healing. Jesus said it himself in Matthew 9:10, those who are well have no need of a doctor, but those who are ill.
Desperate to be remembered,
because what if nobody picks me?
Tell me something,
Does that mean I don't count?
Valuable? Because?
This is my name.
I will mark it on the walls,
On the sills, in the dirt,
At the well, by the gate,
In the paint.
Will anyone remember me?
Will anyone even notice?
Or am I just another name
Decaying
Out of your sight - not in your mind.
Denial won't make me disappear.
My name is everywhere
But I still might be decaying
in another 20 years.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Only Just Begun
I can’t leave this place. I can’t. I keep trying to rework in my head how to stay – take a year off from college? No. I can’t do that either. I need and want to finish. I want to go to conservatory or get a master’s after graduation anyway. I can’t postpone the completion of my bachelor’s degree and I know that. The trouble is that I’ve come up with all these ideas for Layla. There are so many possibilities
swimming in my head and I only have two weeks left. Layla is changing rapidly. I know it won’t be the same place when I come back, which means I may have to brainstorm all over again. I won’t be here to flow with the change.
It started when last week (see 'Guitar Lesson' above). Though it had only
been two hours since I had said goodbye for the day, I still missed the children. “Why not,” I thought. “Why not step in for a few minutes to say hello.” In the courtyard a fierce game of soccer careened from end to end. Someone scored just in time for the bell to prayers. We gathered in the dining room, those of us who wished to pray, sitting on woven straw mats. Three or four younger children stood to lead our prayers. Those kneeling, squatting, and sitting on the mat punctuated in unison each amaseginallo with amen. Then we listened to Amharic spiritual music boom from the television before a concluding round of prayers. With the final amen, all children rose, rolled away the mat, and started off to brush their teeth and settle in to bed.
Wishing to say goodnight to each of my 64 darlings, I joined the procession to the bedrooms. In the class B room, T_____ knelt at her bed, manipulating her sheets into place. Two other girls were rearranging stuffed animals and folding away clothes from the day. This was my sister’s room when she lived here. It’s sunny yellow walls and pink curtains make the black iron frame beds look softer. “Would you like to hear a lullaby?” I interrupted my own thoughts. Only gazes of puzzlement met my question. “You know,” I continued, “a goodnight song. Doesn’t anyone ever sing to before you sleep? Maybe your mother did when you were little, or maybe your grandmother?” Nobody knew what a lullaby or a goodnight song was. I gathered the girls to me on the cement floor, pulling T_____ from her entanglement with the sheets. T______ is wheelchair bound – I account for much of her transportation. Warmed by the crowded huddle and T in my lap, I sang “Now’s the Time to go to
Sleep,” “Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod,” and other lulling songs.
Applause interrupted the thickly sleepy atmosphere and I looked up to see two little boys, Ashernafi and Gossa, peering through the wired opening at the top of the bedroom wall. “Song! Song!” They chanted. “Song for us. Me! Me!” I hugged the girls goodnight, whispering Wadishalo into each of their ears. It’s the Amharic for “I love you,” when addressing a female. Wadihalo is for a boy. In the next room, Ashernafi and Gossa, both about 7 or 8 years old, climbed into my lap for their goodnight songs. There was still too much noise and rambunctiousness going on.
“Boys, boys,” I called out. “I can’t sing until you are quiet. Some settled into their beds, others came down to the floor. “What would you like to hear?” I asked.
“Jack Johnson,” answered Bruk. He pulled and unfolded a paper from his pocket. It was the lyrics to “Remember When,” a song Gutu and I had taught the group 3 students that afternoon. We sang the same verse three or four times before moving onto the Beatles’ “Imagine,” followed by “Be Though my Vision.” Room by room I made my way around the compound, singing new and familiar songs, distributing hugs and goodnight kisses. Everywhere I went Ashernafi and Gossa followed along, curling
up in my lap as though they’d never once heard me sing before.
A phone call eventually interrupted my songs and I soon left for the evening, so glad that I had been random enough to stop in for a while.
Speaking with Ivy the next morning, I decided that at least for the next few weeks of my time, I would come in and sing lullabies and goodnight songs with the children. The trouble is, after I leave, who will continue on? No one, unfortunately. Then, this afternoon, I was daydreaming up a project for a rainy Sunday afternoon. Charmaigne suggested free writing. The children don’t do much of it, mostly copy work instead. Even better, we decided that they could draw a picture and then write something about it. The more our conversation carried, the better the idea became. Now we have a plan to compile a small book that includes self- portraits, children’s stories of how they came to Layla, poetry by the children and English translations, and writing bits on what they dream of and hope for one day. Also included will be the stories of volunteers and how they found Layla, and some of our photographs and descriptive writings/musings as well. It will something I can take home to show you all, to give you a better glimpse of the children and
what life is here. What we do, where we go, and how we got here.
And I’ve only just come to see how I can better teach and share music with these children, tutor them, love them, be there for them. And I have to leave? How? I will need a lot of soft (what the children call tissues and toilet paper). I need to be here for months, maybe a few years – not just a summer. It’s too, too short. I want to be here for these kids to let them know that just because they haven’t been picked yet doesn’t mean that they aren’t loved. I love them, cranky, bashful, eccentric, sassy, adorable – I love them all, and all the time.
swimming in my head and I only have two weeks left. Layla is changing rapidly. I know it won’t be the same place when I come back, which means I may have to brainstorm all over again. I won’t be here to flow with the change.
It started when last week (see 'Guitar Lesson' above). Though it had only
been two hours since I had said goodbye for the day, I still missed the children. “Why not,” I thought. “Why not step in for a few minutes to say hello.” In the courtyard a fierce game of soccer careened from end to end. Someone scored just in time for the bell to prayers. We gathered in the dining room, those of us who wished to pray, sitting on woven straw mats. Three or four younger children stood to lead our prayers. Those kneeling, squatting, and sitting on the mat punctuated in unison each amaseginallo with amen. Then we listened to Amharic spiritual music boom from the television before a concluding round of prayers. With the final amen, all children rose, rolled away the mat, and started off to brush their teeth and settle in to bed.
Wishing to say goodnight to each of my 64 darlings, I joined the procession to the bedrooms. In the class B room, T_____ knelt at her bed, manipulating her sheets into place. Two other girls were rearranging stuffed animals and folding away clothes from the day. This was my sister’s room when she lived here. It’s sunny yellow walls and pink curtains make the black iron frame beds look softer. “Would you like to hear a lullaby?” I interrupted my own thoughts. Only gazes of puzzlement met my question. “You know,” I continued, “a goodnight song. Doesn’t anyone ever sing to before you sleep? Maybe your mother did when you were little, or maybe your grandmother?” Nobody knew what a lullaby or a goodnight song was. I gathered the girls to me on the cement floor, pulling T_____ from her entanglement with the sheets. T______ is wheelchair bound – I account for much of her transportation. Warmed by the crowded huddle and T in my lap, I sang “Now’s the Time to go to
Sleep,” “Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod,” and other lulling songs.
Applause interrupted the thickly sleepy atmosphere and I looked up to see two little boys, Ashernafi and Gossa, peering through the wired opening at the top of the bedroom wall. “Song! Song!” They chanted. “Song for us. Me! Me!” I hugged the girls goodnight, whispering Wadishalo into each of their ears. It’s the Amharic for “I love you,” when addressing a female. Wadihalo is for a boy. In the next room, Ashernafi and Gossa, both about 7 or 8 years old, climbed into my lap for their goodnight songs. There was still too much noise and rambunctiousness going on.
“Boys, boys,” I called out. “I can’t sing until you are quiet. Some settled into their beds, others came down to the floor. “What would you like to hear?” I asked.
“Jack Johnson,” answered Bruk. He pulled and unfolded a paper from his pocket. It was the lyrics to “Remember When,” a song Gutu and I had taught the group 3 students that afternoon. We sang the same verse three or four times before moving onto the Beatles’ “Imagine,” followed by “Be Though my Vision.” Room by room I made my way around the compound, singing new and familiar songs, distributing hugs and goodnight kisses. Everywhere I went Ashernafi and Gossa followed along, curling
up in my lap as though they’d never once heard me sing before.
A phone call eventually interrupted my songs and I soon left for the evening, so glad that I had been random enough to stop in for a while.
Speaking with Ivy the next morning, I decided that at least for the next few weeks of my time, I would come in and sing lullabies and goodnight songs with the children. The trouble is, after I leave, who will continue on? No one, unfortunately. Then, this afternoon, I was daydreaming up a project for a rainy Sunday afternoon. Charmaigne suggested free writing. The children don’t do much of it, mostly copy work instead. Even better, we decided that they could draw a picture and then write something about it. The more our conversation carried, the better the idea became. Now we have a plan to compile a small book that includes self- portraits, children’s stories of how they came to Layla, poetry by the children and English translations, and writing bits on what they dream of and hope for one day. Also included will be the stories of volunteers and how they found Layla, and some of our photographs and descriptive writings/musings as well. It will something I can take home to show you all, to give you a better glimpse of the children and
what life is here. What we do, where we go, and how we got here.
And I’ve only just come to see how I can better teach and share music with these children, tutor them, love them, be there for them. And I have to leave? How? I will need a lot of soft (what the children call tissues and toilet paper). I need to be here for months, maybe a few years – not just a summer. It’s too, too short. I want to be here for these kids to let them know that just because they haven’t been picked yet doesn’t mean that they aren’t loved. I love them, cranky, bashful, eccentric, sassy, adorable – I love them all, and all the time.
Guitar Lessons
There is young boy in the compound who has waited with his sister almost three years now. He was hopeful at first. He believed. Now – now he sits every day on a broken post at the edge of the soccer square. His faces creases in thought: his brow furrowed, jaw jutting. Right there on the post he might as well be a million miles away. The hurt of waiting, the burden of questions – they sit on his thin shoulders like the earth on Atlas. This agitated moodiness overcomes him in the afternoons while he waits for his turn to play soccer. It’s written in his eyes, “Why? Why am I still here?” Gifted exceedingly in academics, this child caught my attention in the first few days during a class when I asked the students to write a few sentences about the place they loved most. Walking from computer screen to computer screen I paused the longest at his work station, captivated by the three simple, but softly poetic lines he had written about a tree. English is far from his first language (it’s his third or fourth I believe) and yet he had a better mastery than many native speakers.
My goal during my time here at Layla is to connect and build a relationship with each of the 64 children above the KG level. So far, very good. But this one little boy…he was, as I have so said, very, very far away. Attempts at conversation quickly died with one word responses or no response at all. Then on Wednesday evening I was walking by the compound around 7:00pm. Having left the compound only two hours before, I still felt an overwhelming sense of separation. I missed them, so I went back in, just in time to join the end of the soccer game and then go with them for prayers. Crowded on woven mats, the children took turns leading the prayers which they interspersed with Amharic spiritual music. Trundling some of the littlest ones off to bed, I began as I often do to sing a song.
It seems there is always a song on my mind if not on my lips as well. It was then that it came to me: does anyone sing them lullabies? Does anyone read them bedtime stories? So from room to room I went as the children settled into their bunks, singing lullabies and hymns as I remembered them, and distributing goodnight hugs and kisses. Even the older children settled back amiably for the songs. There were four youngsters in particular though, who followed me into every room, curling up in my lap, humming along. To the cries for “More! More!” I answered that on Saturday night I would bring the guitar and sing to them properly! It was then that I saw the young boy’s eyes open – at the word
guitar.
The next afternoon I observed him studying my practice as I searched for and rehearsed a few songs. Then yesterday he came to me. “Barbara, you teach me guitar? You teach me play?” As someone who can only fumble through a series of chords (primarly G, D, C, and Em) I perhaps should have said I couldn’t. But I saw the light in his eyes. I saw the anticipation, the earnest desire. So I said yes. Down came the little Luna for Z____’s first lesson. I played a chord, then gave him the guitar to try. Back and forth for 45 minutes we passed the small guitar until he had comfortably managed to sort his way through a few cycles of Em, C, G. It’s only been one day, but I’ve already seen him begin to open up, like a flower trying to decide
whether or not to face the sun. He asked for another lesson which I promised for tomorrow (Saturday). Music is opening him. He flashed one of his rare smiles and even attempted to crack a joke during practice.
The child with the guitar in his hands is not internally the same boy who sits on the broken post all afternoon. With the warm hum of the strings, an avenue inside opens up and a more comfortable, relaxed character comes out. One need not be a master to be a teacher. Patience and caring is one way to begin. If I can see even one child begin to find peace and hope through the sounds of the little guitar, that one accomplishment is enough to show me that I have spent at least some of my time
wisely and purposefully. It’s more valuable than any purchasable item. Hope cannot be bought and sold. Healing is not found in stores. Love is only available from person to person. You cannot have these things on your own.
My goal during my time here at Layla is to connect and build a relationship with each of the 64 children above the KG level. So far, very good. But this one little boy…he was, as I have so said, very, very far away. Attempts at conversation quickly died with one word responses or no response at all. Then on Wednesday evening I was walking by the compound around 7:00pm. Having left the compound only two hours before, I still felt an overwhelming sense of separation. I missed them, so I went back in, just in time to join the end of the soccer game and then go with them for prayers. Crowded on woven mats, the children took turns leading the prayers which they interspersed with Amharic spiritual music. Trundling some of the littlest ones off to bed, I began as I often do to sing a song.
It seems there is always a song on my mind if not on my lips as well. It was then that it came to me: does anyone sing them lullabies? Does anyone read them bedtime stories? So from room to room I went as the children settled into their bunks, singing lullabies and hymns as I remembered them, and distributing goodnight hugs and kisses. Even the older children settled back amiably for the songs. There were four youngsters in particular though, who followed me into every room, curling up in my lap, humming along. To the cries for “More! More!” I answered that on Saturday night I would bring the guitar and sing to them properly! It was then that I saw the young boy’s eyes open – at the word
guitar.
The next afternoon I observed him studying my practice as I searched for and rehearsed a few songs. Then yesterday he came to me. “Barbara, you teach me guitar? You teach me play?” As someone who can only fumble through a series of chords (primarly G, D, C, and Em) I perhaps should have said I couldn’t. But I saw the light in his eyes. I saw the anticipation, the earnest desire. So I said yes. Down came the little Luna for Z____’s first lesson. I played a chord, then gave him the guitar to try. Back and forth for 45 minutes we passed the small guitar until he had comfortably managed to sort his way through a few cycles of Em, C, G. It’s only been one day, but I’ve already seen him begin to open up, like a flower trying to decide
whether or not to face the sun. He asked for another lesson which I promised for tomorrow (Saturday). Music is opening him. He flashed one of his rare smiles and even attempted to crack a joke during practice.
The child with the guitar in his hands is not internally the same boy who sits on the broken post all afternoon. With the warm hum of the strings, an avenue inside opens up and a more comfortable, relaxed character comes out. One need not be a master to be a teacher. Patience and caring is one way to begin. If I can see even one child begin to find peace and hope through the sounds of the little guitar, that one accomplishment is enough to show me that I have spent at least some of my time
wisely and purposefully. It’s more valuable than any purchasable item. Hope cannot be bought and sold. Healing is not found in stores. Love is only available from person to person. You cannot have these things on your own.
Death in the Air
Do you know what it is to feel death in the air? It isn’t always physical death. It could be the death of a moment, of an era, or a relationship, of a hope, of a dream, of a project. It all came down at once. We lost a baby this morning, a baby who hung on so hard to life, long enough for a father to come for him. Eric never got to take his son home, but he did hold the child. Destroyed by HIV/AIDS and consequential side effects, the baby’s visage and frame was that of a wrinkled and scrunched old man: thin-faced, frail, pinched, ebbing from life.
That same day a sparkling little girl that I recalled from last year left us, but not for a new family. Fortunately she was restored to her biological family, but not without deep disappointment at the realization that she would never be adopted to the United States - where all her friends are going. If nothing else, she will no longer be with us at the compound amongst her “brothers,” “sisters,” and Mother Ivy. Layla has been her home for well over a year now and now. This intelligent know-it-all student might never see a Uni classroom. She has so much potential, but how much future does she have? And what constitutes future? I see her doing very well at Mount Holyoke in another ten years. I hope I can find her then. I hope she is still well and whole and happy then. Leadership – it’s a characteristic evident even from a very young age. This one could be very influential in her country.
Blast! Why can’t we get her a decent education and some respect for her gender!
Then there was the news of a transfer. Laws are changing, regulations are changing, and now all Layla children must be paper-ready. We have nearly two handfuls that are not and so therefore must return to orphanages until their papers are complete.
Layla is not an actually an orphanage it. It’s a transition home. All children are paper-ready and often find families quickly. But there are those who have waited for years – some for 2, some for 3, some even more. Layla exposes its children to American culture, expectations, and standards as much as possible in order to minimize culture shock and ensure as smooth transition as possible. The smoother the transition, the better the bonding between the family and the child. Smooth transitions affirm the idea of adoption as both feasible and desirable. What are we supposed to do with six million parentless children?
Yes, death lingers in the air today and everyone can feel it. It’s heavier on the inside than on the outside. All of it is out of our hands. This is what helpless feels like. Watch, wait, pray – because only God truly knows.
That same day a sparkling little girl that I recalled from last year left us, but not for a new family. Fortunately she was restored to her biological family, but not without deep disappointment at the realization that she would never be adopted to the United States - where all her friends are going. If nothing else, she will no longer be with us at the compound amongst her “brothers,” “sisters,” and Mother Ivy. Layla has been her home for well over a year now and now. This intelligent know-it-all student might never see a Uni classroom. She has so much potential, but how much future does she have? And what constitutes future? I see her doing very well at Mount Holyoke in another ten years. I hope I can find her then. I hope she is still well and whole and happy then. Leadership – it’s a characteristic evident even from a very young age. This one could be very influential in her country.
Blast! Why can’t we get her a decent education and some respect for her gender!
Then there was the news of a transfer. Laws are changing, regulations are changing, and now all Layla children must be paper-ready. We have nearly two handfuls that are not and so therefore must return to orphanages until their papers are complete.
Layla is not an actually an orphanage it. It’s a transition home. All children are paper-ready and often find families quickly. But there are those who have waited for years – some for 2, some for 3, some even more. Layla exposes its children to American culture, expectations, and standards as much as possible in order to minimize culture shock and ensure as smooth transition as possible. The smoother the transition, the better the bonding between the family and the child. Smooth transitions affirm the idea of adoption as both feasible and desirable. What are we supposed to do with six million parentless children?
Yes, death lingers in the air today and everyone can feel it. It’s heavier on the inside than on the outside. All of it is out of our hands. This is what helpless feels like. Watch, wait, pray – because only God truly knows.
Teaching
Only my second day and would you believe it! The math teacher is out on his holiday. Guess who’s teaching math – the music major and English grammar geek, grades 1-5 every day, through simple English and elementary Amharic. I’ve already learned to count to 100 and know the words for “add,” “subtract,” and “equals” by heart. To the youngest children I’ve spent two days trying to explain how to tell time. Their English is the most minimal of all the groups in the compound save for babies and KG. Some of them barely speak Amharic from years of living a more tribal life in their far-flung villages.
Scott, the volunteer responsible for bringing guitars, has been assisting the music teacher Gutu in class and now that I’m here, we’ll give Gutu a chance to observe and teach the classes ourselves. The goal is to share as many new songs as possible as they have been singing the same set for a few years now. Though my guitar skills are still as poor as ever, my voice seems to have improved. Scott and I now serenade as well as teach the classes per request of the children. Sitting on the cement floor, grade 2 crowded around our knees, Scott and I began with our classics: “Here Comes the Sun,” “Imagine,” “’Til Kingdom Come,” “Autumn Leaves.” Little voices caught the tune and puzzled unintelligibly through the words. Little bodies swayed in time.
Little eyes watched with fascination while Scott’s fingers danced with the strings. Little ears opened to the sounds of our song. When I close my eyes I can feel the vibrations of my own voice blend with those of the small child leaning comfortably against me. His shaven head drifts left and then right in rhythm, his fingers softly tap out time. This is why I do music. It does something to the body, the soul, and most especially the spirit that cannot be put into words. It heals, it soothes, it softens, it settles, it loves, it breathes, it covers, it calls, and still there is so much more that it does that I don’t have words for. I don’t want to be a music
teacher necessarily, but I want to share music; I want to use music to give hope and bring comfort and to offer a means of expression to things inside ourselves we cannot otherwise extract.
Scott, the volunteer responsible for bringing guitars, has been assisting the music teacher Gutu in class and now that I’m here, we’ll give Gutu a chance to observe and teach the classes ourselves. The goal is to share as many new songs as possible as they have been singing the same set for a few years now. Though my guitar skills are still as poor as ever, my voice seems to have improved. Scott and I now serenade as well as teach the classes per request of the children. Sitting on the cement floor, grade 2 crowded around our knees, Scott and I began with our classics: “Here Comes the Sun,” “Imagine,” “’Til Kingdom Come,” “Autumn Leaves.” Little voices caught the tune and puzzled unintelligibly through the words. Little bodies swayed in time.
Little eyes watched with fascination while Scott’s fingers danced with the strings. Little ears opened to the sounds of our song. When I close my eyes I can feel the vibrations of my own voice blend with those of the small child leaning comfortably against me. His shaven head drifts left and then right in rhythm, his fingers softly tap out time. This is why I do music. It does something to the body, the soul, and most especially the spirit that cannot be put into words. It heals, it soothes, it softens, it settles, it loves, it breathes, it covers, it calls, and still there is so much more that it does that I don’t have words for. I don’t want to be a music
teacher necessarily, but I want to share music; I want to use music to give hope and bring comfort and to offer a means of expression to things inside ourselves we cannot otherwise extract.
You Know You're Back in Ethiopia When...
Right, there’s no toilet paper in the airport…or the western shopping mall…or the government offices. In fact, you start gauging the status of a place based whether or not it has tp or not.
That warm, uncertain scent of spice and sweat and rain permeates your nose and envelopes you from your first step into the airport.
“Ferenge! Ferenge! Rings in your ears as you walk down the street. Lately the new favorite is “China! China!” Last I checked I don’t look Asian, but then again I can’t find a mirror around here so who knows what I look like these days.
Saying 'thank you' is as simple as seven syllables: ameuseugenallo. It rolls off your tongue like tej (the local honey wine – mm mm good!)
Street vendors and hawkers are convinced that you really do want to buy their cheep chewing gum, damp tissues, and stale biscuits but you’re just playing hard to get.
There was one man who followed me from shop to shop one evening for over half an hour trying sell me an umbrella. His price? Three times the ordinary amount. I don’t think so! Not all ferenge are ignorant.
The car frequently becomes a boat in the flooded streets beneath undying torrents of rain.
Thirteen of every fourteen days it rains heavily and some of those days like God forgot to send Noah a flood back in the day.
The toothless butcher you sat next to at the World Cup final waves and shouts every
morning, “Spain! Spain!” It pays to support the opposing team in a Dutch club - it makes you memorable if nothing else.
Coffee is thick like molasses, rich like syrup, bitter like only good coffee can be.
Yes, I’m back in Ethiopia.
You live on bananas when your stomach needs a break from raw meat and fire sauce.
That guard you walk by every day as you pass the Zambian embassy on your way to work
pleads with you on a regular basis to marry him. He still doesn’t know your name and you’ve convinced him that you don’t know what a phone is, never mind how to work one, so his phone number is useless because you don’t know how to call him.
Internet – like an endangered species it’s a rare sighting and often a sickly one.
You can’t really speak English anymore. Your grammar is confused and word choice bizarre. Not only do you mix your few Amharic phrases but also all of high school’s Spanish lectures and French tutorials.
Running is sport for more than just you. It looks like the Pied Piper of Hamlin – streams of street children, dogs, and goats trail shouting, barking, and murmuring behind your stumbling steps. It’s 6am and the fruit vendors get a kick out of your wheezing while the taxi drivers chuckle at your pace. My first morning I chased into the hills of Alem Bank (Amharic for World Bank) thinking I could do what every Ethiopian runner does. Out of breathe in fifteen minutes. My first morning running in the city I heard a pair of shoes clapping on the red and yellow tiles of the Addis Ababa sidewalk. Soon alean Ethiopian in worn trainers paced beside me. We ran together in unspoken harmony – clap clap clap – up the steep side walk, over uncovered drainage holes, and under the pinking sky. Disappointingly short-winded, I waved goodbye near the creast of the longest hill. If only I could have mastered that hill.
That warm, uncertain scent of spice and sweat and rain permeates your nose and envelopes you from your first step into the airport.
“Ferenge! Ferenge! Rings in your ears as you walk down the street. Lately the new favorite is “China! China!” Last I checked I don’t look Asian, but then again I can’t find a mirror around here so who knows what I look like these days.
Saying 'thank you' is as simple as seven syllables: ameuseugenallo. It rolls off your tongue like tej (the local honey wine – mm mm good!)
Street vendors and hawkers are convinced that you really do want to buy their cheep chewing gum, damp tissues, and stale biscuits but you’re just playing hard to get.
There was one man who followed me from shop to shop one evening for over half an hour trying sell me an umbrella. His price? Three times the ordinary amount. I don’t think so! Not all ferenge are ignorant.
The car frequently becomes a boat in the flooded streets beneath undying torrents of rain.
Thirteen of every fourteen days it rains heavily and some of those days like God forgot to send Noah a flood back in the day.
The toothless butcher you sat next to at the World Cup final waves and shouts every
morning, “Spain! Spain!” It pays to support the opposing team in a Dutch club - it makes you memorable if nothing else.
Coffee is thick like molasses, rich like syrup, bitter like only good coffee can be.
Yes, I’m back in Ethiopia.
You live on bananas when your stomach needs a break from raw meat and fire sauce.
That guard you walk by every day as you pass the Zambian embassy on your way to work
pleads with you on a regular basis to marry him. He still doesn’t know your name and you’ve convinced him that you don’t know what a phone is, never mind how to work one, so his phone number is useless because you don’t know how to call him.
Internet – like an endangered species it’s a rare sighting and often a sickly one.
You can’t really speak English anymore. Your grammar is confused and word choice bizarre. Not only do you mix your few Amharic phrases but also all of high school’s Spanish lectures and French tutorials.
Running is sport for more than just you. It looks like the Pied Piper of Hamlin – streams of street children, dogs, and goats trail shouting, barking, and murmuring behind your stumbling steps. It’s 6am and the fruit vendors get a kick out of your wheezing while the taxi drivers chuckle at your pace. My first morning I chased into the hills of Alem Bank (Amharic for World Bank) thinking I could do what every Ethiopian runner does. Out of breathe in fifteen minutes. My first morning running in the city I heard a pair of shoes clapping on the red and yellow tiles of the Addis Ababa sidewalk. Soon alean Ethiopian in worn trainers paced beside me. We ran together in unspoken harmony – clap clap clap – up the steep side walk, over uncovered drainage holes, and under the pinking sky. Disappointingly short-winded, I waved goodbye near the creast of the longest hill. If only I could have mastered that hill.
Bahbahra
“Thank you for flying with KLM. Have a pleasant stay.” The PA system clicked off and passengers groaned to unbend themselves from the seven hour flight, stretching cramped arms towards the overhead compartments. Nobody rushed. No matter how fast you move, there are so many stages to move through in the Bole airport that just being first in line guarantees you nothing. In the baggage claim, a young man stumbled over my name. “Bahbahra? You Bahbahra?” he queried. I barely had my feet on the ground and somehow this man knew my name. “How? How do you know?” I was ready for scams, fraud, you name it. Turns out Solomon, that’s his name, is the nephew of my host parents. Outside the doors, Mrs. Gurmu waited beamishly for me. Adu, her daughter and my friend from school, clearly gets most of her looks from her mother – long and lean; high, round check bones; thoughtful eyes.
Negotiating a taxi to Alem Bank took what seemed like years and I was soon to find out why. We drove and drove and drove, the roads deteriorating increasingly until the cab had us far from the center of the city and into the foothills where, despite growing populations and active construction, the roads are little more than mud and large rocks. I had forgotten too much of Ethiopia. Adu’s parents welcomed me as though it were my home and treated me as a daughter. My intention was to live out the summer with them and experience life in an Ethiopian home. Unfortunately, I soon discovered that commuting 2 hours both ways 5 to 6 days a week brought me home after dark too often. Buses and share taxis are unpredictable. There are no tickets. Passengers are at the mercy of each others’ sharp elbows and knees and there are no queues – first come first serve. I didn’t want to make the move at first. I didn’t want to hurt my host family’s feelings and I had grown comfortable and accustomed, but I was here to work not to temper my own desires.
The news that one of the volunteers had brought three guitars to donate to the music program comforted me as I so much missed the opportunities of making music. So I packed my bag and hauled off to the AAI volunteer house, a very comfortable compound embedded amongst embassy dwellings. We walk a mere 15 minutes to work every morning and only 5 more to the Starbuck’s wannabe of Ethiopia: Kaldi’s, where the ice cream is smooth and the coffee like charcoal. Living with the other volunteers is, I admit, and experience not to be missed! We are like family here. There’s Scott, a 48 year-old California businessman and father of two teens. All three share a musical, athletic, and philanthropic heart. He’s here because back in the day (and I mean middle school) he dated the woman in charge of our volunteers. They haven’t seen each other for 35 years. Guess how they reconnected…facebook! Then there’s Janessa, a 21 year-old anthropology major from the University of Washington, Seattle. Her boyfriend’s best friend happens to be Melissa Fay Green’s son (yes, the very same Melissa who wrote “There’s No Me Without You”). This world is small. Very, very
small. And still I get lost at every turn in this city! Jessica is our lead volunteer. I don’t know her title but she came here more than a year ago for a few month stint, went home, packed up her life, and moved back. Next week she leaves for her first visit home in a year. She’s one the first people I’ve met who knew, as I have, from as far back as she can remember that Africa was inevitable. To us, it’s obvious. She and I, we’ve always known this was where we were to come to – where exactly we didn’t know but reaching the continent was a good beginning.
I admit that, though it’s very odd, the first few days of this trip I looked around me and wondered what the heck I was doing and why in the world I had come. Every aspect was so much more complicated and confusing than I recalled. I think I had the expectation that the second time around I would ace this thing, this complicated, intricate country of delicate though hearty yellow-brown people who speak a language and live a culture that does not readily translate. But I am open, and now that I’m
permanently settled in this house I feel at home once again in the country. Comfortable, relaxed, and soft towards these children. It’s hard to be loving when you’re tense and tired.
Ethiopia has a way of mellowing you, or soothing and settling. Time is less of a constraint, the living more innovative and flexible though rarely in the category of expected. It doesn’t take a Rasta to relax.
Negotiating a taxi to Alem Bank took what seemed like years and I was soon to find out why. We drove and drove and drove, the roads deteriorating increasingly until the cab had us far from the center of the city and into the foothills where, despite growing populations and active construction, the roads are little more than mud and large rocks. I had forgotten too much of Ethiopia. Adu’s parents welcomed me as though it were my home and treated me as a daughter. My intention was to live out the summer with them and experience life in an Ethiopian home. Unfortunately, I soon discovered that commuting 2 hours both ways 5 to 6 days a week brought me home after dark too often. Buses and share taxis are unpredictable. There are no tickets. Passengers are at the mercy of each others’ sharp elbows and knees and there are no queues – first come first serve. I didn’t want to make the move at first. I didn’t want to hurt my host family’s feelings and I had grown comfortable and accustomed, but I was here to work not to temper my own desires.
The news that one of the volunteers had brought three guitars to donate to the music program comforted me as I so much missed the opportunities of making music. So I packed my bag and hauled off to the AAI volunteer house, a very comfortable compound embedded amongst embassy dwellings. We walk a mere 15 minutes to work every morning and only 5 more to the Starbuck’s wannabe of Ethiopia: Kaldi’s, where the ice cream is smooth and the coffee like charcoal. Living with the other volunteers is, I admit, and experience not to be missed! We are like family here. There’s Scott, a 48 year-old California businessman and father of two teens. All three share a musical, athletic, and philanthropic heart. He’s here because back in the day (and I mean middle school) he dated the woman in charge of our volunteers. They haven’t seen each other for 35 years. Guess how they reconnected…facebook! Then there’s Janessa, a 21 year-old anthropology major from the University of Washington, Seattle. Her boyfriend’s best friend happens to be Melissa Fay Green’s son (yes, the very same Melissa who wrote “There’s No Me Without You”). This world is small. Very, very
small. And still I get lost at every turn in this city! Jessica is our lead volunteer. I don’t know her title but she came here more than a year ago for a few month stint, went home, packed up her life, and moved back. Next week she leaves for her first visit home in a year. She’s one the first people I’ve met who knew, as I have, from as far back as she can remember that Africa was inevitable. To us, it’s obvious. She and I, we’ve always known this was where we were to come to – where exactly we didn’t know but reaching the continent was a good beginning.
I admit that, though it’s very odd, the first few days of this trip I looked around me and wondered what the heck I was doing and why in the world I had come. Every aspect was so much more complicated and confusing than I recalled. I think I had the expectation that the second time around I would ace this thing, this complicated, intricate country of delicate though hearty yellow-brown people who speak a language and live a culture that does not readily translate. But I am open, and now that I’m
permanently settled in this house I feel at home once again in the country. Comfortable, relaxed, and soft towards these children. It’s hard to be loving when you’re tense and tired.
Ethiopia has a way of mellowing you, or soothing and settling. Time is less of a constraint, the living more innovative and flexible though rarely in the category of expected. It doesn’t take a Rasta to relax.
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