I am the only forenji and staff member here. The arms of the students rest heavily on my shoulders as the fifty of us form a moving ring of dancing and singing. Our heads are thrown back and we are bellowing out the words to, of all things, a remix of “Country Roads”.
Instead of ”West Virginia”, some of the students shout the names of their homelands: “Addis Ababa!” “Nazreet!” The music has been revamped with Ethiopic style saxophone and a heavy beat. I start a modified flat-foot and people follow my dance. For about three minutes, I am considered a good dancer for the first time in my life.
I shouldn’t have been at the party. I was there by accident. I may have to deal with the fall-out of being seen dancing (usually terribly) with students. Already, some of the women (who usually did NOT dance but sat in the chairs next to the dancers and whispered) laughed at me and called me something in Amharic. I don’t care. This was fun and I’ll hopefully remember it forever. For one song, I didn’t feel out of place here at all. In the middle of a crowd of strangers in a strange land, I was home.
Tuesday 27 March 2012
Friday 9 March 2012
Cross Cultural Contact (or lack thereof)
They are easily the most exotic people I have met here. I see them about once a day, climbing the hill up from the apartment complex towards the base of the campus. There's about a dozen of them, all women, mostly young. Their skin is sun-toughened and beautiful. It's the color of American coffee and glitters with the thin, gold bracelets and nose-rings they wear. The dress themselves in layer upon layer of brightly colored cloth. They don't speak English, Amharic, Oromo, or any other language I've heard anyone else here using.
All of these women seem to be related to the pastoralists that live right outside the campus. Once, I found a few of the grass huts out there, a hidden and camouflaged village. I was promptly shooed away.
Anyway, these women they walk West and I walk East and we pass within inches of each other every day. I say hello and they laugh and wave while we keep walking.
Two days ago, one of them stops and stares at me for a moment. I smile and nod. Suddenly, this young woman runs towards me for about two steps with her hand out.
I shake her hand and do the local shoulder bump with her (she initiated it) and she starts yelling in what sounds like shock. She grabs my hand and holds it up in the air, yelling words in her language. Within seconds we're surrounded by the rest of the young women. Many hands are reaching to shake my hand. They twirl my arm around, making remarks. They pressed their arms against mine, comparing thickness and color.
One girl tries to shake my hand but chickens out at the last moment. I think it was then that I realized that they had never touched a forenji before. This was something totally new for their community.
There's a shriek when they realize that my palms change color and have noticeable lines on them. They all press the skin to see it turn from pink to white. We are laughing about this when I hear someone yelling "Becka!" (Enough!) angerly. An older woman of their group had arrived. She was wearing a t-shirt (a sign of cultural adjustment) and looked angry. She shoved the young women away from me and then nudged me towards my home. "It's okay." I said. "Chigger yellem." (No problem.) but the woman was adamant.
Yesterday, when I passed the group of women the older woman was there too. When I tried to say hello, she clucked and shook her head sadly. I heard her hiss at the one woman who tried to wave.
Today, the young women were not there. Instead there were three new people and they did not greet me when I passed. They looked through me, like they couldn't see me. It was creepy.
I have no idea what has happened here. Someone broke a norm somewhere it seems. I miss my friends. I hope I didn't get them in trouble. I wish I understood.
UPDATE: They're back!
WAY LATER UPDATE:
About a week later, I'm carrying a heavy water basin on my head and I see one of these young women running behind me. She's doing an impression of someone clumsily carrying a water basin. Her coworkers, watching her, burst out laughing and rush me from the bushes. They take the bucket from me and we carry it together, chuckling and doing funny walks. We must have looked like an Ethiopian edition of Monty Python for that quarter mile. This happens again about a week later.
A week or so after the second time that they helped me carry something, I get invited to lunch. I'm walking towards my office and I hear a strange sound. I see the older woman beckoning towards me. She gestures that I should sit. I'm am grateful that I do not have a meeting I need to attend.
I am offered water from a large, cloudy, basin. I thank them, but show them that I have a water bottle. They give me spicy bread that seems to be a sort of injara, but not made from teff. We sit and laugh and communicate semi-awkwardly in the grass about our clothing and hairstyles. The elder woman offers me a pull from a bag of chat and is surprised when I decline.
I go briefly to my house and bring back popcorn. A cheer goes up. We snack together. Some men come and sit with us. They ask me what I'm doing and seem confused by my answer of "eating". After about an hour we part ways.
These lunches (a second group of this culture started inviting me regularly as well) became a common thing. I would bring popcorn or ground nuts. They would give me the enjara, the same thing that they had to eat every lunch, feeding me until they sensed I was full. Their level of generosity is something I hope to have some day.
I greatly enjoyed my time with these women although the staff and local residents couldn't understand why I would eat with them. At one point, I was asked if "all this is for an anthropology experiment". No, it wasn't. It was simply a joy.
All of these women seem to be related to the pastoralists that live right outside the campus. Once, I found a few of the grass huts out there, a hidden and camouflaged village. I was promptly shooed away.
Anyway, these women they walk West and I walk East and we pass within inches of each other every day. I say hello and they laugh and wave while we keep walking.
Two days ago, one of them stops and stares at me for a moment. I smile and nod. Suddenly, this young woman runs towards me for about two steps with her hand out.
I shake her hand and do the local shoulder bump with her (she initiated it) and she starts yelling in what sounds like shock. She grabs my hand and holds it up in the air, yelling words in her language. Within seconds we're surrounded by the rest of the young women. Many hands are reaching to shake my hand. They twirl my arm around, making remarks. They pressed their arms against mine, comparing thickness and color.
One girl tries to shake my hand but chickens out at the last moment. I think it was then that I realized that they had never touched a forenji before. This was something totally new for their community.
There's a shriek when they realize that my palms change color and have noticeable lines on them. They all press the skin to see it turn from pink to white. We are laughing about this when I hear someone yelling "Becka!" (Enough!) angerly. An older woman of their group had arrived. She was wearing a t-shirt (a sign of cultural adjustment) and looked angry. She shoved the young women away from me and then nudged me towards my home. "It's okay." I said. "Chigger yellem." (No problem.) but the woman was adamant.
Yesterday, when I passed the group of women the older woman was there too. When I tried to say hello, she clucked and shook her head sadly. I heard her hiss at the one woman who tried to wave.
Today, the young women were not there. Instead there were three new people and they did not greet me when I passed. They looked through me, like they couldn't see me. It was creepy.
I have no idea what has happened here. Someone broke a norm somewhere it seems. I miss my friends. I hope I didn't get them in trouble. I wish I understood.
UPDATE: They're back!
WAY LATER UPDATE:
About a week later, I'm carrying a heavy water basin on my head and I see one of these young women running behind me. She's doing an impression of someone clumsily carrying a water basin. Her coworkers, watching her, burst out laughing and rush me from the bushes. They take the bucket from me and we carry it together, chuckling and doing funny walks. We must have looked like an Ethiopian edition of Monty Python for that quarter mile. This happens again about a week later.
A week or so after the second time that they helped me carry something, I get invited to lunch. I'm walking towards my office and I hear a strange sound. I see the older woman beckoning towards me. She gestures that I should sit. I'm am grateful that I do not have a meeting I need to attend.
I am offered water from a large, cloudy, basin. I thank them, but show them that I have a water bottle. They give me spicy bread that seems to be a sort of injara, but not made from teff. We sit and laugh and communicate semi-awkwardly in the grass about our clothing and hairstyles. The elder woman offers me a pull from a bag of chat and is surprised when I decline.
I go briefly to my house and bring back popcorn. A cheer goes up. We snack together. Some men come and sit with us. They ask me what I'm doing and seem confused by my answer of "eating". After about an hour we part ways.
These lunches (a second group of this culture started inviting me regularly as well) became a common thing. I would bring popcorn or ground nuts. They would give me the enjara, the same thing that they had to eat every lunch, feeding me until they sensed I was full. Their level of generosity is something I hope to have some day.
I greatly enjoyed my time with these women although the staff and local residents couldn't understand why I would eat with them. At one point, I was asked if "all this is for an anthropology experiment". No, it wasn't. It was simply a joy.
Tuesday 6 March 2012
Culture shock: What it Feesl Like
Everyone told me that it would take about six months for the culture shock to fully kick-in. For six months everyone has made comments like “You seem to be adjusting so well!” I’m not getting those comments lately.
The main part of what I’m feeling just seems to be an exhaustion to little details. I don’t want the strange foods, different people, and new languages to go away. I just want to press a “pause” button somehow; to take a commercial break. One day with running water and clean food would be enough to reset how I’m feeling, I’m pretty sure. As it is, all of the newness, which is no longer new, feels like a weight on my shoulders.
I’m in a good place here. This job has huge potential for growth. My coworkers are great people. But part of me just wants to curl-up and be in the United States for a little bit. I hope this passes soon.
The main part of what I’m feeling just seems to be an exhaustion to little details. I don’t want the strange foods, different people, and new languages to go away. I just want to press a “pause” button somehow; to take a commercial break. One day with running water and clean food would be enough to reset how I’m feeling, I’m pretty sure. As it is, all of the newness, which is no longer new, feels like a weight on my shoulders.
I’m in a good place here. This job has huge potential for growth. My coworkers are great people. But part of me just wants to curl-up and be in the United States for a little bit. I hope this passes soon.
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