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.