Operation: Find the Smiles

I got a call Sunday night from an Ethiopian friend I had met, who does work with Operation Smile. He said he was in Jimma, and tomorrow he was going out to look for kids who had cleft palates. Did I want to come?

I threw some stuff in a bag and left the next morning. I got into Jimma at 10 a.m. and met Teddy in his car on the road leading to Jimma. Off we went.

There was a file he had with a photo of 3 siblings, all of whom had cleft palates. I was expecting babies… children even. These siblings were adolescents, maybe even adults. Two boys and one girl, all looking down or to the side, averting their vacant eyes from the camera. Teddy talked to them two years ago when they were in Jimma, waiting for the surgery that would fix their birth defects. He said they were ridiculed as children and never left the house. I could see the truth of it written in their frozen faces.

Luckily, Operation Smile was able to perform the operation, and now we were on a mission to find them for a follow-up. The home-of-record written on their file was Limu Genet, a town 2 hours off the paved road from Jimma.

The road to Limu Genet was dusty, but infinitely more comfortable than our usual methods of transport. We got to there around noon, and met up with Chris, another Peace Corps volunteer who lives there. We started showing the photo and asking around. A lot of people got excited, and swore they knew the girl but not the boys. One man was so confident that he jumped in the car to show us the way; 17 kilometers in the direction we just came from.

Back on the dirt road, we arrived in another small village and started asking around. This time people got even more excited, and soon formed a massive crowd around Teddy and the photo. They knew the girl they said, but not the boys. It was sort of perplexing, since they were all siblings. Why did they only know the girl? Either way, another man was so confident that he also jumped in the car. And off we went.

If the dirt road was a little rugged, the next roads we traveled on were complete off-roading. We took little paths winding up and down the jagged village side. I watched from the passenger seat, gripping the door handle and trying not to imagine what would happen if the car broke down. At one point we came upon a small river. Teddy drove right up and was ready to forge it. I was certain we’d get stuck. He asked a naked man to our right, who was bathing, is this ok? Yeah, fine, the man said. And forward we went. To my relief, we made it through.

It was nearly 2 in the afternoon when we reached the next village. We pulled out the photo and asked around. Some people thought maybe they knew the girl. No one knew the boys. Another confident man jumped in, and we continued on.

A little farther in, we came upon a leckso bet– a giant tent set up for funerals. Teddy and the men got out and started asking around. Chris and I stayed in the car. Slowly, kids started emerging from small mud huts around us. Some came with giant, excited smiles, while others had wide, frightened eyes. We greeted them, and they turned their timid faces. We sat for awhile, staring at each other.

Soon a farmer came to the window. Unlike any farmer I had ever met, he spoke a little English. We told him our names, where we’re from and what we’re doing here. He asked if we’d had lunch; Chris eagerly replied no. It had been hours since breakfast and we were both fully aware of our location in the middle of nowhere. The farmer disappeared, and returned with four small bananas. Chris divvied them up, two and two, and I tasted the sweetest banana I’ve ever had in my life. Not the local Kenya variety that I expected, nor the farenji variety that we usually see in American stores. This sweet variety had a smooth, glossy peel and was delicious. I saved the second one for Teddy, but eagerly devoured it when he passed.

The guys got back in the car, and we drove a little closer to the leckso bet. The girl happened to be at the funeral, and emerged to speak with us. It turns out she was not the girl we were looking for, but instead another who had a cleft palate. She told us that she knows the family we were searching for, and that these three siblings live nearby on the opposite side of a dividing river. In order to reach it, we would have to return to Jimma and take the road from another direction. We thanked her and left.

Tomorrow, Teddy said. Tomorrow is a new day.

We went back through the bumpy roads and dropped off the men we had gathered along the way. It was 5:30 when we arrived back in Jimma. Famished and ready for dinner, we ordered almost a kilo of t’ibs (roasted meat) between the two of us.

The next day we started off again, this time in the other direction. Our new adventure was very similar to the last, but ended more abruptly. The best advice we got was from a farmer who said to come back tomorrow, when it’s market day. The people from the remote villages will surely come to town.

That was all we needed to hear. We headed out and called it a day. Teddy needed to leave for Addis Wednesday, so that would be his last and final attempt to search for them. I headed back to Agaro and wished him luck.

Unfortunately he never found the siblings, but we got quite an adventure out of it. I hope that they’re out there somewhere, living their lives in the sun.

Peace Corps Ethiopia Invades Addis

Peace Corps Volunteers of Ethiopia 2013

Originally, I was nervous for an All Volunteer Conference. There are about 200 volunteers in Ethiopia now: more than double the number here when I arrived. I spend almost every day surrounded by local people or alone in my house. The thought of suddenly being dunked into a pool of hundreds of farenji was intimidating.

As it turns out, the event was remarkable. Overwhelming, yes, but also exciting. Names and faces and regions and group members all started adding up. More than anything though, it was the first time all of the people I arrived in country with (minus those we’ve lost along the way) have been together since we swore in as volunteers almost 2 years ago. Catching up with them was amazing. It’s hard to believe that our G5-ers have only one more group event together before we all leap from our Ethiopian nests this summer.

As for the conference: Friday night was a dinner at the Ghion hotel. The U.S. Ambassador of Ethiopia joined us. We were all dressed up. (It’s amazing what PCVs can look like with a hot shower and some clean clothes.) The Ambassador gave a brief talk on the state of development in Ethiopia, and how Peace Corps fits in with that.

Saturday was a full schedule of events designed to help us meet each other, learn about the cross-benefits of working with different sectors (environment, education and health), and get information from different committees.
Saturday night, the talented members among us took the stage for a talent show. It sounds a little juvenile, but the show was wildly entertaining. (Who knew we could save the world AND bust out rap?) Even our country director participated with some folk songs he wrote himself.
After the talent show, the bulk of us wandered out to the nearest club and stayed out way past our 9 o’clock bedtimes.

Sunday came far too early. None-the-less, we learned about PEPFAR and Food for the Future: Two initiatives that sponsor HIV/AIDS related programs and food security. Afterwards we broke into regional groups to plan this year’s summer GLOW camps. Almost all of the volunteers I worked with at the Nekempte camp last year have decided to participate again, which is awesome because we had an amazing group. We’ve also got some new G7 and G8 members I’m excited to get to know.
And finally, we gathered for closing remarks. They weren’t your average closing remarks. In fact, they’re hilarious. Check out the video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=auBHtyTYcYw&feature=youtu.be

I went to dinner Sunday night with eight or so friends to a local Indian restaurant. Six of these friends had recently been to India and continue to make me more excited to go. After a long and delicious family-style meal, we met up with the rest of our crew. From India to Ireland, we went to celebrate St. Patty’s Day at our favorite local beer bar. One of the volunteers had gone all-out in decorations: Green glitter, green coasters, green everything. There was even green beer. The Ethiopian staff not only accomodated us, they full-on participated in our greeness. It was a great cultural exchange, even if it wasn’t entirely our culture to exchange.

Laura and I, getting our St. Patricks Day on.

Monday was supposed to be our departure date, but a change in the bus schedule kept us in Addis an extra night. Thirteen of us filled the bus on Tuesday and we shared one last dinner in Jimma before arriving to our own beds Wednesday night.

Talking to Goats

The delicious chakala t’ibs with awazi and tej

Sometimes I find myself talking to the stray goat who wanders into my yard. A random cat pokes its head into my room and I ask her how she’s been. I curse death threats out loud to the roaches in my bathroom.

It’s right around this time that I realize I’ve been alone at site a little too long. I pack a quick bag and jump on a mini bus to Jimma. My friend there happens to speak perfect English, has access to MTV and owns a working fridge: three amazing amenities for a girl from Agaro. A cold gin and tonic later, plus a some Macklemore, Nicki Minaj and Avicii, and it’s almost like I’m back in America again.

For dinner, we often go to a restaurant famous for their chakala t’ibs. This is probably my favorite Ethiopian food ever. It’s roasted meat–usually sheep or goat–served in a clay pot with hot charcoal underneath. You eat it by hand with injera and a spicy awazi sauce.

This place also has the best t’ej in all of Jimma. T’ej is a local alcohol made out of honey. It’s traditionally served in beakers that look like they came straight from a science lab.

If we have enough of these potent beakers, we might make it to the local club in Jimma. They have a DJ and play a mix of Amharic and American music. There’s a little cultural dancing, a little farenji dancing, and a lot of crazy dancing.

By the next day, I’m ready to head back to Agaro. I welcome the kids, the local greetings and another stretch of time in my quiet little community.

Bump in the Night

When I was preparing for Peace Corps, one of the things I read over and over were about problems with rats. It freaked me out a little. I packed cat treats and hoped for the best. I’ve lived at site now for 18 months, listening with a sympathetic ear to my fellow volunteers who struggle with rats. I thought I lucked out.

Then, after returning from a two-week trip, I had a suspicion something wasn’t right. At night, when I turned out the lights, I heard a scratching, chewing noise. The back of my mind said rats, while the rest insisted it was nothing.

Two nights later, I awoke to a crash. I thought maybe it was my neighbors, but the back of my mind told me again that it was rats. That morning, I found my candle stick laying on the floor. Coincidence? Maybe it just fell.

Then I found hard evidence. A piece of fruit was sitting on my counter with its flesh half-exposed. Little pieces of the skin were laying all around it, and there were trails of dust bunnies on the counter. Closer inspection of the fruit revealed flat-edged teeth marks. The optimistic side of me said it could have been a mouse. The back of my mind said rats. I searched around for more evidence, but found nothing. I tried to forget the incident, hoping that the critter had moved on.

Just around dusk, when it was time to close the doors and windows, I saw a grey body with a distinct snake-like tail float across my floor. No more lies, no more guessing. It was definately a rat. I got the broom and  thought perhaps I could chase it out. Instead, it disappeared thorugh the narrow space between my bed and the floor.

All I could think to do was call my landlord, who lives next door. He came right over with a stick and moved my bed. The rat came scurrying out and headed straight toward my feet. I screamed. Then it darted under another door. Unfortunately it was a locked door to which we didn’t have the key.

The next step, my landlord brought over a trap. He toasted some bread to create an alluring scent. We set up a table and some boxes around to help guide it toward the trap. And I waited. By 7:30 it was dark and I was losing hope. I closed my door and resigned myself to the idea that I’d be spending the night with a rat. 

Around 8:30, a friend called. I was just about to lament my troubles to her, when I heard a loud snap. I hung up the phone and called my landlord. I listened to the painful sounds of struggle, and then silence. My landlord showed up within minutes and inspected. Sure enough, the rat was caught. I breathed a heavy sigh of relief and thanked him about a hundred times.

This whole fiasco was over so quickly. I have many Peace Corps friends who have ongoing struggles with rats. They find rat-torn packages, chewed up plastic and entrails everywhere. To them, I salute. Peace Corps is not easy.

Green Honey

The honey merchant removing bees. He laughed when I took this. “After one year,” he said, “and now you need my picture?”

Ethiopia is well-known for a few things, honey being one of them. Farmers will hang homemade hives in the trees of the forests, and depending on what flowers are around, all different types of honey will emerge. Each region has their own special flavors.

There is one shop in town I usually buy my honey from. Most of the time they have red or white. The white is thick and opaque, and deliciously sweet. The red is translucent and has a very distinct flavor, I can’t really describe it. Today, there was a third option. It was neon green.

I was skeptical to try this third option; anything that is neon green usually means something went wrong. But I trust my honey guy, and he poured some into a cup for me and the other customers to try. I’ll attest, this new kind of honey was something all together different. It was delicious, as all honey is here. I can’t help but wonder what kinds of flowers these bees were visiting. I gave him my little plastic container and asked for a kilo.

I love watching the honey shop as they pour their orders. Bees are flocking around like it’s their very own hive and they are desperate to get back in. As the honey folds into the container, the bees sometimes get too close and take a dive into their own sticky creation. When a kilo has been weighed out, the shop owner takes a small spoon and dips it in to carefully remove the bees. I think at first this may have grossed me out, thinking about insects being in something I’m about to eat. Now, I just marvel at the nature of the whole experience. This isn’t honey that’s been processed and packed and shipped across the world. This is from bees that are flying around me and flowers that are in the forests near my home. It’s a flavor so unique I can’t even describe it, and it’s certainly not something that can be duplicated.

Minibus Moments

Some of my most hilarious moments happen in minibuses. It’s about 45 kilometers from Agaro to Jimma, and I’ve made the trip dozens of times for trainings, on the way to Addis, or to meet up with other Peace Corps volunteers. It never fails on these trips, if I’m in the front seat, the driver will have something to say. Most recently, my driver thought it would be best for me if he played American music. He had two songs and played each one on repeat, as loud as he could, dancing as he drove. When we would stop, people on the street would call out to me, “Farenji! Where are you from?” Before I had a second to answer, the driver would respond, “She’s Ethiopian! Speak to her in Amharic, she doesn’t know English!” Then we would speed off singing, Where is the Love?

In another recent minibus experience, the driver and I were familiar with each other. We had had a short talk on another ride. He told me his name was Reagan, which is a strange name in Ethiopia. I asked him what it meant (names almost always have meaning here) and he said that his father just liked President Reagan. As his assistant was filling the seats, he insisted that the middle seat next to me remain open because I was his regular customer. (For anyone who has ever been packed in a minibus, this is a small gesture that makes a huge difference.) The driver would lose fare on the seat he left open.

As we were driving, we stopped near someone selling bananas. He asked if I needed any, because they were good quality. I did need some, and was glad to skip a trip to the market. Before I knew it he had purchased a kilo, and refused to take my payment. The cost was roughly the same as the minibus ride. He said my fare was enough.

When we got to Agaro, I said thank you and good-bye, and left with an overall feeling of gratitude for the people in this world that make me smile, for the acts of kindness that mean more than their monetary value, and for the laughs that are shared with complete strangers.

Market Day Quandaries

Today I am thinking of going to the market. I haven’t gone in months.

When I first got to site, I went every market day, 3 times a week. Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday I would go with my plastic bag down the dusty road, through all the people and the shops to the place tucked back in the deep part of town. I’d follow the same path, stop for coffee at the same place. I’d greet the same people, and sometimes new ones. I’d buy carrots, tomatoes or onions, garlic, ginger, sometimes beans, once in awhile beets or potatoes. I’d always leave with a sack full of things and walk back through the crowded streets.
Women on the ground selling fruit from tarps would sometimes tempt me to stop and add something.

At home, I would experiment with cooking elaborate meals of stews and chili, or different stir fries.

After awhile I became exhausted of it. My appetite decreased, both for the food and the stimulation of all the people. I resorted to eating oatmeal and bananas, scrambled eggs… anything simple and available nearby.

Even now, I wonder if I’ll really go to market. It sounds daunting. At some point the novelty of being a novelty wears off. When you’re here long enough, you just want to live your own life, not under the guise that everyone projects of you. It can make you jaded, cynical I think. You begin to brush off a simple greeting, your mind so focused on being done and getting home. You question every hello as a possible request for money or sexual harassment. And deep down that part of you that really likes people, that loves to connect and socialize, gets stifled. It becomes lost and suppressed under your barrier of protection. I feel it. I feel it all the time. When I recognize it, I pull the barrier down, just a little. I smile at people. I take my time to crouch down and greet the kids. I look them in the eyes and ask how they are, what their name is. Then I repeat it back to them, as best I can, to show that I understand. They giggle at the sound of their name in my voice. Their laughter relaxes me, and I continue on a little lighter.

I realize that moments like those are passed every day. I just have to take the time. It’s about getting out of my head and letting others in. The requests for money, the lewd comments from guys who are high on khat… those will never go away. But I shouldn’t let them steal away all the moments of happiness that lurk inside the cracks.