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.

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.

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.

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.

A Stick in the Road

After a successful working weekend in Jimma, two volunteers and I caught a mini bus back to Agaro. It usually takes an hour, but this mini bus made an unusual stop. There was a giant branch-like contraption sticking out of the road and several people standing around staring. My gaze soon shifted to the left, where a giant power line was half tilted, ready to fall at any moment. I almost knew before I asked… is there power in Agaro?

No, they said. It disappeared.

There’s no telling how long a situation like this will take to fix. As an added surprise, both the water and phone network went down with it.

So Dave, Marissa and I arrived in Agaro with limited options. Our days went something like this:

√   Go to the market, come home and use the remaining water I have stored to wash and peel veggies for dinner. Slowly.

√  Pull down the small box of Christmas items from last year. Set up a mini tree, hang a few stockings. Stand back and admire.

√  Take quizzes from Oprah and Cosmo magazines. (Turns out we’re all romantics, and can keep our cool under pressure.)

√  Prepare dinner by headlamps and candlelight. (Part camping, part alluring ambiance?)

√  Explore Cosmo for all the new fashion, culture and beauty trends we’ll never be a part of.

√  Discover a million and one tricks to do with matches.

√  Visit the small local library… Read the Encyclopedia Britannica circa 1981, The Babysitters Club and several books on Karl Marx.

√  Find someone along the road selling coffee they made with a charcoal fire.

√  Do crossword puzzles from a book published sometime in the 1990’s.

√  Sit around listening to my iPod until the last of it’s battery is drained.

√  Read.

√  Read some more.

√  Discus options.

Agaro is really hot this time of year. We can buy bottled water for drinking, but as for washing our bodies, our clothes, our dishes… you begin to understand what a serious commodity water is. Going weeks without water, you feel hot and dirty. Your dishes pile up. You dream of cold showers and clean clothes.

So… our options: Stick around Agaro and go through the whole experience we’re all too familiar with. OR. Get on a mini bus back to Jimma, share a hotel and take a shower.

Call me a cheater, but that shower was amazing.

What time?

Last night I was feeling cozy in my bed with a book, and I decided to have a glass of local wine. Gouder, it’s called. Sometimes it can be almost pleasant, and sometimes it’s sort of like a purple acid. Not the hallucinating kind. The kind that makes you wake up at 1 in the morning with a burning stomach ache and a strong desire to take it all back.

I laid there awhile listening to the chants of the local mosque. 2 a.m… 3 a.m… it’s still going.  Who is praying right now?

I put in my earplugs, which only slightly muffles the sound. At some point I fall back asleep, and wake up again at 8. The mosque is still going. Something in me today does not feel like getting up. Two years feels like an eternity.

In a few days I’ll be leaving to Addis for our mid-service conference. Our group of health volunteers are getting together to reflect on the year of service already behind us. All of the training, teaching, traveling, holidays… We’ve been here for over a year now.

Two years will be over so fast.