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.

Seven Days, Seven Stops

This month has been a burst of activity, as I’m sure it is for everyone during the holiday season. Most recently, I went on a little trip. Here are the highlights:

First stop: Jimma University Preparation Camp… 167 female university students coming from all over rural Ethiopia to start college. The program is designed to help them with life skills, training on HIV/AIDS and to improve their English. A fellow volunteer and I led sessions on goal-setting, confidence building and English conversation. The girls started out shy, but ended up incredibly enthusiastic.
In the Question-and-Answer at the end, they asked us why we would come from so far away to do this training. The answer was simple: because they came. They were motivated to show up on their Saturday and Sunday evenings to learn. That’s the best reason for us to teach.

Second stop: Addis Ababa… it takes 7 hours by bus to get from Jimma to Addis. We stopped in the office to fill out some paperwork, said goodbye to a few volunteers who were closing service, then went out for a little fun. There was hardly anyone out, but the music was the best I’d heard in months. We were out until 3 A.M.

Third stop: Huruta… This is the town I trained in, and lived with a family for 10 weeks. It’s a small town and the cell phone network is pretty shoddy, so my visit was incidentally a surprise. I came home to my three sisters running the family shop while our parents were working at a nearby market. They were all so genuinely excited; the looks on their faces were priceless. Going back there really felt like going home. I forgot how much I missed them.

Fourth stop: Assela… This is where our friends Joe and Kelly live, and about 20 volunteers came to celebrate Thanksgiving. Turkey is not available here, but we had another plan. I went with Joe to his Health Office, and we took a truck over to the farm project they’re working on. The profits from this farm benefit people living with HIV/AIDS. The farm has a pack of sheep. A white one was chosen, with little horns, for the price of 1,000 ETB ($55). They loaded it in the truck and brought it to a friend’s house to stay the night.
Meanwhile, we rented out the large screen projector and watched Camel Spiders dubbed in Amharic. It was a horrible movie. We had beers and made up hilarious plot lines. Then we went to the local bar and had a traditional night-before-Thanksgiving evening.
The next day, those who were so inclined joined Joe and some Ethiopian friends in preparing the sheep. (It sounds better when I say preparing, doesn’t it?) The feast was amazing. The people were awesome. Everyone was grateful. Thanksgiving was a success.

Fifth stop: Back to Addis… You pretty much have to go through Addis to get to most places in Ethiopia. We use this as an opportunity to enjoy the food, drinks and rare high-end amenities like ice cubes and toilets. There were cocktails, good music and lots of dancing.
The next morning happened to be the bi-annual Diplomats Bazaar. Addis Ababa is a hub for almost every embassy you can think of, and each had their own booth at this bazaar. They were selling local foods, drinks and trademarks from their countries. It was like a mini travel vacation around the world.

Sixth stop: Jimma… It was night when we arrived, so I couldn’t make it home. We got a room and made the best of it. Dinner, drinks, good conversations. A little music and dancing.

Last stop: Home …I’m covered in bites from fleas and/or bed bugs, and I’m pretty sure I picked up a bacterial infection… the byproducts of travel. It feels good to be home! At least for the next four days, before it’s back to Jimma for a working weekend.

Along Came a Spider

I love holidays. And so, in the spirit of Halloween, eight of us volunteers gathered in Bonga to celebrate. Pumpkin-carving, pinatas, scary movies and Halloween cocktails made the weekend feel like a legit October celebration. I came home feeling fully fulfilled.

I unpacked my stuff and settled into bed with my netbook. As I was reading updates of all that I’d missed through the weekend, something caught the corner of my eye. I looked up and saw a large black body creeping across my floor.

My heart began racing. It wasn’t a mouse, although it looked like the size of one. A giant cricket? I  tried desperately to think of an explanation for something other than what I knew it was.

I set down my computer and got up to take a closer look. It stopped behind the leg of a chair, so I couldn’t quite see its whole body. But the long legs of a giant spider were in plain view. I yelled at myself, be brave, be brave, be brave… holy shit! What do I do?!

I thought quickly through my options… fly swatter.. roach spray. That’s all I had.
Roach spray. I could stay far enough away and not have to make any physical contact. I tip-toed to the table with the spray and hurried back to my room. The monster was still there. Ok, ok. Be brave. I crouched down as near as I dared and started spraying.

Immediately it sprang from its hiding place and crawled across my floor to the other chair. I jumped back screaming, still holding down the button. I can’t honestly remember what came out of my mouth, but  I couldn’t stop screaming.

Soon I heard my neighbor’s voice from the next room. “Kay-tee?”  I tried in my best Amharic to explain: Huge insect! Spider. Huge!

At this point the giant was perched steady on my chair, somewhat stunned from the spray but certainly not dead. I thought in thirty different directions. I reached for my camera and turned it on, took a few steps near it, then threw it down and ran away screaming. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit… it’s all I remember thinking. I grabbed my phone and unlocked the keys, stared at it, then threw that down because who the hell am I going to call?

I got my fly swatter from the wall and stepped slowly towards it. Nope! Nope, nope, nope, nope. Holy shit! Be brave. I was sweating and my heart was pounding and I felt myself shaking. I could barely breathe, which was probably good because the room was filled with roach spray. It felt like hours as I stared at it, tried to get close, then ran away cursing.

Finally my neighbor and another man came to my door. I pointed to the cause of my commotion and she looked around for more. “No, there!” I told her. She pointed her light at it, then continued looking. “There, there, there!” I yelled. I realize now that she just didn’t believe a spider was the cause of all my panic. The guy she brought with chuckled, walked up to it with my fly swatter and slapped it, scooped it up and walked out.

Ten minutes later I was still shaking, trying to get the image out of my mind and trying even harder not to question whether there were more. I wrapped my mosquito net around my bed and sat under it. Dear God, don’t let there be more.

There was no going to the bathroom that night. There was no leaving my bed. Every time I woke up, I saw the image of it creeping across my floor. Was it really that big? Where did it come from? What if there’s more? I try to tell myself I’ve faced the fear, it’s over.
I guess that’s Happy Halloween.

Ballots, Bananas and Buna Season

I voted today! It was a weird experience, walking the dirt path to my little post office to participate in American democracy. I sat in a chair and filled in the little bubbles, then sealed it in three different envelopes and handed it over to a smiling Ethiopian postal worker. That’s it. One small gesture, and I felt American again. (Also, I noticed my uncle’s name under re-election for County Commissioner. Go Uncle Robert (Bob) Olean!)

The rest of my day was very much Ethiopian. I went to market. On the way, I passed the school. Passing the school is like setting off an alarm system. “You, you, you! Katie! Farenj!” The kids all yell. Anyone within a kilometer radius can tell when I’m coming, so I stop several times for greetings. And twice for coffee.

At the market, I found carrots, ginger, tomatoes and a few friendly faces I hadn’t seen in a while. “Tefash!” they say. You’ve been lost. “Allow,” I tell them. I’m here.

I walk back home, stopping for bananas along the way. “You!” a man says. “Give me one banana.” His broken English makes the request sound demanding. “You!” I reply back. “Buy one yourself.” And I laugh, because if you don’t laugh sometimes, it just feels irritating.

At home, our compound guard is laying the big tarp out for drying coffee. The green berries are just starting to turn red on the trees, which means it’s almost time for buna season. People will soon flock from all over the rural areas to make money picking coffee. The town fills with people heavy in the pockets with birr. Prices for everything go up and transportation gets crowded. Such is life in a cash-crop area.

 

Teaching Girls to GLOW

Camp GLOW, Nekemte, Ethiopia

Last week, 34 girls came together from seven different communities for a life-changing experience I will never forget.Camp GLOW (Girls Leading Our World) is a camp for girls organized by Peace Corps volunteers  all over the world. This year, I worked with 10 other volunteers to create a Camp GLOW in  Nekemte, Ethiopia. This camp comprised of 9th and 10th grade girls from the southwest regions of the country. For most of them, it was their first time ever leaving home.

The camp started Sunday when we all gathered at the university. It took many of us several hours by bus to arrive. As the girls began meeting, they were mostly silent. They simply stared, uncertain and shy.

The first day, we organized them all into rooms and assigned each an animal group: Eagles, Elephants, Lions and Monkeys. A few counslers were assigned to each group and the process of getting to know each other began.

Sunday night was a lot of figuring out logistics and setting the ground rules. The girls got pink tote bags with journals and a few toiletries. They were given journal prompts every night and wrote in them just before bed.

During journal time, counslers met to discuss the upcoming day. We had programming all planned out weeks ahead of time. Still, life throws out obstacles and plans change. We hung giant charts on the wall for each day and had cards with each session taped on. Cards were switched around like a puzzle as we discussed what was working, what wasn’t, and what the realities of our time were. Contingincies were planned on top of contingincies. And even those changed.

Camp days started early and ended late, and each was filled with different events. There were skits on peer pressure, “girl talk” about sexual health, games to teach about HIV and some games just for fun. We had sessions to practice leadership and how to build teamwork. We taught about fuel-efficient cooking methods and learned how to plant trees. We had crafts to make useful items, and crafts that were just for fun. We had a day to visualize the future, created goals and planned out how to take lessons from camp back home. The last night was a giant bonfire, where the girls had their first taste of s’mores and wrote inspiring messages to each other in their journals. We sang songs, gave awards and recognized everyone for their hard work.

There is so much that can be said about this camp. The girls who started out so silent and shy were raising their hands to be leaders by the end. Girls who could mindlessly recite the use of condoms in HIV prevention actually saw one for the first time, and learned how to properly use it. They discovered first-hand the power of believing in yourself and had an opportunity to ask questions they never could before. It was overwhelming to see the transformation in every single one of them.

With all of the great things that came out of this camp, you’d think it went off without a hitch. That, however, could not be further from the truth. The latrines we had to use were up a muddy hill and covered in filth, our meal plans fell through, it rained at all the wrong times and we were out of running water for three days. I fell in the mud, twice, and got locked in a room for over an hour.  There were three different languages being spoken and time was consistantly misjudged.

Yet despite the setbacks, every counsler remained calm, optomistic and helpful. Problem-solving was an ongoing skill and everyone pulled together with enthusiasm. Honestly, the patient teamwork of every counsler was inspiring. And we couldn’t have done alone. Four Ethiopian counterparts, as well as three junior counslers, were indespensible. It was one miraculous team putting on one miraculous event. And it was truely unforgettable.

If you’d like to see the camp in action, here’s a link to some photos:

http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10100298431338561.2388771.56008677&type=1&l=e3b11fe1cb