The Last Lap in Ethiopia

My motivation since returning from South Africa has been waning. It’s nearly impossible to start a project of any great impact as my time is limited and let’s be serious, things go slowly here. So I’ve been trying to find little things to fill my days in order to convince myself I’m still being useful and as to not overdose on watching all the new TV shows Mike, the IT volunteer in Maychew, just hooked me up with.

Well one of those small tasks that popped up recently was training, provided by the Protestant church organization that works with orphans in Maychew. The project manager, who I am quite familiar with asked if I would mind stopping by the Income Generating Project training to introduce myself and offer some advice. I should be honest; it was really presented to me as come and say something to these people because they get excited when ferengi come to their events. I chose to give them the little advice from my experience helping with a cooperative IGA and thought as I walked out I was finished. It turns out the church was simultaneously running another training on how to start an anti-AIDS club. The project manager casually asked if I would like to give part of the training. I looked at him as if a bird had just landed on his head. Hadn’t the training already begun? How could he possible fit me into an already packed (and planned) training schedule? It turns out they had nothing for the participants to do for the first couple hours after lunch. PCV to the rescue!

We played an HIV fact/myth game and my counterpart and I led an activity to show how easily HIV can be spread through sexual contact. Halefom gracefully filled the remainder of the time talking about the ABCs of HIV prevention (a little above my language abilities) and answering the inevitable questions about sperm injected oranges and eating chickens who had eaten HIV covered condoms.

The wrap up celebration for the income generating project participants was a few days later. I walked into the back room of a local hotel to find the ten participants and about 30 other people I knew and several dozen I didn’t know. After a meal of six different preparations of sheep and an attempt at potato chips it was speech time. There was a TV in one corner of the room and as someone moved to turn it down we all were captivated by the joyous reunions of the Chilean miners and their families who had recently been rescued. As the clip came to a close he reached for the volume button and to my embarassment not quickly enough as the beginning of the next segment started with the line, (rough translation from Amharic) “And in other news, the latest in American cat fashion”. Chile got to show reunited miners families patriotically singing their national anthem while my country is represented by felines dressed as Cleopatra, Princess Di and just to disgrace me even further, Sarah Palin. 40 pairs of eyes shiftily glanced in my direction as if to say, “those terrorist attacks make a little more sense now...”

Ethiopians use butter both for food and as a scalp/hair moisturizer. Every time I have my hair braided or wear my traditional dress they try to convince me to slather my head in butter as to further immerse myself in the culture. As of late it has come up about once a week when I have dinner with a friend and his family. His mother often turns to me, pats my head and says “Tesmi, tesmi, tesmi konjo” which basically means butter would be beautiful on your big white scalp! I broke down. I couldn’t stand by my arguments that it wouldn’t be good for my hair or that I would spend the afternoon wanting to wipe a slice of bread on my head for a snack. I agreed to let her butter me up the following Sunday.

Sunday arrived and I got my hair braided because I guess it helps hold the butter on the scalp as opposed to running down my forehead or neck as it melts. The butter went on about 3pm and I was thinking I’d wash it out before dinner. That idea got crushed as a group of women flocked around me tying a plastic bag around my head explaining it would keep the butter off my pillow. Looks like I was stuck. I thought maybe I could sneak in a shampoo right before bed but just my luck the water was off. The next morning I woke up to the whole compound giggling at my bagged head. When they do it, it’s no big deal, but the minute the ferengi does it, it’s hilarious. It took two shampoos before the grease was gone and another one a day later to completely remove the smell. But now at dinner each week I get to hear about how beautiful I looked with a head full of butter!

Packages and letters from home have been an unbelievable boost to me while I’ve lived here. So, with deep gratitude for your generosity, I’m officially cutting off package sending. I would hate for anything you sent from the states to sit in the Maychew Post Office until the place closes or the old priest who runs things gets too curious and opens whatever you sent. The VSO volunteer Mike will be getting anything that doesn’t arrive before I leave.

Adventures in South Africa and Zimbabwe

I have only one way to begin this entry about my trip to South Africa. The PCVs lucky enough to be placed in that amazing country have NOTHING to complain about! (Maybe the astronomical HIV rates and extreme divide between the poor and the rich but they still have it pretty good) The first day of my glorious adventure is appropriately titled:

9 Wine
My flight began early in the morning from Addis, and waking up early
always makes it feel later in the day than it actually is. Therefore, when the flight attendant asked “what would you like to drink” I swear the bottle of chilled white wine actually jumped a little before I could utter my selection. And, well, I needed those other two glasses just to get through the awful Catherine Zeta Jones “comedy” they played.

I arrived in Johannesburg drowsy and astonished, thinking, “Did the plane accidentally fly to America?” Grocery stores, high-end watches and out-of-this-world duty free shops were staring me in the face taunting, “Remember what you left behind?” It was all a bit sickening until I passed the food court. I had to grip the handle of my suitcase to keep myself from running over to the pizza place and licking the pictures of the deep dish on their sign. It was all so beautiful.

Another two hours later I found myself actually feeling like Catherine Zeta Jones when I got picked up at the airport by a guy holding a sign with my name on it! I was so excited I made him pose for a picture. I guess CZJ wouldn’t need a sign because her driver would most likely recognize her, and she definitely wouldn’t ask him to stop for a pic, but I felt like a celebrity nonetheless. A half-hour drive through a sunset lit Cape Town brought me to what I was sure a mistake. When the driver pulled up to an ocean front hotel with uniformed bell hops and dried pears on the check-in desk I could only mumble one of the Ethiopian’s favorite phrases in English, “Are you sure?” It was in fact, my home for the next four days and home did I make it. After a joyous reunion with my Aunt Mary Anne I found myself doing a little horizontal happy dance as I lay back in my swaddling of feathers and perused the hotel’s pillow menu.

In true wine country style, Mary Anne and I wrapped up our evening getting to know the Twelve Apostles hotel bar staff. As we downed a third glass of wine (after at least three tasting glasses too) the bartender decided it was time for a change in music. Spinning through the Ipod he turned his head, winked, and said, “After three glasses of wine, I think Barry White is the best choice!”

Day One
Our first morning at the Twelve Apostles Hotel brought out that same happy dance as we wandered down to continental breakfast to find a cheese buffet! I enjoyed my cheese (along with a gluttonous array of other breakfast foods) overlooking the Atlantic and what we were sure were ducks floating along in the surf (which we later found out was just lively seaweed). After breakfast, we used our best lost puppy dog faces to convince the hotel shuttle to drop us off at the base of Table Mountain. The view from the top was well worth the daring cable car ride up and after an hour photo shoot, we headed back down. At the bottom we were lucky enough to bump into Lucky, a local mini bus driver. He offered to drop us down at the waterfront for a competitive fare. Along the way, when Lucky wasn’t screaming out the window either at friends or enemies of the road we questioned him about tours of the Cape and again, he generously offered to take us for a competitive fare. We took his number and told him we’d call him. After some shopping, an ice cream cone (just for the deprived PCV) and a glass of wine on the harbor we headed back to the hotel for dinner with the Tabas’, a lovely couple from Philadelphia also on our tour. After a three course meal (ice cream, again, for dessert) and a luxurious bath (separately) we called it a night.

Day Two
We didn’t know this was to be a marathon day when we realized we’d overslept. Somehow the travel alarm failed to go off and we found ourselves with the perplexing question: do we get ready in five minutes, skip the indulgent breakfast and make the first shuttle or do we shower, enjoy breakfast and have to take the second shuttle, which would cause us to miss the first tour of Robben Island? Naturally, breakfast was my biggest concern (showers, make up, what are those?) but we decided to push it, a cheese danish had to do that day.

Standing in line for a tour of Robben Island brought two realizations, the first, that we don’t like cultures that don’t value queues. Second, we’re not all that great at planning ahead. The next available tour was the following afternoon so we left with tickets in hand to go make a new plan. Our lust for sweet African stuff brought us to Green Square Market, a jewelry, art and beadwork haven. I haggled down a couple paintings and a silver cuff bracelet using all the skills I’ve gained bartering with Ethiopian taxi drivers. I think a lot of English phrases are learned in other countries from American movies. When I was touring Egypt the popular catch phrase for locals to say to tourists was, “Welcome to Alaska, ha ha ha.” Well, I have no idea where this one might have come but most of the peddlers at this market welcomed me, asked how I was, then told me, “Touching is free!” Come to think of it, maybe there was an underlying meaning there...

On the way to our scheduled winelands tour pickup we grabbed a few deli sandwiches and a Tab, and chowed down in some other hotel’s lobby. This only furthered my idea that in Africa, nobody questions the white lady. After a tour of the Seidelberg winery by Pete, our nervous but knowledgeable young guide, we settled into the picturesque wooden chairs to taste some Seidlelburg products. No sooner had we sipped the first sparkling rosé when a frisbee gone haywire grazed the edge of my aunt’s head. Over jogged its owner, a charming yet tipsy 20 something apologizing profusely and offering a bit of his own sparkling rosé to make up for the near collision. As I gazed dreamily into his sun kissed, fresh face I realized, he’s drinking pink wine. It probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway.

Back at the hotel, strategizing on how to make the most of our last 36 hours in Cape Town we took a leap of faith, called Lucky and booked a tour for the next morning. Still a little sauced from our wine tasting we decided a night on the town was in order. We showered, called a taxi and headed for Long Street. Long Street is the place to be in Cape Town for nightlife. We were in the thick of it on Saturday night and chose a local favorite for dinner, Mama Africa. With live music and a sort of African Rainforest Cafe feel we dined on a mixed grill of ostrich, crocodile, springbok, and a few others. Two margaritas (for me) later we took a stroll to evaluate the bars. Our Irish blood couldn’t hold back and we paid the cover charge to enter the Dubliner and were pleased to find a pretty ok cover band on stage.

Either dancing is in the South African’s genes or Saturday night starts early as everyone, and I mean everyone had their dancing shoes on that night. As my aunt giggled at the young men’s moves I was getting talked up by Mr. Africa, a tall dreaded guy with an all-too-tight soccer jersey on. At one lull in the conversation I noticed him lean over to Mary Anne and say something that made her stare at him as if he were speaking Afrikaans. I asked her what he said and she quoted, “Mam, your neice is smack dab, you better hold me back!” We rolled out of the bar at 2a.m. and into bed as quickly as we could.

Day Three
The cheese buffet and I met again. Lucky was waiting for us as we rubbed our eyes patted our overstuffed bellies and set out for Chapman’s Pass the rock-cliffs-meets-the-ocean drive. We heard from some other tourists that many luxury car commercials are filmed at this location. They must remove the fences holding back escaped boulders before the shoot. It was the most beautiful highway I’ve ever seen. We headed on to Cape Point, what we thought was the farthest South point of the African continent. The rain came just as we exited the trolley car at the top but still managed to snap some beautiful pictures of the line between the Atlantic and Indian Ocean. We stopped on our way back to see some South African penguins and a sea lion do a few tricks. Lucky dropped us off at the waterfront just in time for our Robben Island tour. A 45-minute choppy boat ride later, we found ourselves on the island where Nelson Mandela, along with several other anti-apartheid activists were imprisoned for decades. Unfortunately, I think I missed a lot of crucial information because our guide’s accent (a former prisoner himself) was too thick to understand most of what he was saying. However, reading several of the plaques provided an idea of the harsh conditions these men lived under. Maybe it’s a stretch to say this or maybe it’s from living in third world conditions for so long, but after seeing the cell that Mandela himself used, all I could think was, “That’s not too bad, it even has a window!” Dinner closer to home in the neighborhood of Chapman’s Bay and an early night prepped us for our early morning wake up call.

Day Four/Five
Just so you can understand how luxurious this trip was, we had breakfast to-go waiting for us in the hotel lobby when we rolled up at 6 am. Not only was it breakfast to-go but it was packed up in little cheetah and zebra printed boxes. How Africa fashion! An easy hour and a half flight later we arrived in Hoedspruit for our time in the South African bush. A 30 minute drive from the airport to our lodge, seeing nothing but bush made us realize we were truly away from it all. We were greeted with fresh mango juice and a list of our culinary options for dinner maybe we weren’t so far away from it all. Not an hour later we were climbing into our open 11-seat open Land Rovers for our first safari adventure. We spotted some impalas on our drive out of the lodge parking lot, a wildebeest a little farther down the road and not 20 minutes into our drive we located a cheetah feasting on a recently killed impala! The following morning we arrived back to a breakfast of impala quiche. Our next drive out one of our fellow safariers sadistically muttered to the dashing impala, “We ate your cousin for breakfast.”

Between the four safari outings we saw over 25 animals and even got chased by a playful (albeit still quite intimidating) elephant. Floris, our husky white Afrikaans guide, led us to see more than any of us could have expected including three lion cubs having dinner, a baby cheetah waiting for it’s mom to come back, and a hippopotamus crossing from one body of water to another. Floris was more about facts than jokes on our outings and when one rider joked about the small birds surrounding a giraffes’ excretory parts Floris told us, “well they’re just taking the tics out of his ass.” Right, why didn’t I think of that?

Unfortunately we didn’t see temperatures warm enough to utilize the pool but it was the perfect climate for long baths and lazy naps under the mosquito net. I woke up the second afternoon to find a wildebeest casually feeding not 20 feet from our door. Equally as fascinating as the animals was getting to know the other nine people staying at the lodge with us. Family style dinners and mid-safari sunset glasses of wine allowed us ample time to get to know the other travelers. People from Texas, Pennsylvania, California and Georgia (and Ethiopia) had come to experience the incredible African bush.

Day Six
An early morning game drive to find a male lion (an unsuccessful pursuit), a shower and one last delicious meal (with extra cheese) preceded our trip back to the airport and into Johannesburg for the night. Following safety suggestions we didn’t leave our ornate Vegas-Italian style hotel after dark, rather opting to finish a Jack Black movie and a seafood dinner in Nelson Mandela Square. The next morning (after another cheese buffet, somebody really should have stopped me it was getting a little disgusting at this point) it was back to the airport and through customs to get to Victoria Falls, Zimbabwe.

The balmy temperatures left only one thing on the brain as we unpacked. I dug in for my swim suit and lathered up in SPF but couldn’t help a stop at the bar for a cold one before I headed down to catch the afternoon’s last rays. Dinner we scheduled for The Boma, a kitschy Zimbabwean all-you-can-eat barbeque. Each guest is required to wear an African-print toga and be adorned with gender specific face paint while dining on such delicacies as warthog steak, impala ribs, springbok sirloin, and wildebeest stew. Dinner comes with a complimentary dance show, drum lesson and voluntary dance party. Watching a herd of Japanese tourists elbow themselves to the front lines of the circle was a spectacle. Watching the 60-something, in colorful toga and white gloved Japanese women (former geisha girls?) float along to serious African beats was something else.

Day Seven
Seeing the first of the seven natural wonders of the world is an experience I will never forget. Another thing I won’t forget is watching those same 60-something geisha princesses from the previous night giggle and grab at our tour guide’s long dreadlocks. One particular part of the falls that lets over the same amount of water in three days that New York City uses in an entire year. I can’t imagine what early explorers thought when they found themselves at the top of the widest falls on earth. September is considered part of the dry season for the falls and still the spray was reaching us 50 feet across the way. They say that during the rainy season pictures don’t even turn out because of the solid white wall of mist coming off the water.

After the falls we spent a few hours haggling over wooden platters and hippopotamus carvings at the craft market and it was back to the pool for a margarita and a pedicure. Our tour scheduled us for a sunset cruise on the Zambezi River, and none of us were expecting much. But as we pulled away from shore, we spotted an elephant bathing and heard the sweet phrase “complimentary drinks”. It quickly became the second highlight of the day. Not ready to call it a night, we headed out to the historic Victoria Falls Hotel for a buffet (cheese included) dinner and entertainment. Forgetting that I had sent out laundry to be done the previous day, I arrived back at the hotel to find the cleanest pair of jeans I’d seen in a year and nine months. Sleepily we packed our suitcases as the next morning we’d be riding elephants into the sunrise.

Day Eight
Yes, you read correctly. We were riding elephants into the sunrise. When I cautiously asked the guide of my enormous vehicle whether or not carrying humans hurt the animal he said, “Even with your big weight you are still only 1/10th of his weight.” After our incredible ride I took my big weight back to the last breakfast buffet I would see on this trip. The warm Vic Falls airport and another slow trip through customs brought us back to Johannesburg, me to a local airport hotel, and my adventuresome aunt onto a flight back to the US. The hotel was my first chance to breathe and watch a bad Queen Latifah movie on cable; I repacked only to find that my Ethiopian money, ipod, charger, Ethiopian internet flash and one earring were gone. I chopped up my losses against a great trip and fell asleep with an empty room service tray next to me.

Day Nine
I woke up and walked to a local grocery store to stock up on cheese and chocolate before my flight back to the cheese-less land called Ethiopia. I headed to the airport and perused the grocery stores, high-end watches and incredible duty free shops one last time. I had to keep reminding myself, “you’ll be back in all this before you know it.” This mantra didn’t make boarding the plane any easier. An uneventful six hours later I found myself back in the place where the natives call me “YOU!” Welcome home!

This exciting and luxurious trip was made possible by my adventurous and extremely generous Aunt Mary Anne Meade. She is the greatest of traveling companions. I give her my heartfelt thanks for this once -in-a-lifetime experience that I will never forget.

How I spent my summer vacation

4th of July

The fourth of July was a cross-cultural event to top all experiences. I’m one of the lucky volunteers who shares my site (town) with a VSO (Volunteer Service Overseas). Mike is from Manitoba, Canada and works as an IT volunteer at Maychew Technical College. Due to our busy lives and separate work places, we don’t see each other too often but get together regularly enough that we decided to plan a joint Canada Day/Independence Day celebration for the 4th of July weekend.

What started as simple brainstorming over coffee turned into a weekend getaway for over 20 volunteers serving in Ethiopia. As the weekend drew closer and the planning and organization required more and more attention, I began to get nervous about the number of ‘ferenji’ who were about to show up in this little town that rarely even sees tourists. I knew I would be questioned about any behavior the locals found strange or inappropriate.

The first load showed up Saturday morning to accompany me to the market where they perused puka shells and iron bracelets meant to keep evil spirits at bay while Tina and I haggled over the price of a kilo of potatoes. We spent the next couple hours peeling, dicing and chopping veggies for potato salad and lentil salad.

Saturday night was our big event—a traditional Manitoba social. Mike had to explain the components a few times but to me it sounded much like a church social plus dancing and booze. Luckily, the types of people who tend to volunteer in Africa are the types of people who tend to be happy with cold beer and good music. Over 60 people attended the social, volunteers and Ethiopians alike. The Ethiopians got a kick out of watching the ferenjis cut a rug on the dance floor as well as "boob-flap dancing" around with them to more traditional tunes. After our feast, a poorly led (by me) trivia game between Americans and “Commonwealth members” (from England, Australia, Canada) along with a token Frenchman and Ethiopian on either side and several hours of dancing, things wrapped up around 4:00 a.m. Sunday was a day for relaxing, hiking, and movies followed by a very small fireworks show and a bonfire.

“And God said, “Let there be… rain?”

My father recently emailed me with song lyrics that reminded him of my situation; “I bless the rains down in Africa…” well my mantra is a little different as I glop through the mud avenues of Maychew. “I curse these rains falling in Ethiopia…” The rain came mid-July and hasn’t shown signs of stopping yet. The silver lining to my muddy life is the unbelievable shades of green surrounding me and a particularly delicious crop of cactus fruit called beles. They are so good, my health center gathers each afternoon, pools a few birr and orders in a big basket of fruit, scarfing them as quickly as the little boys selling them can cut off the prickly peel. Consuming more than ten (the village-measured serving) can cause serious digestive problems. The health center workers have come up with a handy ditty in English to remind me of my bodily limit of cactus… “More than ten beles makes you to fight with your anus!”

Camp Queen Sheba

The first week of August I had the privilege of holding a Peace Corps sponsored summer camp for 25 Ethiopian girls ages 13-16. Eight HIV/Health volunteers and I designed a camp curriculum focusing on leadership, personal health, decision making, self-esteem and peer support. We incorporated aspects of American sleep-away camps like silly songs, arts and crafts and competitions before meals but utilized our classroom time to educate the girls. We had an amazing group of Ethiopian staff for the week including a nurse, a painter/café owner, an employee from the Clinton foundation and a former soccer player. A couple of the campers were HIV positive but all of the girls had been affected by HIV in some way. We had a positive ‘house mother’ named Roman to make the girls feel at home and make sure their needs were taken care of as some of the girls traveled from another town to come to camp. Roman jumped right into every camp activity with the spirit of a 16-year-old practicing brushing her teeth, decorating a Burger King crown, and explaining the importance of sticking to a drug regimen for HIV patients.

One night I had the joy of leading a stress and relaxation techniques session. The girls were particularly giggly and every time I asked them to close their eyes, the chuckle train would inevitably start and before long I had 25 girls sitting cross-legged, trying to suppress snorts. All things considered (limited language skills, completely foreign concepts, and a new environment) the camp went extraordinarily well.

Miscellaneous

My other major project of the summer has been working on a Cross Culture Manual for the Peace Corps Ethiopia program. When I was in training for service I was given a 15-page document on culture in Ethiopia. I was also given a book called “Culture Matters” which is a cross-cultural workbook used by Peace Corps around the world. A Peace Corps staff member had the vision to combine the two resources into a mother load of cultural information specifically for Ethiopia. When I received a text in late April asking if I could come to a meeting to discuss the potential of such a manual, I had no idea I would be part of a book-writing team! Through this experience and many late nights at the Peace Corps office in Addis, I’ve gained a new appreciation for the Ethiopian culture. It hasn’t really made the cultural differences any easier to live with, but I find that I’m less frustrated now that I have a context to place the difference in. The book layout is now complete and printed copies should be available for the next group of volunteers coming to Ethiopia in late September.

If you’re thinking of sending something, I’m still welcoming consumable items which can not be found in this country: cheese, chocolate, Orbit chewing gum, garlic salt, wine (in plastic bottles), hot cocoa, Parmesan cheese, yogurt covered raisins and any other packable, snack goods you find in those incredible American supermarkets!

Month 19 (June 2010)

It’s getting warmer in Maychew and I’ve been thinking about how long I’ve been here. Peace Corps Headquarters puts out a chart called “Cycle of Vulnerability and Adjustment of a Volunteer”. I’ve had it posted on my wall since day one, but just recently started to see the silliness of it. From month 18-21 I’m supposed to feel like I’m on top of the dividing line between vulnerability and adjustment. I guess that means I’m supposed to be on a high of sorts. But for the most part, I’d still describe my existence in that little squiggly part at the beginning of the graph. The chart tells me the emotional issues I’m supposed to be dealing with are fear/panic, aloneness, and unreal expectations of going home. I’m confused. Am I supposed to be adjusted or panicked? Is this chart trying to tell me I should just now be realizing I’m living in a remote African town where the native voices sound so much like cookie monster, only the female version.

In a sense, did I advanced beyond the chart because I started panicking 18 months ago? Who knows?

Aside from what the chart tells me my life should be like right now, it’s busy. I’ve been working on a few projects for Peace Corp Ethiopia as well as the projects I have going on in Maychew. I’ve been working with Getachew, a local preparatory school teacher on a fundraiser for the local Health Center. In a discussion with the health center head, she told me one of their goals was to buy a hemoglobin machine. Currently they have to refer patients to the zonal hospital and often lose them in the process. From what I understand, the test is vitally important for both pregnant women and HIV+ people as ARVs often lower their hemoglobin levels. I dared to ask how much the machine costs and the response was anti-climactic. 8,000 birr ($592). “That’s it?” I thought. No problem. The HC head then told me she could help me as much as possible with the proposal to send a funding request to NGOs. I stopped her right away. We would be asking no one from outside Maychew to contribute for this machine. Finally, here was a reasonable, achievable goal from only community resources. I sought the anti-AIDS clubs first.

I explained the need and told them as active community members it was their role to do what they could to help out. They jumped on board with my idea for a variety show fundraiser event. When I told them how much money we needed to raise they looked at me as if to say, “done.” Getachew and I developed a ‘to-do’ list and talked about a timeline. We decided sometime over the summer would be a good time for the show. I gave him a few assignments and left to tour other parts of Ethiopia with my visiting brother and then down to Yiragalem during the election in late May. I returned the first week of June and met with Getachew to set the show date.

“Miss Jilly, I think we should have the program on Sunday.”

“Like three days from now?”

“No, no, no. Don’t be silly. Ten days from now.”

“Ten days! Getachew do you realize how much we have to do?”

“Yes, that is why we should wait until next weekend!”

“If you think we’ll be ready, let’s do it.”

“Oh Jilly, it will be fine. Don’t worry.”

“Ok…”

We ran around like decapitated chickens all last week trying to coordinate over 100 club members to sell tickets on the street, making special invitations for health staff and town administrators and trying to get local businesses to buy and sell tickets for us. I felt like a girl scout during cookie season spreading myself too thin (or too thin mint). The show came and went with a profit of about 1,400 ETB, far short of our goal. After a debrief session, we decided to make rounds to all the government offices on pay day in an attempt to reach those who didn’t contribute the first time around. I tried to explain to Getachew why I thought spending more time preparing for the program might have improved our result and it seemed like it sunk in a little. We’ve definitely got our summer work cut out for us, coming up with new fundraising ideas that are actually plausible in this town.

On another topic, I recently went to my first birthday party here in Ethiopia. The birthday girl, who lives on the compound of the English school where I teach, was turning three. The family is quite westernized, evident by the teenage sister who wears pants more often than skirts, and the mom who allows it. I was invited for lunch. So, after the mandatory injera and wat lunch was served and we were about to move on to the good stuff, the photographer arrived. In Ethiopia, many families don’t own cameras and so ‘rent’ a local photographer to come and snap photos of their important family events. After a round of about 50 photos with every combination of people possible we were served cake covered in melted, flattened candles. I was just about to take my first de-waxed bite when a handful of fried potatoes was plopped on top of my tea saucer holding the pastry. A blob of ketchup promptly frosted the whole concoction making a cake-wax-creamy-tomatoey potato dish. Mmm. The birthday girl’s older sister said, “you like chips, right?” Yes, but not with a side of frosting!

The following was written by Jill's brother, Phil, about a recent trip to Ethiopia:

As many of you know I was recently blessed with the opportunity to go to Ethiopia and see the country with my sister and Peace Corps Volunteer Jill, who has been living there for the past year and a half. I claim absolutely no expertise on Ethiopia beyond having thumbed through a few travel books and being guided for a few weeks by my sister, so I genuinely hope I haven’t misrepresented anything in an offensive way. But because this was an experience not many people are afforded I’m glad to share my impressions with anyone interested in reading.

PCVs
First of all, a shout out is in order. I had the privilege of spending time with maybe 10-15 Peace Corps Volunteers, aside from my sister. Every one of them is a hardy soul. Life in a developing country is very difficult for those who are from there. It is even more difficult for someone born in the first world to give up the amenities they’ve been accustomed to and live in a developing country, always being a foreigner, learning the language and the culture, and then doing humanitarian work on top of all that. I found each one of them to be an intelligent and interesting person that I genuinely hope to meet again. With all the ambivalence regarding the US internationally, these are exactly the sort of people I want representing my country. They deserve every handwritten letter and block of cheese you could possibly send them. (BTW cheese does, in fact, survive without refrigeration for quite a long time. With no additional immunities to such things, I ate cheddar that hadn’t been cold for two weeks and had been opened 4 days prior. Cheese will make it through the mail. Hint hint.)

The coffee ceremony
Being a life-long religious coffee drinker, I considered this trip to Ethiopia true a pilgrimage. My once-in-a-lifetime trip to the black-bean Mecca. Even with all the anticipation, there was no letdown; the coffee was every bit as good as I had hoped. In a restaurant, coffee is generally served in tiny tea cups about the size of an espresso mug. The stuff is very strong and dark by American standards, but without the bitterness of an espresso. The Ethiopian custom is to fill the bottom third of the cup with sugar. I quickly learned one of the most important phrases in Amharic, “suquar yellum” or “without sugar”. The phrase sometimes elicited facial expressions from waiters that might have said “why don’t you just order a glass of bile?”, but usually I was able to get my coffee in the pure form I prefer.

Now any religious center of the world must have its own rituals surrounding an important rite and Ethiopia is no different. The rules of the coffee ceremony are strict and unchanging across the region. The ceremony is always communal and involves a lot of sitting around waiting for the multiple rounds of coffee to be made. There is always a little food provided, often popcorn, incense is lit, and there must be a grass rug on the floor; sort of the Ethiopian equivalent of turning on the lava-light and putting on Dark Side of the Moon. The coffee beans are green at the beginning of the ceremony, and are roasted and ground by hand as part of the ritual. After much conversation and inevitably looking through someone’s family photos, the first cup of coffee is served. Again, I ask for no sugar, and although to them this is like putting ketchup on filet mignon, I think it’s accepted because I’m a faranji (foreigner). No one can dream of leaving the ceremony until at least three rounds of coffee are served. So more conversation in anticipation of the next round is needed. The Almighty could be beckoning you by name, but if you haven’t had your third cup, he’ll just have to wait. Finally after the third cup and an exhausted list of things to talk about, the ceremony is over and you leave with the sun going down and your belly politely asking to be fed.


Bus rides
The most common way to move about the country is by bus. The experience inevitably begins before the light of day. We head to the bus station with groggy heads, where there always seems to be loads of people milling about, and we’re directed towards a particular bus that is going to our destination. The buses don’t leave until they’re full, so we wait. After maybe 40 minutes of nodding off, every seat has been filled and we’re now leaving the bus station as the first rays of sunshine poke over the horizon.

Many of the roads through the country are very curvy, and it’s not a rare occurrence for a passenger to open a window and toss their cookies onto the side of the bus. So, as someone prone to motion sickness I skip breakfast and pop a Dramamine. Now, there’s an unwritten law that all windows are to remain closed, despite the sweltering heat inside. Try to crack the window next to you, and a disgruntled Ethiopian will reach in front of you and shut it as if their valuable hot air is leaking out and can’t be replaced. The attempt to open a window can be repeated as many times as one likes, always with the same outcome. Sensing the illogic of the answer, I never bothered asking the question “why do you want the window closed?” So after only a few hours of sleep the night before, a motion sickness drug that makes one sleepy, and a warm bus, it sounds like a great time for a nap, right? Nope! It’s time for Ethiopian pop music.

Remember that AM radio with one speaker your grandpa used to listen to talk-radio on? It sounded bad at low volumes, but when you turned it up it sounded like a banshee screaming through a tube. The Ethiopians love that sound, and it’s only possible to get that unique banshee-like tone with the volume knob as high as it goes. Now, imagine polka played entirely on a Casio keyboard, but somebody lopped a few beats so you can’t tap your foot to it (for the musicians - 5/8 time with uneven eighth notes). Then over the top of the lopsided Casio groove, alternate a very nasal vocalizing with synthesized saxophones. Then keep this going without any change for no less than 10 minutes and – voila! Authentic Ethiopian entertainment. Once the song finally stops, I breathe a sigh of relief. But then the next one starts, and it’s in the same key and has the same tempo as the last one, in short – it’s the same song with a new track number. After about eight of these go by, there always seems to be one song that sounds different. Maybe it has something like an American R&B groove to it. These tracks are always met with a prompt finger on the ‘skip ahead’ button, and then we’re back to 5/8 Casio polka.

If I was a darker soul, I might pitch this whole bus riding/sleep deprivation thing to the folks running Guantanamo Bay as an alternative to waterboarding.

The hours roll by, the sun gets hotter, and finally the bus stops in a little town for a bathroom and food break. Jill and I scramble through the ocean of children selling gum and wanting handshakes from the farangis to the nearest restaurant. We sit down and request a menu and the waiter promptly brings a menu in both English and Amharic. The English side of the menu offers things like ‘scrambled haggs’ and ‘meet sandwich’. My English spelling is only marginally better, so I’m generally impressed by all this. Besides, I really could go for some cold ‘mango jews’. After perusing for a minute we make a choice and the waiter responds “we don’t have that”. We peruse a little more and make a second choice – “we don’t have that”. After a third choice brings the same response we’re forced to ask “what do you have?” “Only tibs” our waiter replies. Maybe he just wanted to show off his menu.

After our tibs and a visit to the shint bet (literally, pee house) we’re back on the bus listening to the same CD for the fifth time. Only four more hours to our destination….



Kids, guides and donkeys
As a white person, it’s impossible to stand out any more. A circus caravan could come through town pulled by flying elephants, and I think it would command less attention than two white people. As we would walk down a street, small children would literally chase us down to shake our hands and say “hello”. The slightly older children prefer to stay where they are, but yell “you!” at regular intervals until one of us turns and acknowledges them. The really advanced people on the street bombard us with the phrase “Where are you go!” This is, in fact, a question despite the attacking tone. And although the people that ask this aren’t generally able to understand the answer, they ask it just the same. So I reply with the equally useless “We’re off to see the wizard.” Any answer seems to elicit the same blank stare. If Jill wanted to really throw them for a loop she’d reply in Tigrigna. One guy actually passed out in sheer amazement at seeing a white person speak his language.

In the cities that bring in tourism, we couldn’t walk for more than two minutes without at least one local insisting on being our guide. Occasionally it was welcome and helpful, more often it was annoying, but in the end it was totally unavoidable. As soon as you convinced one guide you didn’t want his services, two others would appear with the phrase “Where are you go!” On one afternoon promenade with no other ambitions than to poke around town, Jill and I acquired a band of no less than eight school-aged guides, accompanying us in any direction we decided to walk. It was explained to each of them in two languages that we didn’t need their services, and that we really would prefer to be left alone. The children didn’t accept this, and all we could do was continue our walk with a parade of children behind us.

On a different occasion we had been told of monastery a ways outside of town. There are no maps and the only ways to get there are to hire a very expensive taxi, or to rent donkeys. The better choice was obvious. I gleefully pictured us riding through sun scorched valleys with the soundtrack to Aladdin magically underscoring our desolate trek. It never occurred to me that we hadn’t seen a single person riding a donkey anywhere in the country.

We get our donkeys in the middle of town, each of the two donkeys is guided by a human. It turns out, the way it works is the tourists get on the donkeys and the guides jog to keep up with the pace while making sure the animals go where they’re supposed to. Somehow not exactly as I had pictured. Imagine yourself as an Ethiopian child minding your own business. You can’t remember the last time you saw white people, nor anyone riding a donkey, but suddenly you see two white people trotting down the street on donkeys, trailed by donkey owners running to keep up. Again, flying elephants would cause less commotion. It’s too late for us to change our minds about this now: for the next hour we have no choice but to be the strangest thing anyone has ever seen in this town. The children are literally tripping over each other to run to the edge of the street and wave and say “hello”. The “you’s” are being fired from every direction. We saw a man on top of a hill maybe two miles away cup his hands to his mouth and belt “WHERE...ARE…YOU…GO!!!”. I felt that for all this attention I really ought to be putting on more of a show, like maybe getting off the donkey and doing a tap routine while singing Hello Dolly. But being that Jill had already made someone pass out with a few words of Tigrigna, I decided it best to resign myself to smiles and waves and accept my fortune of being a farangi on parade.

Traditional music
One evening after a few beers at a local squat, Jill and I were walking back towards our hotel, when we were allured by what sounded like live music. The whole trip I had been asking about live music, and we had found none. So on hearing this I insisted that we stand outside for just a few minutes. The music was not altogether removed from the music played on the bus, but without the hairpin turns, the heat and the smell of sweaty bodies, somehow it was more enticing. Better yet, they ditched the Casio keyboards in favor of real instruments.

After milling about outside for a minute, we went in and ordered a round of beers. We sat down and observed in the dim light a drummer in the corner accompanying a one-stringed, bowed instrument. Just as we realized we were the only customers in there, a women who previously sat in the corner leapt to her feet, realizing she had some farangis to entertain. Was she part of the band? Or just a local eager to show off her abilities? In any case she took it upon herself to entertain us very directly. She began singing and doing a dance I can only describe as a ‘boob-flap’. Suddenly we found ourselves a little less comfortable just as our beers arrived, and we were obligated to stay at least long enough to finish them. Jill told me that it was still early, and suggested that within an hour the place should be crowded. So we tried to enjoy our beers as the singer tried to get us to join in with her boob-flapping (‘but I have nothing with which to flap!’ I lamented to myself). Jill and I aggressively resisted the singer’s invitations to dance, as Jill explained to me how Amharic and Tigrian dancing is all in your shoulders. And I wondered if this was because there is no other way to get one’s boobs to flap than to move one’s shoulders. We finished our beers and had managed to avoid dancing, and figured our luck wouldn’t last another round, so we asked for the bill.

“Sixty birr!? How could 2 beers be sixty birr!?” This is only about $5, but we had been paying 5 birr down the street for the same beer. It was the principle. For sixty birr we may have been able to buy a pony, and ridden off into the night fulfilling our childhood dreams. Jill decides this is worth an argument in Amharic, for which I can lend no rhetoric, only dirty looks. We’re still the only customers in the place, and as if to highlight the disagreement, the music stops. Jill explains that she’s not a farangi, she’s a hobisha (Ethiopian) as is evident by her skills in two local languages plus an Ethiopian ID. Would they dare charge a hobisha such a price? After every point has been made, and I’ve cast all the dirty looks I’m able, the bartender sticks to his price of sixty birr. There’s nothing left to do but pay the bill and leave.

As we leave the now empty and silent bar, I turn around and notice a sign we had missed on the way in advertising “traditional music”. A well traveled chimp would have known better. Nobody describes anything as ‘traditional’ unless they’re trying to sell it to tourists.


Gorsha
Verb: to gorsha. One can gorsha or be gorshaed. Listen to the word… gorsha. Does it sound pleasant? I think not. To gorsha, one takes a handful of injera (bread) and wat (sauce) and proceeds to put it straight into the mouth of the vict…I mean, subject. This is considered a sign of being close friends. The larger the handful, the more strong the sign of friendship.

The first time I experienced this I was totally unprepared. Jill and I were invited to a friend’s house for an evening meal. We sat around enjoying a communal plate of injera and wat, pleasantly washing it back with St. George’s lager. We casually discussed culture in a midsized Ethiopian town, life in America, the varying qualities of the weather throughout the country, with the din of American hip-hop filtering through the room. About halfway through the large platter of food, our host picked up a healthy handful of food and moved it toward my sister’s face. I had seen this move before in elementary school, and it was usually a sign that the person was intending to squish their jelly sandwich against a schoolmates face. But much to my surprise, Jill willingly opened her mouth as the ball was placed inside. I was horrified, thinking ‘what is this man doing to my sister!?’ But the amazement was far from over, because immediately afterword my sister returned the action to our host, this time with an even bigger ball being stuffed into his slightly larger mouth. Of course I was thinking ‘Jill, what are you doing to that man!!??’ but I was really too stunned to speak, so I sat in silence hoping that an explanation would make itself apparent. With still no explanation, our host proceeded to scoop up the largest yet ball food and move it towards me. My heart was beating out of control, but somehow my fear of breaking social norms was greater than my fear of being affectionately fed by another man, and my mouth opened as wide as possible as the soggy injera was crammed in. I had a gag reflex as my eyes watered and I was sure I was on the verge of death. But with a mouth crammed full of food, I still managed a sheepish smile towards our host.

Jill, now sensing my extreme discomfort, decided not to come to my aid with an explanation, but instead picked up the camera and asked our host to perform this ritual on me again so that it could be documented. I was overjoyed. This time, the ball was about the size of a baby’s head, and had to hover right near my lips as Jill fiddled with the camera waiting to capture the moment. Finally the flash went off and the baby’s head was stuffed into my face, and I could see light at the end of the tunnel and heard St. Peter’s voice saying “it’s not your time yet…” After about 10 minutes of chewing I managed to swallow everything placed in my mouth, and the polite conversation returned on the subject of whether or not Obama is an honorary Ethiopian.

After the meal Jill and I returned to her complex. I found myself still shaking from the whole event, although that may have been the 3-cup-of-coffee-minimum that’s expected before leaving a guest’s house. In any case I managed to lie down. I don’t mean to imply a direct relationship between my double-gorsha and the following events, but the next morning I awoke to an intense pain in my stomach and an hourly ejection at both ends for the remainder of the day. Needless to say, the gorsha is my least favorite of all the Ethiopian traditions.

Poverty, tourism and you
I’ve mentioned very little about the dire poverty and genuine need of the people in this country. It’s ever-present and I don’t mean to underemphasize the issue by not discussing it. But I’m unable to make a cute story out of it because there’s nothing cute about it. I also have absolutely no expertise on the subject and really don’t want to do anyone a disservice by misrepresenting it.

I’ve also mentioned very little about the amazing attractions in Ethiopia I was able to experience such as the churches hewn from single pieces of bedrock at Lalibella, or the 100 foot tall obelisks at Axum. If you’re curious about these things, I suggest you go see them for yourself. Your dollars/euros/pounds go an awfully long way, and they’re so desperately needed. If you’re not lucky enough to be related to a Peace Corps Volunteer, the local guides will literally line up to help you.

My ancient Egyptian secret trip

My trip to Egypt seems like a distant mirage now. The main reason for this feeling is that the trip is a big secret. No one in Maychew knew I left Ethiopia when I said I had meetings in the capital for a few weeks. My motivation for the trip secrecy stems from the everlasting argument I have with Ethiopians on whether or not I am rich. This is now my second international trip since coming to Maychew, and many Ethiopians chalked up my German trip to luck and a generous family. Trying to explain that I lived with my parents after graduation, working and saving so I’d be able to travel does not make sense to many of them. So, in an effort to re-visit the awesome trip, I thought I’d write about it.

My travel partner was my good friend and Peace Corps neighbor, Tina. We flew into Cairo via Khartoum, Sudan . All I could say when we landed briefly was that "Khartoum looks so developed from the runway"! We arrived in Cairo in the middle of the night and were herded through customs only to be laughed at minutes later by the currency exchange employee when we tried to give him Ethiopian birr, and then shook his head tiredly as he also refused ou American travelers checks. Luckily, Tina had brought some dollars that would pay for our taxi ride and hotel that night.

We spent the entire next morning roaming the empty streets of Cairo (stopping for a cup of McDonald’s drip coffee and an Egg McMuffin, a real treat!) looking for American Express or Thomas Cook, the only places that will exchange traveler’s checks without an additional charge. After asking around a bit we discovered both of them closed until the next day. It was a Friday, the muslim Holy Day—like Sunday in Christian nations—and we would not be getting any cash that day. A local tipped us off that the Hilton may exchange currency that day. Having no other options, we walked over to the very large, very American looking hotel.

Explaining to Egyptians that we actually came from Ethiopia, where we live, and that we don’t have a fat tourist wallet is pretty funny. First, their pronunciation of Ethiopia sounds like Esziopia, and most were too shocked to even believe it after they saw our American passports. After about 30 minutes of small talk with the bank employee at the Hilton, he was finally getting it—that these checks were all we had for the entire week, and we wouldn’t be staying anywhere like the Hilton. He kindly smiled and said, “Well, I have a flat and it is very free! You can stay with me!” This was our first taste of the speed at which Egyptians considered us family.

That afternoon we wandered the Egyptian National Museum, observing all the stuff taken out of tombs, temples, and excavation sites. The sheer size of some of the statues, walls of hieroglyphics and seeing a hair stuck to the inside of King Tut’s famous gold head covering was incredible. We stayed at this kitschy little hostel on the sixth floor of a building tucked off of the main street with three twin beds and communal hot showers for about $10 US. That night, we splurged and took a taxi rather than public transportation out to a neighborhood of Cairo on the Nile for dinner. We showered and put on dresses (the nicest we’ve looked in about 15 months now) for our night at Seqoia., an open-air Nile-side restaurant with canvas ies, low couches, and lantern lighting. We both enjoyed chicken without Ethiopian spicy red sauce, a few glasses of wine and an after dinner sheesha. After occupying our table for nearly three hours we decided to head back. When we asked our waiter for the bill he looked at us, shocked, and said, “You can’t leave, after 30 minutes everyone is beautiful. Enjoy your sheesha, ok?” We were easily convinced as an on-the-house glass of wine appeared in front of us. After much playful banter with the waiter and sheesha attendant we finally got the bill and headed back (in another contracted taxi… so indulgent) to our hotel.

The next day was the pinnacle of what both of us pictured for the months leading up to the trip. Feeling tourist savvy from our travel guide we headed over to Giza, the land of the great pyramids and the Sphinx. It was top on our priorities list to ride camels around the pyramids and when an overly friendly “non-guide” negotiated student price tickets for us we decided to hear him out. We had heard that everyone is trying to swing a deal; essentially getting everything they can out of unknowledgeable tourists and promptly explained we didn’t want a guide and had no intention of paying him for his tour services. He insisted again and again he was simply helping two beautiful ladies. He introduced us to his best camel boy, Boogie, 13, and stuck out his upturned palm awaiting his tip. We both rolled our eyes and when we offered what we thought was a generous 5 pound tip, he mumbled some choice words in Arabic and kicked the dust as he walked away. He warned us that Boogie spoke no English, as a reason to continue to hire him past this point but we felt it could be adventurous to try and take camel riding instructions in a language neither of us knew. Boogie robotically led us in a large loop behind the three famous pyramids, stopping at many key photo-ops. He took great joy in not warning us when the camel was going to kneel down or get up, resulting in a girlish squeal as Tina or I descended several meters unexpectedly. At one particular stop he thought it would be funny to get Tina’s camel to give me a kiss, which would have been more like a slobbery lick with a tongue the size of my entire face. When I refused he took that to mean I only kiss humans, and therefore might give him a kiss for his services. Boogie confidently swung around in our saddle (we were riding double on my camel, Moses) flung his arm around me and leaned in. Completely shocked all I could manage to say was, “Sorry Boogie, I don’t date seventh graders.”

We completed our trip to Giza with cheesy photos of each of us kissing the Sphinx, a meet and greet with an Ethiopian family we spotted among the tourists, and finally lunch at Pizza Hut. A corporate-American end to an ancient-wonder-of-the-world morning. That afternoon we explored Coptic Cairo, although the Christian city was walled off we had a good time in the souvenir shops trying to bargain down the price of wooden cats and opal boxes. We learned that the subway in Cairo has separate men’s and women’s cars and if someone of the opposite gender accidentally runs into the wrong car just before the doors slide shut, they will politely stand facing the doors until the next stop where he or she will get off and move a car down. This is a fascinating dance to watch.

That night we took the overnight train from Cairo to Aswan, a hot, Southern town on the Nile. We had three goals for Aswan: swim in a pool, take a felucca ride, and see the temple of Isis. We arrived mid-morning in Aswan and took our time getting lunch and finding the one hotel in town with a rooftop pool. Then we headed out to the Island of Isis, where the temple of Isis still remains. This requires a half hour ride across the Nile which we took in a motor boat adorned with Disney princess stickers. The temple had been restored beautifully , but with no guide we were left to wonder which of the small chambers was the lavatory. We felt our energy literally drain out of us the more we wandered the temple in the afternoon sun so decided to retire to the hotel. We had the half-filled pool entirely to ourselves besides the maid who kept giggling at our Ipod-accompanied-sunbathers-chair-dances.

That evening we hired a local felucca driver who proudly calls himself, Dr. Chill for an hour ride down the Nile. The river is crawling with feluccas around sunset, the long, wood sailboats with chipping white paint and some foreign country’s flag sewn onto the sail. I learned how to steer the rudder which takes much more strength than I imagined. We had dinner at yet another Nile-side restaurant, although this one had much more of a local flavor as we could hear the felucca captains shouting from one boat to another, trying to decide which watering hole to go to that night. The next day we crossed the river by ferry and checked out was called a traditional Nubian village, although the wandering animals, playing children and dilapidated housing didn’t look much different from our small towns in Ethiopia. We saw more temple ruins and had a blast running around in the unattended ancient playground.

That afternoon we boarded a train for Luxor and found a quaint hotel that serves breakfast on the roof. We had dinner in an imitation Irish pub that even advertised trivia nights. We rented some European-style bikes, sans gears, for $3 a day and set off for the temples. We saw many incredible sights and met some very interesting people. At one temple, we met an American man working as a photographer for National Geographic on a tour around the world. We met another photographer, a British woman, who seemed more interested in hearing about our work in Ethiopia than talking about her own in Egypt. We were sitting in the middle of one temple, in some shade, resting our weary legs and she asked if she could take our photo just as we were.

The next day we were surprised by the promptness and comfort of the Egyptian bus system. To start, there was a bus schedule. The bus came on time, had ample luggage storage, real air conditioning and we each got TWO seats to ourselves. We felt like we were in heaven. Five hours later, we knew we had died and gone to heaven. Out the bus window was a sea so blue it looked fake. Gleaming white hotels sprawled along the beachfront of Crayola-colored water. Tina and I looked at each other and squealed with excitement as no words could have described exactly what we were feeling as we stared out at the aquamarine paradise. When the bus finally rolled into Hurgada we anxiously grabbed our bags and started out to find our recommended hotel. After asking many people, getting a ride from a stranger who claimed to know where it was (I know, sorry Mom) and trying to call the number for the hotel, we found it nestled among under-construction condominiums. Not the best location but we knew we were home when the manager walked up and introduced himself as Hassan and asked if we wanted to snorkel the next day. An avid scuba diver and owner of a boat and crew and diving instruction team, he affectionately nicknamed us ‘Doctor’ (because Tina wears glasses) and ‘Chicago’ (because he loves gangster movies). We agreed to meet him in the lobby at 8:30 the next morning for Red Sea snorkeling.

We heard Hurgada was the place for nightlife outside of Cairo because nearly everyone here is on vacation. Showers and dresses and a taxi (another splurge) took us to a beach front club that had swings instead of bar stools and a nice mix of locals and tourists. Surprisingly, my 5’8” frame felt dwarfed next to the circle of Russian women occupying the front of the dance floor. We learned that lots of Russians are able to get cheap travel packages to Hurgada, and flock to Egypt to escape long, cold Russian winters. We danced the night away and were nicely escorted home by, I kid you not, Aladdin and his friend Ahmed, who took us to their favorite falafel shop on the way home. Our hotel owner squinted at us confusedly when we sheepishly knocked on the door at 5:30 am.

The next morning as we sleepily drank tea and ate bread and jam, Hassan smirked at our laborious movements and droopy eyelids. We crammed into his taxi with bins full of flippers, masks, and wetsuits. When we arrived at the boat, which was much larger and nicer than I was expecting he introduced us to “Obama” our snorkeling guide for the day. We stared at our skinny, 20-something guide, shrugged, and climbed to the upper deck to nap in the sun. We were soon joined at our front-of-the-boat-sun-soaking-spot by three Frenchmen in exactly the type of swimsuits I expect Frenchmen to wear. After exhausting my French, “Je ma pel Jill” (I don’t know how to spell in French but that is what it sounds like to me) and “No pas de probleme” we resorted to giggling over the hairy pirate-looking man throwing ropes around the lower deck. For that moment, I felt truly decadent, part of the elite aristocrats, if I may.

After a two-minute lesson on how to blow water out of the tube and how to clean goggles (with spit and sea water) we jumped in and I only hyperventilated a little as I got used to being able to breathe under water. When I figured out how to calmly oxygenate myself I looked around and saw the movie, “Finding Nemo” all around me. There were red fish, blue fish, one fish, fifty fish! It was one of the most spectacular things I’ve ever seen. “Obama” took the responsibility to swim us around so I grabbed an arm and stared at the postcard in front of me. I had no regrets that I didn’t research the type of fish I was watching, the colors alone were something to ponder for days. We came up, had lunch and a hot cup of coffee and did a second dive in the afternoon. Again, one of the most spectacular sights I have ever seen.

Trusty Hassan met us at the dock where we parked for the day and Tina and I took our danced-out, snorkeled-out, sunburned selves to the shower and to our beds. Hassan convinced us we were ‘not allowed’ to go out that night that he and his employee would cook us dinner that evening. We emerged to the smells of frying fish and followed our noses up to their roof-top hangout, obviously maintained by two men, and were greeted with cold Stellas and a lovely cucumber salad. Over dinner we chatted about the current President of Egypt, the conflict between Upper and Lower Egypt, Arab nations, the best way to cook whitefish, and belly dancing. Hassan divulged that he was computer illiterate but desperately wanted to advertise on the ‘interweb’. After convincing him that internet advertising really wasn’t that hard he promised that if we could help him onto the interweb, we were welcome to come back and get our scuba diving licenses for a package deal of $250. He ended the evening by presenting us with little dolphin necklaces and making us promise that ‘Chicago’ and ‘Doctor’ would return.

We reluctantly took a bus back to Cairo the next day and a real mall the few hours before our flight left. Our parting meal was proof that we had been living in Africa for a year and a half. We didn’t choose from one of the many fabulous local establishments, getting that last taste of Egyptian food before we left the country. Nope, we had our last meal in that wonderful country in the all exotic, Chili’s. I had cheese and mushroom chicken fajitas and Tina had a different fattening chicken dish. Almost drugged with satisfaction from our meal we made our way to the airport, shedding a tear (one of us figuratively and one actual) over our last cold Stella and all the wonderful items we couldn’t afford in the duty-free shop.

In a haze of airplane food and Amharic-English plane announcements, we found ourselves back in the Addis Ababa airport, staring out at the bright morning as if it never happened. We woke up and staggered off the plane and it all seemed like a dream—one of those dreams where you close your eyes and hope to fall asleep right where you left off. In hindsight, I’ve wondered if I enjoyed the trip so much because I was coming from Ethiopia. If I were coming on vacation from America, would I have found more things annoying that I now simply find quaint? Would I have left speaking the 10 odd phrases I picked up in Arabic throughout the week? Would I really have thought Hurgada was heaven on earth? Maybe not, but I guess I’m thankful for my altered perspective, for now, Egypt will forever remain in my head, this Eden-type (or ‘Prairie Home Companion’) land where everything is cheaper, everyone thinks I’m a little more beautiful, and the people are just a little friendlier.

Compassion child visit

A Church Circle group from Jill's home church, Geneva Lutheran Church, sponsor an Ethiopian child through Compassion, an international child sponsorship program. The women in this group have corresponded with this girl (named Etsegenet) for several years and asked Jill if it would be possible for her to visit this child. She found out from Compassion that she could make an appointment to visit after passing a background check. The following is Jill's emailed message describing her visit on March 1, 2010.

Monday afternoon I was picked up at my hotel in Addis Ababa by a tall, friendly Ethiopian man named Mamitu. As we walked over to Etsegenet’s school, I found out he works at Compassion Ethiopia’s head office in Addis Ababa. He explained that at this school of about 250, the Compassion-sponsored children are intermixed with regular students. After a brief tour of the Compassion office on the school grounds and a glance at Etsegenet’s school records and health profile, a skinny girl with a beautiful, bright smile turned the corner with a plastic package in hand. She opened her mouth and bravely said in English, “Hello, my name is Etsegenet Deksisa and I am in grade 6.” She then shyly said in Amharic, “Ewedeshalo,” (I love you) as she pulled a bouquet of flowers from her bag.

Etsegenet led me into a nearby classroom and proudly walked past her fellow students, in the middle of a history lesson, towards her usual seat in the last row. She introduced me to her best friend, Desta (which means "happy") as we snapped a few photos. The students were surprised as I uttered a few encouraging phrases in Amharic, not expecting the foreign woman to speak their language. I discovered Etsegenet’s favorite and best subjects are English and Mathematics. We departed to visit her home and meet her family.

We strolled the 1 kilometer road to her neighborhood and turned off just behind a familiar foreign restaurant. We descended a steep slope to a small creek with a stick and mud bridge. Etsegenet uttered a soft “Ques” (slowly) as I crossed the bridge. Turning around dense foliage hiding small mud houses we approached an alley-like row of homes with low windows and doorways. The fourth door was the entrance to Etsegenet’s home she shares with her mother, grandmother, and three siblings. Etsegenet’s father died in 2006, but I did not ask about the cause. As we ducked into the dim two room house, Etsegenet’s mother was preparing the traditional coffee ceremony. Introductions were made all around and the family was quite happy to hear my Amharic greetings. I was offered popcorn as I sat and Etsegenet brought over her pile of letters and photo album of her sponsors. I looked over pictures of people I recognize, a strange experience to have in a mud home in east Africa. Many of the letters from the women’s group talked about their children, grandchildren, and the weather in the Chicago area. Each letter was translated into Amharic by Compassion staff as are Etsegenet’s responses. Etsegenet’s mother told me her work is spinning cotton on a loom. I met Etsegenet’s younger brother and sister Abi (baby) and Kidis (saint) when they arrived home from school.

As we drank the second tiny cup of coffee, Etsegenet’s friend Desta and another friend came over to get an up close look at Etsegenet’s white visitor. I talked to Etsegenet about her responsibilities at home and hobbies. She helps her mother cook for the family and clean the house. Her home has electricity but no indoor water supply so she also helps carry water in large jerry cans from the spigot 15 meters away. When I asked if she had a message for her sponsors she said "Please tell them thank you very, very much. How are you? Will you send more photos? How is the weather? Ewedeshalo (I love you)!"

We wrapped up our visit with the third cup of coffee and blessings back and forth for health, wealth, and happiness. I promised to get the photos of our visit to Etsegenet and encouraged her to work as hard as possible in school. We parted with the traditional shoulder bump of familiarity and no doubt Etsegent promptly went back to enjoy her new gifts.