13 Months of Sunshine
Some of this was written in Ethiopia a few days ago, but I decided I shouldn’t publish it till safely outside its borders. Just in case.
Most of what I know about Ethiopia I learned from refugees in Cairo three years ago. I went to their houses, ate their food, danced their dances (all about shaking those shoulders!) while the VCR played taped concerts of their famous national singers. I had documented their stories about persecution, why they couldn’t return to Addis Ababa, the very city I’m sitting here writing from. In my mind then, this was a dangerous country ruled by a despot. I couldn’t have imagined coming here then. Now, it’s hard to believe that this is the same country from which they fled. Of course, I’m not from the wrong tribe or an enemy of the state (yet…better not publish this till I’m back safely in Kenya!?).
Addis seems to be a great city. The people occasionally shout “You!” at us (replacing Ghana’s “obruni”), but are friendly. They may not engage me in conversation as much as Ghanaians, but they have always responded favorably if I should speak to them or ask them for help (and maybe after Ghana, I’m more inclined to talk to strangers!). They smile easily and often.
My West African pidgin English doesn’t seem to be as well understood here, so I’m fighting myself to try to speak more normally. The refugee population that we interviewed was almost exclusively Somali (a few Sudanese), so it was back to the days of Legal Aid in Cairo. At one point, I got overwhelmingly sad about Max, one of my clients who adopted us (my sister was his English tutor). He’s resettled to Arizona, is learning to drive, and calls Mom ‘mom’ on the telephone. The people I’m interviewing for work usually have family back in the States ‘sending’ for them in the family reunification program. He has no family. I was secretly hoping that I would somehow stumble upon a member of his family in my interviews that he didn’t know was still living. But he saw his own family die with his eyes. He has suffered so much, yet he is all heart.
The Somali refugee population is very different from the Liberian one we see in Ghana. Multiple wives, yes, but no babies from “just lovin’.”
Back to Ethiopia: Good weather, hilly town, yummy food and tea with cinnamon, cardamom, and other lovely spices. Lots of beggars—who were very persistent. I’m used to the ones on the touristy stretch of Accra and even the disabled ones that panhandle in the middle of rows of traffic. But it’s hard when someone walks alongside you for blocks with his hand outstretched, especially when you’re looking at silver jewelry you really don’t need. I flashed to my mom’s horror at the beggars in South Africa and I felt guilty.
The Ethiopian clock is upside down. That is, 12 and 6 are in reverse positions. So noon is 6:00 to them and 6:00 to them is 12. Our 9 is their 3. Our 3 is their 9. They’ve also got a different calendar—13 months of sunshine, as their tourism department likes to proclaim. (The month is lunar based and the 13th month is only about 5 days).
My mom is so cute! She checked out a book from the library and then emailed me all this stuff she learned about Ethiopia. She said that 75% Ethiopians go hungry on a typical day. That seems quite excessive, especially in Addis where there is definitely evidence of affluence.
My co-workers, a bit older than me, recall the images of the famine, broadcast from every TV across the US in the 80s: children with visible bones and huge, listless eyes, on heads that were too big for their bodies; flies that didn’t get shooed away. Mom’s research found that Menguistu’s regime withheld food aid, exacerbating the problem particularly in areas that were politically hostile to him (Tigray and what is now Eritrea). (When discussing this with my coworkers, one said that she buys bags of sorghum stamped USAID for dog food!!! Good to know we’re making a difference…)
On Saturday, we took a tro-tro (they call ‘em public taxis, marked blue and white) to Merkato, the supposedly largest market in Africa. We wandered past where the tires were being made into sandals, past the Christmas tinsel, past the house wares, and found our way, rather easily, to the cloth and jewelry section. For lunch we tried a fast food joint across the street that was anything but fast, but it was cheap. Ethiopian food is usually served on a big silver platter with thin, spongy bread called injera with various sauces, eaten with your right hand (sorry, mom!).
Saturday night, I met up with a Friendster friend of a friend. An Ethiopian who went to Princeton and had spent a year working in Ghana. He and his fiancé picked me up and we went to a fancy, overpriced Moroccan themed bar. Then, thankfully, we went to a very local spot. Concrete ground with hay strewn about, wooden benches, and performers doing dance numbers to different kinds of music, complete with costume changes. Sounds very touristy-trappy, but was anything but—only locals!
On Sunday, we (when I saw ‘we,’ I generally mean the other two from Ghana) heard about a craft fair at the Exhibition Center. It was only a 10 minute walk down the hill (more on the way back UP!). We bought tickets at the gate for the ‘party,’ were padded down for weapons, and proceeded toward the pavilion, where we could hear the music pumping. A crowd of Ethiopians danced and sweated away in the middle, as we watched from the edge for a song. We decided to look around for the goods and only found another hall serving food. This clearly wasn’t what we’d come looking for, but it was interesting nonetheless. Curiosity got the best of me and I asked a man walking by what the ‘party’ was for. From his limited English we got the first inkling that we were at a potentially political event…The second person we asked quite fluently told us, “We are celebrating the start of the armed struggle against Communism 15 years ago and commemorating the 75,000 Tigray people who sacrificed their lives for the cause.” The money, it seemed, was going to rebuild schools and churches in rural areas that were still missing. I had only JUST tried to alleviate my mother’s fear for my security in Addis by telling her everything was fine there if you avoid political rallies and protests…and then I paid to walk right into one! As the speeches started in the pavilion, we found our way to the exit! It had the feel of a county fair, but we didn’t want to tempt fate. Later that night, I saw the event covered on TV, but didn’t understand a word. Seems like nothing bad ended up going down. Whew!
That afternoon, as we were walking down the street, a bull (with sharp horns!) ran down the road, chased by an unyoung man, trying to corner it. As it ran across the street, it’s hooves skidded and it feel onto its side. No cars were that close by, fortunately, and it got up quickly and continued on down the road.
Later still, I saw some men butchering something on the side of the road. The pile of fur beside it looked distinctly dog-like.
A girl looked over a wall, holding out a red rose to me with a smile.
I could definitely live in Addis. Next up, Nairobi.
Most of what I know about Ethiopia I learned from refugees in Cairo three years ago. I went to their houses, ate their food, danced their dances (all about shaking those shoulders!) while the VCR played taped concerts of their famous national singers. I had documented their stories about persecution, why they couldn’t return to Addis Ababa, the very city I’m sitting here writing from. In my mind then, this was a dangerous country ruled by a despot. I couldn’t have imagined coming here then. Now, it’s hard to believe that this is the same country from which they fled. Of course, I’m not from the wrong tribe or an enemy of the state (yet…better not publish this till I’m back safely in Kenya!?).
Addis seems to be a great city. The people occasionally shout “You!” at us (replacing Ghana’s “obruni”), but are friendly. They may not engage me in conversation as much as Ghanaians, but they have always responded favorably if I should speak to them or ask them for help (and maybe after Ghana, I’m more inclined to talk to strangers!). They smile easily and often.
My West African pidgin English doesn’t seem to be as well understood here, so I’m fighting myself to try to speak more normally. The refugee population that we interviewed was almost exclusively Somali (a few Sudanese), so it was back to the days of Legal Aid in Cairo. At one point, I got overwhelmingly sad about Max, one of my clients who adopted us (my sister was his English tutor). He’s resettled to Arizona, is learning to drive, and calls Mom ‘mom’ on the telephone. The people I’m interviewing for work usually have family back in the States ‘sending’ for them in the family reunification program. He has no family. I was secretly hoping that I would somehow stumble upon a member of his family in my interviews that he didn’t know was still living. But he saw his own family die with his eyes. He has suffered so much, yet he is all heart.
The Somali refugee population is very different from the Liberian one we see in Ghana. Multiple wives, yes, but no babies from “just lovin’.”
Back to Ethiopia: Good weather, hilly town, yummy food and tea with cinnamon, cardamom, and other lovely spices. Lots of beggars—who were very persistent. I’m used to the ones on the touristy stretch of Accra and even the disabled ones that panhandle in the middle of rows of traffic. But it’s hard when someone walks alongside you for blocks with his hand outstretched, especially when you’re looking at silver jewelry you really don’t need. I flashed to my mom’s horror at the beggars in South Africa and I felt guilty.
The Ethiopian clock is upside down. That is, 12 and 6 are in reverse positions. So noon is 6:00 to them and 6:00 to them is 12. Our 9 is their 3. Our 3 is their 9. They’ve also got a different calendar—13 months of sunshine, as their tourism department likes to proclaim. (The month is lunar based and the 13th month is only about 5 days).
My mom is so cute! She checked out a book from the library and then emailed me all this stuff she learned about Ethiopia. She said that 75% Ethiopians go hungry on a typical day. That seems quite excessive, especially in Addis where there is definitely evidence of affluence.
My co-workers, a bit older than me, recall the images of the famine, broadcast from every TV across the US in the 80s: children with visible bones and huge, listless eyes, on heads that were too big for their bodies; flies that didn’t get shooed away. Mom’s research found that Menguistu’s regime withheld food aid, exacerbating the problem particularly in areas that were politically hostile to him (Tigray and what is now Eritrea). (When discussing this with my coworkers, one said that she buys bags of sorghum stamped USAID for dog food!!! Good to know we’re making a difference…)
On Saturday, we took a tro-tro (they call ‘em public taxis, marked blue and white) to Merkato, the supposedly largest market in Africa. We wandered past where the tires were being made into sandals, past the Christmas tinsel, past the house wares, and found our way, rather easily, to the cloth and jewelry section. For lunch we tried a fast food joint across the street that was anything but fast, but it was cheap. Ethiopian food is usually served on a big silver platter with thin, spongy bread called injera with various sauces, eaten with your right hand (sorry, mom!).
Saturday night, I met up with a Friendster friend of a friend. An Ethiopian who went to Princeton and had spent a year working in Ghana. He and his fiancé picked me up and we went to a fancy, overpriced Moroccan themed bar. Then, thankfully, we went to a very local spot. Concrete ground with hay strewn about, wooden benches, and performers doing dance numbers to different kinds of music, complete with costume changes. Sounds very touristy-trappy, but was anything but—only locals!
On Sunday, we (when I saw ‘we,’ I generally mean the other two from Ghana) heard about a craft fair at the Exhibition Center. It was only a 10 minute walk down the hill (more on the way back UP!). We bought tickets at the gate for the ‘party,’ were padded down for weapons, and proceeded toward the pavilion, where we could hear the music pumping. A crowd of Ethiopians danced and sweated away in the middle, as we watched from the edge for a song. We decided to look around for the goods and only found another hall serving food. This clearly wasn’t what we’d come looking for, but it was interesting nonetheless. Curiosity got the best of me and I asked a man walking by what the ‘party’ was for. From his limited English we got the first inkling that we were at a potentially political event…The second person we asked quite fluently told us, “We are celebrating the start of the armed struggle against Communism 15 years ago and commemorating the 75,000 Tigray people who sacrificed their lives for the cause.” The money, it seemed, was going to rebuild schools and churches in rural areas that were still missing. I had only JUST tried to alleviate my mother’s fear for my security in Addis by telling her everything was fine there if you avoid political rallies and protests…and then I paid to walk right into one! As the speeches started in the pavilion, we found our way to the exit! It had the feel of a county fair, but we didn’t want to tempt fate. Later that night, I saw the event covered on TV, but didn’t understand a word. Seems like nothing bad ended up going down. Whew!
That afternoon, as we were walking down the street, a bull (with sharp horns!) ran down the road, chased by an unyoung man, trying to corner it. As it ran across the street, it’s hooves skidded and it feel onto its side. No cars were that close by, fortunately, and it got up quickly and continued on down the road.
Later still, I saw some men butchering something on the side of the road. The pile of fur beside it looked distinctly dog-like.
A girl looked over a wall, holding out a red rose to me with a smile.
I could definitely live in Addis. Next up, Nairobi.
posted by Jill at 5:04 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home