Six months ago I was telling immigrants that they needed to get worker's permits to legally work in the United States. Now I have to apply for a worker's permit to legally work in Ethiopia. I feel like this calls for some Alantis Morissette.
(and yeah, I realize that 90% of the situations in this song do not actually qualify as "ironic", but that's ironic in itself, don'tcha think?)
UPDATE: Barring some completely unforeseen event, the Ethiopian government has granted me a "green card" that is good for the next ten months. Thanks Ethiopia!
Tuesday 25 October 2011
Monday 24 October 2011
Mother Teresa's Home
It was one of those things that couldn't have been planned. Dad and I were in Dire Dawa, a hard-times desert city near the Somalian border where we frequently have work.
We went to mass, but Dad couldn't enter the church because of all of the incense and I couldn't properly wrap my hair for worship. So we stood outside and listened to the beautiful singing and chanting. I stared into the darkened sanctuary and saw that Mary had been wrapped in white cloth too.
We left when the people left. On the way out, we passed two very short nuns. We asked them were they worked and they said "Mother Teresa's with our 500 patients". We couldn't imagine a 500 patient facility within walking distance, but then nuns assured us that it was there. We should come visit some time. So we did, about three hours later.
By this point, we had picked up a family friend, I'll call him Ali, who is a very devout Muslim. He had been to the compound before and helped direct our driver there. "But please be careful." He told us "There are mad people there."
We arrived near the compound and the driver said he wasn't going farther, so we got out and walked to the big, steel doors that said "Mother Teresa's No Photographs of Video Filming." A guard opened the doors and then closed them behind us. We were standing in a sunny courtyard. A few people, obviously mentally-ill, wandered around talking to themselves or shaking. A couple of people wandered towards us. The guard went to find the nuns while we talked to the men.
I remember one boy, they don't do birthdays here so I can't tell you his age, but I'd guess about sixteen, who was very friendly. He would say something to use and then his gaze would wander off and he would stare at the air around us like it was suddenly full of dancing lights, a big smile on his face. Then, a moment later, he would be pleasantly surprised to see us there, still speaking with him.
"What do the nuns do?" Ask Ali
"They clothe me, they feed me, they take care of me." The boy said slowly. And then he smiled at the sky.
The nuns arrived, led by a European nun who I think was the convent leader. She talked about the compound as a hospital for the cases no one else would take. They come from all over the country. They come from off the streets.
She told Ali that they were looking for a health officer, Ali's field, and he immediately said he would help find someone for them. The head nun assigned us a guide, a large man in scrubs, who lead us from room to room.
Walking by the open door rooms, It was immediately clear that all of the patients here were men, that they were sorted by age and illness, and that everyone was clean and given their own bed. Different categories wore different pajamas. We were lead almost immediately into a room where the men where wearing red pajamas. "This is our
room for any type of multiple drug resistant TB" said our guide and mentally I was screaming "Eeeeek! Don't breathe!" but I nodded and stood next to a few of the patients. We also saw the Type 1 and Type 2 TB rooms and then I discretely used enough hand sanitizer to smell like alcohol all day.
We were shown the area where the violently mentally ill are kept. One ill man attempted to shake my hand and the guard very roughly shoved him away.
We went to the the HIV room and sat with the people there for a while. We went to a room full of old men where they all reached out their hands to us and we went from bed to bed, "Hello, how are you? Are you peaceful? Thank you. I am peaceful." as is the Ethiopian way, shaking warm fingers that felt like sinewed twigs.
I asked to see where the women where housed. The guard explained that normally he did not show this part of the compound, but since I was female, he would. He took Ali, Dad, and myself across the road to another compound. Here we first found a massive kitchen filled with gas-powered injera cookers and USAID grain bags. Then we saw the smaller facilities for the women. These were not quite as nice as the men's quarters, but they weren't terrible. Two male guards talked near the gate.
Again, we went through a jandice wards (geriatric and regular) and TB wards. We were shown the location for mental ill women but were not taken there. We glimpsed the ward for women who are mentally ill, TB positive, AND pregnant simultaneously. I closed my eyes for a second of prayer.
"And of course" Our guide said with a shrug, "We have children."
They did have children. Physically disabled and mentally ill children lay in large cribs. But the kids that got to me the most were the, for lack of a better term, "normal" children. These kids were children of the female patients. They didn't have enough clothing. There were no educational activities for them. They seemed bored out of their minds and I don't blame them. But it was better than being a street orphan.
On the way back, we walked through another geriatric ward. An incredibly thin woman grabbed my hand with a startling amount of strength and said something to me earnestly. All I understood was "thank you".
We were shown a garden before we left. It was a new project. It had a professional gardener who had done his job well and now the desert was blooming with vegetables and fruit trees. I walked through the garden and thought about the women and there children. I remember how many of the patients were washing clothing, or talking to each other, often without words. I thought about the old, old woman who had grabbed my hand. This place was hardly a ghetto, but "I Never Saw Another Butterfly" was playing in my head.
"Is this not a beautiful plac?" Said our guide, breathing in the garden air.
"When we die." Said Ali "God will ask us 'What did you do with my blessed ones, the ones I sent you to care for?' He will mean people like this. I will come back if only for that."
I know I'll go back to volunteer too. It is a beautiful place. There's so much sunlight and air there, among the dying people. The children were so happy to see us that I was afraid one child would have a seizure she was laughing and cheering so hard. Just sitting next to people made a difference. The nuns say they look forward to my going back. So do I.
If I Never Saw Another Butterfly
Attr. Celeste Raspanti
So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps, if the sun’s tears
Could sing against a white stone…
Such a yellow is carried lightly
way up high.
It went away.
I’m sure, because it looked to kiss
The world goodbye.
For seven weeks I’ve lived in here,
Pent up inside this ghetto.
But I have found my people here,
The dandelions care for me,
And the white chestnut branches in the yard.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That was the last one.
Butterflies don’t live in here,
In the ghetto.
We went to mass, but Dad couldn't enter the church because of all of the incense and I couldn't properly wrap my hair for worship. So we stood outside and listened to the beautiful singing and chanting. I stared into the darkened sanctuary and saw that Mary had been wrapped in white cloth too.
We left when the people left. On the way out, we passed two very short nuns. We asked them were they worked and they said "Mother Teresa's with our 500 patients". We couldn't imagine a 500 patient facility within walking distance, but then nuns assured us that it was there. We should come visit some time. So we did, about three hours later.
By this point, we had picked up a family friend, I'll call him Ali, who is a very devout Muslim. He had been to the compound before and helped direct our driver there. "But please be careful." He told us "There are mad people there."
We arrived near the compound and the driver said he wasn't going farther, so we got out and walked to the big, steel doors that said "Mother Teresa's No Photographs of Video Filming." A guard opened the doors and then closed them behind us. We were standing in a sunny courtyard. A few people, obviously mentally-ill, wandered around talking to themselves or shaking. A couple of people wandered towards us. The guard went to find the nuns while we talked to the men.
I remember one boy, they don't do birthdays here so I can't tell you his age, but I'd guess about sixteen, who was very friendly. He would say something to use and then his gaze would wander off and he would stare at the air around us like it was suddenly full of dancing lights, a big smile on his face. Then, a moment later, he would be pleasantly surprised to see us there, still speaking with him.
"What do the nuns do?" Ask Ali
"They clothe me, they feed me, they take care of me." The boy said slowly. And then he smiled at the sky.
The nuns arrived, led by a European nun who I think was the convent leader. She talked about the compound as a hospital for the cases no one else would take. They come from all over the country. They come from off the streets.
She told Ali that they were looking for a health officer, Ali's field, and he immediately said he would help find someone for them. The head nun assigned us a guide, a large man in scrubs, who lead us from room to room.
Walking by the open door rooms, It was immediately clear that all of the patients here were men, that they were sorted by age and illness, and that everyone was clean and given their own bed. Different categories wore different pajamas. We were lead almost immediately into a room where the men where wearing red pajamas. "This is our
room for any type of multiple drug resistant TB" said our guide and mentally I was screaming "Eeeeek! Don't breathe!" but I nodded and stood next to a few of the patients. We also saw the Type 1 and Type 2 TB rooms and then I discretely used enough hand sanitizer to smell like alcohol all day.
We were shown the area where the violently mentally ill are kept. One ill man attempted to shake my hand and the guard very roughly shoved him away.
We went to the the HIV room and sat with the people there for a while. We went to a room full of old men where they all reached out their hands to us and we went from bed to bed, "Hello, how are you? Are you peaceful? Thank you. I am peaceful." as is the Ethiopian way, shaking warm fingers that felt like sinewed twigs.
I asked to see where the women where housed. The guard explained that normally he did not show this part of the compound, but since I was female, he would. He took Ali, Dad, and myself across the road to another compound. Here we first found a massive kitchen filled with gas-powered injera cookers and USAID grain bags. Then we saw the smaller facilities for the women. These were not quite as nice as the men's quarters, but they weren't terrible. Two male guards talked near the gate.
Again, we went through a jandice wards (geriatric and regular) and TB wards. We were shown the location for mental ill women but were not taken there. We glimpsed the ward for women who are mentally ill, TB positive, AND pregnant simultaneously. I closed my eyes for a second of prayer.
"And of course" Our guide said with a shrug, "We have children."
They did have children. Physically disabled and mentally ill children lay in large cribs. But the kids that got to me the most were the, for lack of a better term, "normal" children. These kids were children of the female patients. They didn't have enough clothing. There were no educational activities for them. They seemed bored out of their minds and I don't blame them. But it was better than being a street orphan.
On the way back, we walked through another geriatric ward. An incredibly thin woman grabbed my hand with a startling amount of strength and said something to me earnestly. All I understood was "thank you".
We were shown a garden before we left. It was a new project. It had a professional gardener who had done his job well and now the desert was blooming with vegetables and fruit trees. I walked through the garden and thought about the women and there children. I remember how many of the patients were washing clothing, or talking to each other, often without words. I thought about the old, old woman who had grabbed my hand. This place was hardly a ghetto, but "I Never Saw Another Butterfly" was playing in my head.
"Is this not a beautiful plac?" Said our guide, breathing in the garden air.
"When we die." Said Ali "God will ask us 'What did you do with my blessed ones, the ones I sent you to care for?' He will mean people like this. I will come back if only for that."
I know I'll go back to volunteer too. It is a beautiful place. There's so much sunlight and air there, among the dying people. The children were so happy to see us that I was afraid one child would have a seizure she was laughing and cheering so hard. Just sitting next to people made a difference. The nuns say they look forward to my going back. So do I.
If I Never Saw Another Butterfly
Attr. Celeste Raspanti
So richly, brightly, dazzlingly yellow.
Perhaps, if the sun’s tears
Could sing against a white stone…
Such a yellow is carried lightly
way up high.
It went away.
I’m sure, because it looked to kiss
The world goodbye.
For seven weeks I’ve lived in here,
Pent up inside this ghetto.
But I have found my people here,
The dandelions care for me,
And the white chestnut branches in the yard.
Only I never saw another butterfly.
That was the last one.
Butterflies don’t live in here,
In the ghetto.
Tuesday 18 October 2011
Unique Solutions from a Unique Place
Disclaimer: These are not meant to be cruel, ethnocentric, etc. They are simply actual situations I've seen here and find interesting. Enjoy
PROBLEM: You lost the key to a lock.
SOLUTION: Try every key you own on the lock, even the ones bigger than the lock itself. Sigh when none of them work. Physically locate the maintenance person. He'll be an older man in a greasy blue coverall. He'll have a hammer in his shirt pocket and prefer to speak a tribal language you don't speak. Have the guy hit the lock with the hammer multiple times. Cheer when the lock disappears, then forget about said lock. Maintenance guy will then hammer a nail about five centimeters above the door at an angle. Turn this nail to the left to close the door, to the right to open. Hope that any potential thieves are really short.
PROBLEM: You, the campus cooks,have left over vegetables.
SOLUTION: This happens almost every day, so do what you do every time. Mix this vegetable matter, whatever it is, with white rice. Serve it cold as a salad for lunch. Consider how you can use left-over salad in supper's salad by adding more vegetables. Serve whatever left as part of an omlette for breakfast. By the way, when those white women don't show up for dinner, it's because they have the runs. Don't worry, it's probably not your fault.
PROBLEM: There's an intoxicated goat pissing on that stash you were planning to sell here.
SOLUTION: Yeah, common problem. Stupid goats. Growing and selling chat (drug grown in eastern Africa. The leaves are slowly chewed. Not considered illegal.) is hard work. Especially when you'd rather, you know, sit around chewing chat.
Make kicking gestures at the goat and yell until he leaves. If he's had a lot of beer and chat today, this may take some effort. Once the goat leaves, gather your chat in the burlap cloth you were sitting on. Hail a line taxi (minibus). Throw the chat on top of the line taxi rather insecurely and ride to the next town with a decent market. Look dramatically out the window every time the driver takes a sharp turn. Sigh when you see loose strands of chat go flying.
PROBLEM: You've managed to get a very hungry lion into a very small cage.
SOLUTION: Contact the agricultural college. Get them to sell you bull heads, the ones with the really big horns that would give Spanish people nightmares. Fling this at the lion. Train the lion to trust you. Learn to pet the lion and have it lick your face. Keep flinging bull heads. Laugh when that foreigner refuses to pet the lion, but congratulates you on keeping all of your fingers. By the way, that foreigner, she blames you for the reason she's vegetarian again.
PROBLEM: You want to be friends with foreigners.
SOLUTION: Yell "Forenji, Forenji!" at them and chase them. That always seems to get some sort of reaction. Failing that, grab their elbow briefly and say "You, you, you!" with a meaningful look in your eye. The common response to this seems to be "Oh, um, hello!".
PROBLEM: You lost the key to a lock.
SOLUTION: Try every key you own on the lock, even the ones bigger than the lock itself. Sigh when none of them work. Physically locate the maintenance person. He'll be an older man in a greasy blue coverall. He'll have a hammer in his shirt pocket and prefer to speak a tribal language you don't speak. Have the guy hit the lock with the hammer multiple times. Cheer when the lock disappears, then forget about said lock. Maintenance guy will then hammer a nail about five centimeters above the door at an angle. Turn this nail to the left to close the door, to the right to open. Hope that any potential thieves are really short.
PROBLEM: You, the campus cooks,have left over vegetables.
SOLUTION: This happens almost every day, so do what you do every time. Mix this vegetable matter, whatever it is, with white rice. Serve it cold as a salad for lunch. Consider how you can use left-over salad in supper's salad by adding more vegetables. Serve whatever left as part of an omlette for breakfast. By the way, when those white women don't show up for dinner, it's because they have the runs. Don't worry, it's probably not your fault.
PROBLEM: There's an intoxicated goat pissing on that stash you were planning to sell here.
SOLUTION: Yeah, common problem. Stupid goats. Growing and selling chat (drug grown in eastern Africa. The leaves are slowly chewed. Not considered illegal.) is hard work. Especially when you'd rather, you know, sit around chewing chat.
Make kicking gestures at the goat and yell until he leaves. If he's had a lot of beer and chat today, this may take some effort. Once the goat leaves, gather your chat in the burlap cloth you were sitting on. Hail a line taxi (minibus). Throw the chat on top of the line taxi rather insecurely and ride to the next town with a decent market. Look dramatically out the window every time the driver takes a sharp turn. Sigh when you see loose strands of chat go flying.
PROBLEM: You've managed to get a very hungry lion into a very small cage.
SOLUTION: Contact the agricultural college. Get them to sell you bull heads, the ones with the really big horns that would give Spanish people nightmares. Fling this at the lion. Train the lion to trust you. Learn to pet the lion and have it lick your face. Keep flinging bull heads. Laugh when that foreigner refuses to pet the lion, but congratulates you on keeping all of your fingers. By the way, that foreigner, she blames you for the reason she's vegetarian again.
PROBLEM: You want to be friends with foreigners.
SOLUTION: Yell "Forenji, Forenji!" at them and chase them. That always seems to get some sort of reaction. Failing that, grab their elbow briefly and say "You, you, you!" with a meaningful look in your eye. The common response to this seems to be "Oh, um, hello!".
Sunday 9 October 2011
First Sunday at Haramaya
I got lost this morning. There is nothing surprising in that statement. Haramaya University is a big campus and I simply turned left when I should have turned right. Still, I'm glad I made my mistake.
I wound up among the student dorms. I found the tucked away place where undergraduates pump water out of the ground and into cement sinks where they beat their colorful robes until the dust is worked out. I found huts made out of sticks and undergowth, smoking with the smells of cooking coffee, injera and rice.
Lunch was lovely. Dad and I joined two of the VSO volunteers in their apartment home for pot roast, rice, roasted potatoes, and plum wine. Despite the fact that there was no running water in the house, everything was clean, well-prepared, and delicious.
After lunch, I walked the half-mile road to the gate where the University ends and the town of Bati begins. My tutor was waiting there with her sister. I had walked through the immediately adjacent town of Bati before, but I had stuck to the main roads. My tutor quickly led me off them.
We passed really old walled streets where boys wrestled and little girls cheered them on. Herds of donkeys twitched their ears as we passed. People yelled greetings in at least three languages from their doorways. Everywhere we passed, the word "forenji" (foreigner)was muttered, whispered, shouted, or called.
Finally, we were at a bright blue house with a pile of shoes and broken stone in front of it. There was some confusion here(Forenjis never seem to take off their shoes, but clearly cleanliness called for it.) as I took of my Tevas. The inside of the room was so smoky that it stung my eyes. An old woman, two middle aged women, a teenager, and two todlers all stared at me as I entered the one-bedroom house. There was no water, but music videos were playing in the corner.
I was sat, leaning, against cushions in the front of the room, clearly the guest of honor. I was presented with a soda, a bottle of water, and cookies. As we spoke, I wrote down new words and the four year old kept throwing a 1 Birr note at me to see if I'd throw it back.
The other baby woke up and clammored around while I learned to count to ten and say the days of the week. The videos showed the same women dancing with the same men to songs that sounded quite a bit like each other. The coffee was cooked over charcoal and ground with a three-foot piece of rebarb. It was strong, thick, and sweetened by sugar from a paper cone.
Walking back to the campus, several of the boys yelled "forenji" at me and I surprised all of them by yelling back "habersha!" (local). It got a great laugh. So now I'm the funny one.
Yeah, I'm still as foreign as the day is long. I can crack a joke now, and I've got my flea bites, and I've had coffee ceremony, and I can apparently (albeit mistakenly) climb the hills without gasping from the altitude. So maybe, maybe, I'm just starting to fit in. A little. Possibly. Sort of. We'll see.
I wound up among the student dorms. I found the tucked away place where undergraduates pump water out of the ground and into cement sinks where they beat their colorful robes until the dust is worked out. I found huts made out of sticks and undergowth, smoking with the smells of cooking coffee, injera and rice.
Lunch was lovely. Dad and I joined two of the VSO volunteers in their apartment home for pot roast, rice, roasted potatoes, and plum wine. Despite the fact that there was no running water in the house, everything was clean, well-prepared, and delicious.
After lunch, I walked the half-mile road to the gate where the University ends and the town of Bati begins. My tutor was waiting there with her sister. I had walked through the immediately adjacent town of Bati before, but I had stuck to the main roads. My tutor quickly led me off them.
We passed really old walled streets where boys wrestled and little girls cheered them on. Herds of donkeys twitched their ears as we passed. People yelled greetings in at least three languages from their doorways. Everywhere we passed, the word "forenji" (foreigner)was muttered, whispered, shouted, or called.
Finally, we were at a bright blue house with a pile of shoes and broken stone in front of it. There was some confusion here(Forenjis never seem to take off their shoes, but clearly cleanliness called for it.) as I took of my Tevas. The inside of the room was so smoky that it stung my eyes. An old woman, two middle aged women, a teenager, and two todlers all stared at me as I entered the one-bedroom house. There was no water, but music videos were playing in the corner.
I was sat, leaning, against cushions in the front of the room, clearly the guest of honor. I was presented with a soda, a bottle of water, and cookies. As we spoke, I wrote down new words and the four year old kept throwing a 1 Birr note at me to see if I'd throw it back.
The other baby woke up and clammored around while I learned to count to ten and say the days of the week. The videos showed the same women dancing with the same men to songs that sounded quite a bit like each other. The coffee was cooked over charcoal and ground with a three-foot piece of rebarb. It was strong, thick, and sweetened by sugar from a paper cone.
Walking back to the campus, several of the boys yelled "forenji" at me and I surprised all of them by yelling back "habersha!" (local). It got a great laugh. So now I'm the funny one.
Yeah, I'm still as foreign as the day is long. I can crack a joke now, and I've got my flea bites, and I've had coffee ceremony, and I can apparently (albeit mistakenly) climb the hills without gasping from the altitude. So maybe, maybe, I'm just starting to fit in. A little. Possibly. Sort of. We'll see.
Wednesday 5 October 2011
A moment of suspension, but not suspense
A few of the children of Haramaya's matenance staff and some kids from the near-by village of Batti have lined up against a fence to confirm a rummor. Yep, it's true, the white people float. Down below them, in the swimming pool, I and two VSO (like an international Peace Corps) volunteers splash and swim from side to side of the uncrowded deep end. I do a cannonball to gasps. Soon after a young Etiopian man copys the act, only his is much more impressive because he has to work up his courage. He dives in and stays under the water until he's reached the shallow end, since I don't think he can tread. I can barely hold my breath underwater here at all. I blame it on the altitute. So I float on my back as Ethiopian music blasts and people chatter.
I am officially in a state of "sitting pretty". I have my housing, food (to a degree. Hmm, cold injera and egg.), toliet, shower (to a degree. Yeay, cold water in the middle of the bathroom), telivision, and internet provided to me for free. Essentially, my schedule looks like I'm retired. It is unknown what job I will have, but for now, I'm allowed to go and do what I want. I'm certainly not complaining. I'm unpacked and happy.
On the other side of the fence, women stand. In my bathing suite, I walk past a woman dressed in several layers of cloth and holding an old metal jar. She fills this jar again and again from the public outdoor pre-pool shower that some rather beautiful men are *ahem* actually using as a shower.
She hands her jar to the women who fill a jerrycan. It's a reminder that the water is not working or available on all or even most of the campus. Somewhere, these women will use the water to cook rice over hidden fires. The kids will ask me for money and play tag around the statues instead of going to school.
They smile a lot, these women who cook and clean for us and then have their children ramble around the university because they can't afford to educate them. It's not ideal by far, but I hear them laughing and I'd like to think that they are happy too. Floating in their own way.
I am officially in a state of "sitting pretty". I have my housing, food (to a degree. Hmm, cold injera and egg.), toliet, shower (to a degree. Yeay, cold water in the middle of the bathroom), telivision, and internet provided to me for free. Essentially, my schedule looks like I'm retired. It is unknown what job I will have, but for now, I'm allowed to go and do what I want. I'm certainly not complaining. I'm unpacked and happy.
On the other side of the fence, women stand. In my bathing suite, I walk past a woman dressed in several layers of cloth and holding an old metal jar. She fills this jar again and again from the public outdoor pre-pool shower that some rather beautiful men are *ahem* actually using as a shower.
She hands her jar to the women who fill a jerrycan. It's a reminder that the water is not working or available on all or even most of the campus. Somewhere, these women will use the water to cook rice over hidden fires. The kids will ask me for money and play tag around the statues instead of going to school.
They smile a lot, these women who cook and clean for us and then have their children ramble around the university because they can't afford to educate them. It's not ideal by far, but I hear them laughing and I'd like to think that they are happy too. Floating in their own way.
Tuesday 4 October 2011
Haramaya
“Forenji. Here. Computer for you. All same. All good get.” I smile at the college student with the key. He nods at the room full of HPs and he goes back to dozing in front of his sports show on the television. It’s hard to believe I’m finally here, on campus. Figure I might as well write a blog entry.
I started today in Dire Dawa. DD as it’s commonly abbreviated is about what I expected to find here. Dusty streets filled with old walls, new shanties, beggars and merchants. Hot, savannah, and filled with mysterious alleyways and sites. At the aiport, black and white furry monkeys stared at us as we got our luggage.
Addis Ababa, where I landed and first saw this country, was much more urban. I woke each of the three days I was there to find the large “Slum Dog Millionare” sub-city to the left of my hotel bustling. Suave French-speaking professionals, backpackers, and women dressed in tight clothing but full hijab mixed in the streets and drank Italian coffee from shops that spilled out into the streets.
In DD we ate at a fine restaurant and saw the orphanage about which I have heard so much discussion. My father and I left DD via minibus. Loaded down with luggage we obviously looked like fresh targets. As soon as we got to the station, we were immediately surrounded by drivers who kept trying to take our bags, grab our arms, and yell at us. Dad yelled back just as loudly, demanding a direct trip and the “local” price instead of the more expensive fees for foreigners. They seemed to be surprised that he spoke Amharic enough to argue.
Once we were settled into a minibus, beggars and salespeople swarmed our windows. “Feed baby me sister! Buy chewing gum, miss?” until someone slammed the door shut and we were on our way.
The trip went almost straight up. We drove past schools where dozens of children poured out into the road, all dressed alike. We passed villages where women pumped water out of the ground next to stick and mud huts. There were camels, cows, goats, and donkeys. I stuck my face out of the window most of the ride and waved back at people yelling greetings.
Eventually, we reached a particularly poor and rough looking area. “This place looks pretty tough.” I said to Dad “Do you know it’s name?” It was our destination.
We were waved through onto the university grounds. Now I’m in the Resource Center where I will receive free room, board, and Internet until staff housing can be found for me. It’s a pretty sweet set-up. I look forward to seeing what happens next.
I started today in Dire Dawa. DD as it’s commonly abbreviated is about what I expected to find here. Dusty streets filled with old walls, new shanties, beggars and merchants. Hot, savannah, and filled with mysterious alleyways and sites. At the aiport, black and white furry monkeys stared at us as we got our luggage.
Addis Ababa, where I landed and first saw this country, was much more urban. I woke each of the three days I was there to find the large “Slum Dog Millionare” sub-city to the left of my hotel bustling. Suave French-speaking professionals, backpackers, and women dressed in tight clothing but full hijab mixed in the streets and drank Italian coffee from shops that spilled out into the streets.
In DD we ate at a fine restaurant and saw the orphanage about which I have heard so much discussion. My father and I left DD via minibus. Loaded down with luggage we obviously looked like fresh targets. As soon as we got to the station, we were immediately surrounded by drivers who kept trying to take our bags, grab our arms, and yell at us. Dad yelled back just as loudly, demanding a direct trip and the “local” price instead of the more expensive fees for foreigners. They seemed to be surprised that he spoke Amharic enough to argue.
Once we were settled into a minibus, beggars and salespeople swarmed our windows. “Feed baby me sister! Buy chewing gum, miss?” until someone slammed the door shut and we were on our way.
The trip went almost straight up. We drove past schools where dozens of children poured out into the road, all dressed alike. We passed villages where women pumped water out of the ground next to stick and mud huts. There were camels, cows, goats, and donkeys. I stuck my face out of the window most of the ride and waved back at people yelling greetings.
Eventually, we reached a particularly poor and rough looking area. “This place looks pretty tough.” I said to Dad “Do you know it’s name?” It was our destination.
We were waved through onto the university grounds. Now I’m in the Resource Center where I will receive free room, board, and Internet until staff housing can be found for me. It’s a pretty sweet set-up. I look forward to seeing what happens next.
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