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.

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.

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.

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.

Where I are go

View from the other end of town

Yesterday, on my nightly walk, I decided to switch things up and go toward the opposite end of town. (Gettin’ wild and crazy over here, I know.) What I failed to realize, was how my routine was related to everyone else’s routine. This new end of town was not use to the farenji walking aimlessly toward the villiage. “You! Where are you go!?” they called out. Vehicals stopped to offer me rides. Kids came running from every direction yelling, “Farenji!”

To a degree, you get this everywhere you go in Ethiopia. But I had gone on enough walks through the other end of town to essentially bore them with my presence. People there usually greet me by name and then go on their way. This new influx of attention was overwhelming and a little stressful. Not exactly what I set out for on a leisurely evening walk. I noticed my mind immediatley recoiling, ‘big mistake.. you should have gone the other way.. big mistake.’

Then a quote (from Abe Lincoln) came to mind: “I do not like that man, I must get to know him better.”

This situation wasn’t about a particular person, but it was about a reaction. I felt uncomfortable and my immediate reaction was to retreat. What I should do, and what I’ve been doing since I got here, is think about why it makes me uncomfortable. When you learn the reasons behind it, you can get yourself to face it and eventually overcome it. I know that the added attention I get makes me feel like an outsider here. But the only way to get past that is to keep walking, and keep putting myself out there. Eventually they’ll stop seeing me as an outsider, or else I’ll get use to the attention. Either way, I won’t be letting the discomfort limit me. So tonight, I’ll go for a walk that way again…and teach some kids my name on the way.

A Lesson That Couldn’t be Taught

I volunteered  as an HIV/AIDS educator in classrooms and visited with AIDS patients at Terence Cardinal Cooke Health Care Center in New York. While this may have qualified me for an invitation in the Peace Corps, it was the medical review process that really showed me a thing or two about AIDS. Here’s the story…

I sat in the waiting room of the VA, relieved that after many wrong buildings and rooms, I had finally found the right place. The nurse called my name and I followed her back. We sat down and discussed all of the paperwork I had brought and the tests I would need to take.

“While your here,” she asked, “would you like your flu shot?” I told her I didn’t really care. I never usually get them, and rarely get sick. “Well, they’re right here,” she said, “and I can give it to you now. We really recommend them.” Okay, I said. I guess it can’t hurt.

I received a flu shot, along with a tetanus shot and a TB skin test, then went back for my labs. The tech pulled vile, after vile, after vile from his box. “How many are there?” I asked. Even he was a little shocked. “Ten,” he said.  “There’s a lot of tests.” I left with an appointment to return in three days.

Three days later…
I arrived to my appointment and went back with the nurse. Although I was only there to check the TB skin test, I was curious about the labs. “Did you get any of my results back yet?” I asked. “Hmm…” she said, “Let’s see. Yep, looks like some of them are back, let me just print these for you.”

She seemed to be having trouble with the printer, so she grabbed the lab tech and asked for assistance. She then handed me papers with a list of  letters and numbers. I asked her what they meant. The nurse looked at them and handed them to the lab guy. He started explaining, then stopped. “Maybe we shouldn’t be giving these to you now. We should wait for the doctor to go over them with you.” I wondered out loud what that meant, and he told me that tests can mean different things.  He pointed at a few numbers that appeared outside the normal range. He left to talk to the doctor (whom I could see across the hall) and returned, saying I would need to make an appointment next week. “Well your TB test is negative,” the nurse offered.

Next week…
I arrived for my appointment, ready to face my anxiety. I sat at the desk across from the doctor as she rifled through papers looking at numbers. “Everything is fine,” she said. “Sometimes numbers are little to one side or the other, but I don’t see anything too alarming here. You’re tests are fine.” (Whew!) 

“We’re still waiting on the HIV test,” she said, “but that can take a little longer. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” Then added, “Oh.. wait… who’s is this?”  She picked up a paper and scanned the type. “Oh… I guess this is yours.” She set the paper down and looked up. “Well, it looks like you are HIV positive.”

 Her tone was so calm, so matter-of-factly, you’d think she was telling me the color of my hair. “What do you mean?” I asked. I raced through my mind, searching for anything to explain this.

“We still need to send it in for a second test,” she said.

This isn’t right, this isn’t happening, I thought. I asked how often the test comes out wrong, and she said she wasn’t sure. I further questioned what might make it come out wrong and she said she didn’t know.  

“Well,” she asked, “What types of behaviors do you engage in? Unsafe sex? Drugs?”  No, I told her.  “Not even cocaine? you know you can contract it by sniffing, too.”

My mind went in a hundred million directions. Am I going to die? Oh my god, I might die. But then I’m thinking this can’t be right. And what research have I missed in the last five years that determined HIV is transferable though sniffing? “I thought you could only get it through blood, or unsafe sex?” I asked. 

“Well, no.” she responded. “You can get it other ways. You have to think about the kinds of people who do drugs. If you’re with people sniffing cocaine, you’re putting yourself at risk.”

Well wait a minute, no. I was getting off track. That wasn’t me, I hadn’t put myself at risk. “When will the second test come back?” I asked. “This can’t be right.”

“Well,” she said, “let me just call the lab and see.” She picked up the phone and dialed, asked a few questions and hung up.

“It will take about a week,” she said. “But 80 percent of the time, it comes back positive.” I sunk into my chair and felt my face getting hot. As I opened to speak, the tears rolled out. My voice was shaky. “So.. there’s an 80 percent chance I’m HIV positive?”

“Yes,” she said. “But don’t be so worried. These days, with medications, its curable.” Again, I wondered what research I had missed in the last five years. “I have a few patients who have it,” she said. “They are fine, they lead normal lives.”

 I could not stop the tears. I tried to compose myself as I realized this was the most afraid I’d ever been in my life. The doctor looked up at me and said, “They’re going to wonder what happened to you out there.”  I asked her for a tissue.

I left feeling stunned, wondering if I should try to drive or call for a ride. I picked up my phone and opened Google. I needed more information. As I searched, countless pages came up relating false HIV tests with the flu shot. I read every page I could find, then drove home and read more. This was it, I thought, it was the flu shot. A week later, the doctor confirmed I was negative.

While my story may end in relief, for many it doesn’t.  In 2009, 1.8 million people in sub-Saharan Africa were newly diagnosed  with HIV(UNAIDS). And while the western world has it largely reduced to a chronic disease (not cured), in Africa it is often deadly.

 As I embark to try and change the impact of this disease, I will not forget the emotions that accompany a positive diagnosis. I will take with me an understanding of how even our Western doctors can be misinformed and judgemental, and I will take with me as much compassion as I can for everyone affected.

(And for those of you still wondering: blood, semen, vaginal fluids and breast milk are the only ways the disease can be transferred.)