A few hours ago, a plane left from Addis Ababa. People packed into the cushioned seats and readied themselves for the seventeen-hour-long flight back to the United States. Someone on that plane sat down next to an empty seat. The seat was reserved for me, back in September. I was not there.
I was five hundred miles away, near my apartment in Harar. I was having a frustrating morning. No one wanted to a give a ride to a unaccompanied woman who had wet hair, no shaw, AND was wearing pants. Eventually though, I was squished into a minivan with about fifteen other people and watching the dust-colored mountains fly past the windows.
"Any Way You Bless Me" by Fred Hammond and "Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go" by WHAM! kept playing on my ipod and it made me smile. I've been here for three months but every now and then I get this rush of feeling accompanied by the thought "Holy crud! I'm in Ethi-frickin'-opia! I'm really here!" It made me smile at the strange faces of the other passengers who watched me closely, but not directly, as we rushed towards the town of Alemaya.
As we traveled, I could feel that staying is the right choice, at least for now. If I had left now, I would have always have wondered what would have happened if I had stayed. I miss home, sometimes a lot. But I still have a lot I want to do here, and I'm pretty excited to see what happens next. I hope following God's will and not missing too much of the lives of my friends and family. But hey, it's guava season and Ethiopian Christmas is in ten days. Hopefully, I'm going on a pilgrimage tomorrow. Wish me luck!
Wednesday 28 December 2011
Tuesday 27 December 2011
Merry Forenji Christmas!
So we didn't go to Dire Dawa or sing for the nuns. It turns out that December 24th is the day of one of Ethiopia's biggest holidays: Nations and People's Day. So there were no buses for my choir. Here's the thing though: Our concert still rocked.
First we sang on the steps of the Administration Building, right in the center of campus. A small crowd gathered, filming us. Then a guard told us we had to leave. We sang "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" as we quickly walked away. We kept singing as we moved. An old man behind us clapped in rhythm while a younger man held his hands over his ears.
We stopped at the steps of a building between the nearby village and the center of campus and started singing in earnest again. The pastoralists who live in huts in the tall grass and care for the campus sheep came to watch us. During the call and response songs a group of men called back phonetically at our choir in each turn, imitating us with big smiles on their faces. My favorite moment though, had to be when a group of finely dressed Oromic dancers walked behind us. They did their traditional dance to our rendition of "Jingle Bells", waving their spears in unison. Everybody had a good time.
On Christmas Eve, I drank mulled wine and danced at friend's house. The top part of the evening occurred when the men realized that they could mix the dance to "Thriller" with their own traditional dances. It was a sight I doubt I'll get to see again.
I had my Christmas feast at a professor friend's house. She's from Cornwall and an excellent cook so we had authentic Christmas pudding at the end, with Cornish cream brought directly from England on top. She invited a family from the village over and they had a blast.
Afterwards, I went to an Indian professors house where we sang carols and tried her deep-fried treats. Her eccentric artist of a husband appeared and played festive polka tunes on a harmonica.
The didn't get many tangible gifts from this holiday season, but I got a ridiculous amount of intangible ones. It was difficult being away from my family, but I'm glad I got to see the holiday here. Merry Christmas everybody. And a happy New Year.
First we sang on the steps of the Administration Building, right in the center of campus. A small crowd gathered, filming us. Then a guard told us we had to leave. We sang "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" as we quickly walked away. We kept singing as we moved. An old man behind us clapped in rhythm while a younger man held his hands over his ears.
We stopped at the steps of a building between the nearby village and the center of campus and started singing in earnest again. The pastoralists who live in huts in the tall grass and care for the campus sheep came to watch us. During the call and response songs a group of men called back phonetically at our choir in each turn, imitating us with big smiles on their faces. My favorite moment though, had to be when a group of finely dressed Oromic dancers walked behind us. They did their traditional dance to our rendition of "Jingle Bells", waving their spears in unison. Everybody had a good time.
On Christmas Eve, I drank mulled wine and danced at friend's house. The top part of the evening occurred when the men realized that they could mix the dance to "Thriller" with their own traditional dances. It was a sight I doubt I'll get to see again.
I had my Christmas feast at a professor friend's house. She's from Cornwall and an excellent cook so we had authentic Christmas pudding at the end, with Cornish cream brought directly from England on top. She invited a family from the village over and they had a blast.
Afterwards, I went to an Indian professors house where we sang carols and tried her deep-fried treats. Her eccentric artist of a husband appeared and played festive polka tunes on a harmonica.
The didn't get many tangible gifts from this holiday season, but I got a ridiculous amount of intangible ones. It was difficult being away from my family, but I'm glad I got to see the holiday here. Merry Christmas everybody. And a happy New Year.
Tuesday 20 December 2011
Green Christmas
"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas." I sing while dancing around with Miriam, a tiny baby. She's still underweight and for some reason the staff insist on wrapping her in at least three thick layers of clothing and a blanket, but she smiles.
We went to Dire Dawa yesterday to purchase a Christmas Chicken only to find that the shops were totally out. We'll be having Nile Perch instead.
Back at my house, I improperly reheat the beans my cook/maid left for me and make an interesting soup. The internet is working. I start volunteering at a new office at the university tomorrow. Life is good.
I miss my family. It makes me sad that even as I swayed around the infant room today there was not one holiday decoration. In fact, I don't think I've seen ANY holiday celebrations. My grandmother very sweetly sent us Christmas presents via DHL so we learned what she had sent because of the mandatory paperwork.
It is different. But where else can I we sing for the order of Mother Teresa's on Christmas Eve or have everyone tell us "Happy Christmas" but mean January 6th? Still, it would be nice if one person said "merry".
We went to Dire Dawa yesterday to purchase a Christmas Chicken only to find that the shops were totally out. We'll be having Nile Perch instead.
Back at my house, I improperly reheat the beans my cook/maid left for me and make an interesting soup. The internet is working. I start volunteering at a new office at the university tomorrow. Life is good.
I miss my family. It makes me sad that even as I swayed around the infant room today there was not one holiday decoration. In fact, I don't think I've seen ANY holiday celebrations. My grandmother very sweetly sent us Christmas presents via DHL so we learned what she had sent because of the mandatory paperwork.
It is different. But where else can I we sing for the order of Mother Teresa's on Christmas Eve or have everyone tell us "Happy Christmas" but mean January 6th? Still, it would be nice if one person said "merry".
Monday 19 December 2011
Singing in a Foreign Land
Yip yip. Duuuu-op. Snarlyip! "If you lose your hand to this, I'll never forgive you!" I think to myself just before the hyena lunges forward and takes the strip of beef off the short stick I'm holding at about eye-level. Juice from the meat runs down my hand and worries me. I don't want the dogthings to get confused. I'm crouched on a tablecloth-like fabric next to the Christian Hyenaman of Harar. He pulls another piece of meat out of a gory wicker basket and holds it over my shoulder. Two full-grown hyenas lunge at it and ram into my collarbone. It's like being hit with two, heavy, hairy, sides of beef. Under their rough coats, the hyenas are solid muscle. Oddly, the don't smell nearly as much as I thought they would.
I stand and the animals circle around me, nonthreateningly. I watch the juvenile. He's even stranger looking than the others. His upper lip curls back and he "sings" constantly as the older ones inevitably fight their way to more of the food. He sounds almost like a baby shrilly cooing.
"This girl sing like that lady!" My friend Bethlehem says to the men laying in her living room. "Sing that lady!" Bethlehem says so I sing a few bars of a very popular, considered "new" here, Celine Dion song that she dared me to learn. I receive a spattering applause and two offers of chat. We drink strong coffee. Then one of the men that I thought had dozed off turns towards us and asks, "Sing again maybe?" and I get Bethlehem to sing an Oromo song instead. We sit there in the incense-filled air and clap along.
"We want to sing out there but we don't want to." One of my "unofficial choir" members says. I ask for a show of hands and everyone agrees. There are about twenty of us. Most of the choir consists of young women who have never done any kind of performance in public. In fact, it's probably pretty fair to say that many of the people in front of me have been given that old "seen not heard" line pretty effectively throughout their lives.
An idea, perhaps the Spirit's, comes to me and I smile. "Well I'm On My Way!" I sing. It is the first line of a call and response song that I taught them. They sing the line back with gusto. "Off to Canaan Land!" I sing back, moving towards the door. Soon we are marching towards the center of campus. People join in just to see what we are doing. We sing carols in front of the campus fountain. I direct them with a pen I had in my pocket.
A policeman comes and stands behind us, just watching. They keep singing. Class is dismissed and hundreds of people walk by. They keep singing. A whistle blows. And we stop along with everyone else while the flags are lowered. A whistle blows again and motion resumes. I realize that it is twilight. They still want to sing. I feel so proud of them, it's ridiculous. I can't wait to take them to sing for the nuns and patients in Dire Dawa on the 24th.
Children in Batti and the orphanage know my name now and they know it because I sing. I sing to shut them up when they keep asking for money. I sing with them because I have nothing else to do. When I hear them call "ee-i-ee-i-oh" from "Old McDonald Had a Zoo" ("farm" didn't really work here) to each other I hope that maybe I even managed to teach them an English word or two. Sometimes they beg for song now instead of candy or birr. It is an odd sort of begging, but I don't mind it. I'm just glad I got a chance to be part of all of the music. It's nice and it's maybe even something to write a blog entry about.
I stand and the animals circle around me, nonthreateningly. I watch the juvenile. He's even stranger looking than the others. His upper lip curls back and he "sings" constantly as the older ones inevitably fight their way to more of the food. He sounds almost like a baby shrilly cooing.
"This girl sing like that lady!" My friend Bethlehem says to the men laying in her living room. "Sing that lady!" Bethlehem says so I sing a few bars of a very popular, considered "new" here, Celine Dion song that she dared me to learn. I receive a spattering applause and two offers of chat. We drink strong coffee. Then one of the men that I thought had dozed off turns towards us and asks, "Sing again maybe?" and I get Bethlehem to sing an Oromo song instead. We sit there in the incense-filled air and clap along.
"We want to sing out there but we don't want to." One of my "unofficial choir" members says. I ask for a show of hands and everyone agrees. There are about twenty of us. Most of the choir consists of young women who have never done any kind of performance in public. In fact, it's probably pretty fair to say that many of the people in front of me have been given that old "seen not heard" line pretty effectively throughout their lives.
An idea, perhaps the Spirit's, comes to me and I smile. "Well I'm On My Way!" I sing. It is the first line of a call and response song that I taught them. They sing the line back with gusto. "Off to Canaan Land!" I sing back, moving towards the door. Soon we are marching towards the center of campus. People join in just to see what we are doing. We sing carols in front of the campus fountain. I direct them with a pen I had in my pocket.
A policeman comes and stands behind us, just watching. They keep singing. Class is dismissed and hundreds of people walk by. They keep singing. A whistle blows. And we stop along with everyone else while the flags are lowered. A whistle blows again and motion resumes. I realize that it is twilight. They still want to sing. I feel so proud of them, it's ridiculous. I can't wait to take them to sing for the nuns and patients in Dire Dawa on the 24th.
Children in Batti and the orphanage know my name now and they know it because I sing. I sing to shut them up when they keep asking for money. I sing with them because I have nothing else to do. When I hear them call "ee-i-ee-i-oh" from "Old McDonald Had a Zoo" ("farm" didn't really work here) to each other I hope that maybe I even managed to teach them an English word or two. Sometimes they beg for song now instead of candy or birr. It is an odd sort of begging, but I don't mind it. I'm just glad I got a chance to be part of all of the music. It's nice and it's maybe even something to write a blog entry about.
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