She’s Hot and She’s Cold

Today I decided to make a trip to the market, and spend some time in my kitchen. It’s weird to think this is the only time in my life I’ve ever had my own kitchen. (Ok, so maybe it’s a hallway with a table and a propane tank hooked up to a stove top. But still, it’s mine.) And I have my own bathroom, and my own room. And I can walk around naked if I want. And after living here for more than two years, I’m packing things up and heading into a new unknown adventure.

It’s not the first time I’ve done this. It’s not even the fifth time I’ve done this. In the last 10 years, I’ve been doing nothing BUT packing and moving. In fact, this is the longest I’ve lived in one place since graduating high school. Scary.
What’s really scary, is that no matter how many times I pack up and head into the unknown, it still makes me jittery. I end up laying awake at night, and fretting through the day. I know I’m doing the right thing, things always work out, blah blah blah. I’m still nervous.

What’s next for me… I’ve decided to go to India and do a 6 1/2 week yoga teacher training course. If you know me, you know this is pretty much what I was born to do. I’ve been heading towards this since my first downward-facing dog. The flight from Ethiopia to India is cheaper than I could ever get it from the States, and the flight from India to the States is cheaper than I could ever get it from Ethiopia. So basically, the universe is saying do it. I’m incredibly excited. But also, India is crazy populated and I’m wondering, what the heck am I getting myself into? I’ve spent the last two years getting to know a completely foreign culture, and now I’m about to dive head-first into another completely foreign culture. I’m a little exhausted.

Or maybe not.

Maybe I’ve just been stagnating a little too long, and I’ve forgotten the rush of new sites, sounds, foods and smells. I look at pictures of India and I get an instant smile. Like a dog being tempted with treats, I’m drooling on the inside. This is coming up, this is really happening!

And then.

I start to pack, and it’s like a river of memories from the last two years. I pack all the things in different piles that I’m giving away, and then I picture what it will be like saying goodbye to all of the people and places I’ve made home for the last two years. I have a best friend here who’s been my other half for the last 10 months. Will it be the last time we ever see each other? Maybe. I have a trip planned next week to visit my host family for the last time. It was hard saying goodbye to them the first time. This time.. Oh boy.

One of the great things about moving around and exploring is that you’re always meeting new and amazing people. One of the hard things about moving around and exploring is that you’re always saying goodbye to amazing people. I think this time just might break my heart. I’m hoping to put it back together in India. And what’s next after that you ask? I’m wondering the same thing.

One Final Road Trip

I’m in Addis now, watching the last of my Peace Corps-Ethiopia intake group fly away to new adventures. I still can’t believe our two years have come to an end. Some days it felt so long, I thought I’d be here forever. Most months flew by, recognizable only in the rearview mirror.

One thing I’ve long had on my Ethiopia bucket list is a visit to the holy city of Lalibela. It’s the largest attraction in Ethiopia: A UNESCO World Heritage Site of 11 giant churches carved from the ground into bedrock. King Lalibela ordered their construction as a second Jerusalem, providing pilgrims a shorter distance of travel. The churches are nearly a thousand years old, and are said to have been carved in 25 days. Legend says it was through the help of angels that they were carved so quickly and beautifully.

Now that my time in Ethiopia is nearing the end, I decided it was time to go. Now or never. My Ethiopian friend, who has also never seen the churches, and I set out on a bus two Thursdays ago. Seven hours later we were in Addis, and the next morning we got on a bus to Dessie.

The first two to three hours of the trip felt exhaustively long. Four, five, six, seven, eight… we had had enough. It was the slowest bus I’ve probably ever been on. We exited early in a town called Kombulcha and collapsed at the nearest hotel. Once recovered, we visited the local Castle beer brewery, and the next morning we perused the local market. We saw giant mangos, textiles and camels, large tarp sacks covered with teff grains, and a bustling population weaving in and out through the narrow paths. Every town’s market has its own unique character.

After two straight days on a bus, we decided to take a day off and travel just an hour up to Dessie. We got our tickets for the next morning to Lalibela. Five-thirty A.M. rolled around and we were packed with our bags at the bus station in another small, crowded bus. We drove for seven hours up winding roads. Small plots of land were planted all over the mountainous countryside, with rock terraces built up to prevent watershed. Little round mud huts spotted the land. Occasionally we braked for small herds of long-horned cattle, skinny ribs poking through their hides. A few times we spotted a dead ox lying roadside covered in flies. A sign, we were told, of the recent drought.

We finally reached Lalibela in the early afternoon. We got a hotel and wandered around the quaint little town. It was definitely responsive to the influx of tourists it receives, having little souvenir shops on every corner and exploiting the costs on “Ethiopian coffee ceremony.” A small cup that costs 2 birr in Jimma was priced at 15 in one local cafe.

Regardless, I enjoyed the town. I came expecting a higher level of harassment, and instead was greeted with mostly “hello.” The pace of the town felt slowed down, with little of the hustle and bustle I see in other towns. Huge mountains loomed as a backdrop, and a light fog floated near the tops in the distance.

Me, in front of one of the 11 rock-hewn churches.

Day two in Lalibela, we found some breakfast and made our way over to find the churches. Ten minutes into walking and I was already feeling run down. We walked further and further, up hills and down, asking directions and getting pointed into different directions. By the time we reached the entrance, I was feeling nauseas. Clearly I was not used to the elevation.

At the ticket office, I paid a non-negotiable 937 birr. That’s the cost of about 75 meals. It’s more than 3 times the average cost of rent in a month. It’s a price reserved only for foreigners, and my resident ID card did not trump the color of my white skin. I winced as I counted out each 100 birr note. I tucked away the most expensive piece of paper I’ve ever bought. My Ethiopian friend entered for free.

Bete Giyorigis: My favorite of the rock churches.

It took quite a few minutes to get over my nausea, at both the elevation and the cost of my ticket. But once we started climbing down the rock walls into the churches, I felt the awe. The churches were much taller than I had imagined, carved from a single rock. Doors, windows and beautiful designs were etched into the surface. We removed our shoes to step inside, and felt the cavernous silence surround us.

My friend, walking through a rock tunnel.

Outside, we walked through narrow rock tunnels from one massive church to the next. My favorite, and the most well-known of the churches, was Bete Giyorgis (The church of St. George). It’s cross-like shape descends down into a deep crevasse, and looks flatly visible from the ground above. Inside, we saw both ancient and modern paintings of St. George, all slaying a dragon to save a fair maiden.

We finished touring the churches by late afternoon, and were both exhausted. We bought our bus tickets for the next morning, with a departure time of 4:30 A.M. The thought of that alarm gave me shivers, but I didn’t let it ruin our last night. We spent the evening at a local Asmari Bet, a popular tradition in the Amahara region. They served t’ej (home-brewed honey wine) and had a man and woman team playing a cultural guitar and singing impromptu lyrics to the patrons. The lyrics were either flattering or insulting, depending on tips, but almost always comical. Two men played giant drums in the background, and another man performed cultural shoulder dancing. (If you’ve never seen their dance style, check it out here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mrYLvcHF15U)
As the night was just kicking off, the dancing man came and stood directly in front of me, indicating for me to join him. He grabbed my hand and pulled me into the center of the room. It was a repeat-after-me sort of gesture, and I shook my shoulders in response, along to the music. It was a nervous rush, with so many eyes staring, and I having no idea how I was doing. My friend said it was amazing, he was shocked that I could do that. Whether or not this was flattery, I guess I’ll never know. But it felt exhilarating.

We stayed until early evening, then called it a night in anticipation for our early departure. The time came too soon, and we walked with our bags in the moonlight to the bus station, 20 minutes down the mountain. A small boy saved us a good seat for the price of 10 birr. The bus finally departed at 6 A.M. and we arrived in a small town before Dessie in early afternoon.

The town, called Haiyke, is home to a lake and a monastery. We decided to stay the night there and check it out. The rain ended up foiling our plans, and instead we spent the evening with no water, no power and searching for a decent meal. The town had practically nothing. I woke up early the next morning ready to leave. My friend wanted to sleep, so we met late morning in Dessie. We caught a mini bus to Kemisse, a low-land Muslim town about 2 hours away. We arrived around 10:30 A.M. with the sun already beating hot. Dust covered the streets, and cafes were boarded up due to Ramadan.

We arranged another mini bus to a town called Debre Birhan, 130 km from Addis. The mini bus experience was infinitely better than our normal slow bus experience on the way up. We were in Debre Birhan by early evening and found a decent hotel with a hot shower and good food. The town itself though was freezing. I would have liked to see a little more of the city, but the cold, foggy rain imprisoned me to the warm blankets of my bed.

We left late the next morning and were back in Addis by noon. My friend continued on to Jimma, and I stayed in Addis to treat a sinus infection I picked up along the way. I’m also doing my close-of-service medical tests and bidding farewell to my friends who are leaving.

I’ll be in Ethiopia for two more months, until early October, when I depart for India. It’s been my dream to do a yoga teacher training course, and I’m signed up to start October 7th. After the 6 weeks I plan to explore the rest of India, making it back home to snowy Minnesota by Christmas. I’m not going to lie, the thought of winter has me terrified. But I’ll see my family and friends for the first time in over two years. I hope they have their heaters turned up! I can’t wait to see them all.

The Once-Forbidden City of Harrar

Harrar is an ancient walled city near the border of Somalia, and until a few months ago was off-limits for Peace Corps Volunteers. Now that we’re allowed to travel there freely, we jumped at the opportunity. It’s a 10-hour bus ride from Addis, so only four of us braved the road; the other five decided to fly. When we all arrived, the first thing we did was head out to see the infamous hyena man.

Just on the outskirts of the city, a man emerges from his house every night at dusk. He lures out hyenas with scraps of raw meat, and teaches visitors how to feed them by mouth. At first, the idea seems insane. The first sights of a hyena up close are strange and exciting. They’re like some spotted mix of cat, dog and bear, lurking in the darkness.

The longer we watched, the more we saw their timid side. Surrounded by people, these hyenas were way out of their element. They cautiously emerged from the shadows, swiped the meat, and ran back into the darkness. All nine of us stepped up, and all nine of us kept our faces.

Our next mission was camels. About an hour outside the city of Harrar is a town called Bilbile. Twice a week, Bilbile hosts a camel market where thousands of camels are collected for buying and selling. We arrived a little late, so we saw maybe a hundred camels. Average price for a camel: 20,000 birr (over $1,000). We got up close, took pictures, then walked down to the tents where they were serving camel milk. I shared a cup with two other people. I thought it was a little smoky. A few sips were enough for me.

Bilbile is also known for their natural sparkling water, and the “Valley of the Marvels,” which are a few giant rocks balanced naturally on small pedestals. It was interesting, but not quite worthy of the term marvelous.

After Bilbile, we decided to go back to Harrar and try the camel meat. Looking like tourists inside the old walled city, a young girl ambitiously offered to help. She led us to the butcher shop where you buy the raw camel meat, and we pitched in to buy a kilo. She then led us through the narrow paths to a small shop with two tiny benches and handed the meat over to a woman behind the counter. The shop was hot and clammy, and filled with flies. In 20 minutes, the camel meat came out on a pile of injera. We timidly dipped in, and fed ourselves the chewy meat. Nothing spectacular. Not entirely delicious. Just meat piled on injera. I don’t think any of us were too thrilled, and we ended up leaving the majority on the plate. Then the bill came. It was in the form of a round number that made our jaws drop. Clearly the girl wasn’t helping out of the kindness of her heart. She saw dollar signs in place of our faces. There was no arguing the price though, after it was cooked. Rookie mistake. We forked over her exorbitant fee.

So I had enough of the walled city for one day, and met the rest of our group out for a beer. The beers were served in mugs with the logo of Ato Condom. (Mr. Condom, that is.) He’s shaped like a condom and has a big thumbs-up to support using protection. What a fantastic place to advertise.

Our third day was a visit to the infamous beer factory. Among Peace Corps Volunteers, Hakim Stout is the favorite of Ethiopian Beers. It’s brewed in Harrar, along with a few other varieties. If you want to tour the factory, we were warned to wear close-toed shoes. Unfortunately, I never wear close-toed shoes.

When we got to the gates, we read the sign: Must Wear Shoes. We considered sandals shoes, but the guy at the gate didn‘t. Christina, our ever-most persistent volunteer, insisted that we speak to the manager. A few minutes later we were walking up the stairs to a cushy office with a big desk. A lady sat behind the desk and made small talk for awhile. She then asked our shoe size and brought out three boxes of shoes. “Don’t tell your friends about this,” she warned with a smile.

After our brief tour with a spirited guide, we were informed that it was time to try the beer and we were to invite him. We agreed, and it was as fresh as you’d expect. Half-way through the beer, our brazen guide informed us that we should also invite him to lunch. Though it was only 11 a.m., Paul conceded to share some t’ibs.

A little while later we were back in the walled city, this time on the hunt for Shities, or what we Americans like to call Muumuus. The fabrics in Harrar are plentiful, colorful, and completely affordable. I bought two.

Best. Decision. Ever.  You wouldn’t believe how comfortable they are. And it’s the hot fashion in Harrar. Almost every woman you see is wearing one.

On our last day, we decided to have a photo shoot and wear them to dinner. It was loud and fabulous.

Harrar just might be my favorite city in Ethiopia yet.

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.

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.

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.