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.