Sunday, April 17, 2011

Ciao, my beautiful Ethiopia...


Friday, April 15th, 2011
So, after the three shortest, most fleeting three months of my entire life, I have arrived back in Saratoga. I am still a bit jetlagged and experiencing major culture shock, not to mention the fact that I miss my dear Ethiopian friends terribly, but other than that I feel great!

Saying goodbye was heartbreaking. A goodbye ceremony was held for me on Saturday morning, and I walked there alone with a terrible feeling of foreboding. When I entered through the gate, the children all ran up and jumped on me like they did every other day. That day they were all looking up at me with wide eyes and asking, “Today go?” “Today America go?” They had asked me this a few times before, but I’d always been able to smile and shake my head and say, “No go to America, today I stay.” Today, however, I had to nod and try to smile while saying, “Yes, today I go to America.” I hated saying this, and I hated even more to see the look of sadness that passed over a few of their faces, especially my precious Faren’s. As soon as I saw the look of disappointment cross his face when I confirmed his suspicion that I was, finally, leaving him, I hoisted him onto my hip and didn’t let him go until I was literally stepping out of the gate.

The children all gathered and sat in a circle in the living room at Little AHOPE, and Jambo, the social worker, told them in Amharic that the time had finally come to say goodbye. He asked the children to stand up and a few of them shyly offered things that they would remember about me, and then I had a chance to say a few words. I basically just thanked them for welcoming me into their lives and allowing me to love and get to know them, but I know I could have gone on forever about how much I love each and every one of them—not to mention the staff—and how fervently I will be thinking of them and wishing them healthy and successful futures.

The children then sang a song called “This Is The Day,” and then it was time for a group photo, and to say goodbye. I held myself together up until the moment when I looked at Faren and saw that his eyes had welled up with tears and he was staring straight ahead with a stony but utterly helpless look on his face. It broke my heart, and I hugged him tightly and cried along with him. A few of the other children cried as well, which made it just so much harder to say goodbye to them. I wish I could have just said goodbye like any other day and spared them the drama of a whole goodbye “ceremony,” but Jambo said that this would have confused them if I’d just disappeared, and he said that they wanted to chance to show their appreciation. Still, it sucked.

I said a shorter goodbye to Big AHOPE, but it was just as hard. Most of the older kids at Big AHOPE are withdrawn and guarded, and much less willing than the younger ones to allow outsiders to get close to them, but once I had cracked their shells they revealed themselves to be real, sensitive human beings on the brink of becoming adults, and beginning to truly face the reality of their situations. They knew that I most likely wouldn’t be back anytime soon, and that they’d probably never see me again, but they still smiled and shook my hand and wished me all the best and waved goodbye at the gate.

The reverse culture shock that comes with returning to the States after being in Africa for three months is much more intense then the culture shock was getting there. I feel so safe in a car; the highways are empty by comparison and people actually drive more or less according to traffic laws. Downtown Saratoga feels like a ghost town compared to the overcrowded, bustling streets and sidewalks of Addis Ababa—even the side dirt roads that were virtually inaccessible to cars had more people traffic than downtown Broadway in Saratoga Springs. People totally ignore me when I walk down the street, and I absolutely love it. Excessive florescent lighting now gives me a headache, and eating an apple with cheddar cheese just makes my day. For the first few days I caught myself doing double takes every time I looked up and saw another white person, especially if they were driving a car. Four dollars for a sandwich converts in my head to roughly 70 Birr, which sounds like a lot of money to me. Houses aren’t tucked behind gated walls or sheets of rusty tin, scaffolding is made of metal and looks safe to stand on, and there are no sick, motherless children running around tugging on people’s jackets begging for money. It’s cold outside. The air is clean. The dog barking outside has a home. People eat different things for lunch every day. It’s a very different world here.

Before I left, I thought a lot about what I should bring to give to the children, like toys or clothes or something along those lines. I did bring a few things—I went to A.C. Moore the day before I left and bought little nothings like stickers and pencils and bouncy balls to bring with me. I realized as soon as I got there that the kids aren’t used to actually owning anything, and while receiving little presents is very thrilling for them, as soon as you start handing things out they start to fight over things, or want more of something, and usually they refuse to share—they are, after all, just kids. It was a nice feeling to hand a child a toy and see their eyes light up with excitement, but I realized quickly that, for the giver, it’s more of a fast rush, which will, most of the time, quickly lose its meaning. Also, as soon as you started giving things out, they would see you only as the “bearer of little gifts,” and that’s all they would expect or even really want from you. I knew that I wanted the kids to see me and want a hug, or to play a new game, instead of a toy car or a lollipop. I learned that the most meaningful gift one can possibly give to these children is simple, unconditional love and affection, and that the ‘rush’ you get when this child, this new friend, gives you a simple hug will stay with you far beyond the moment when they let go.

I know that, if I ever go back, many of the children will no longer be there, or perhaps they won’t remember me. I think that I definitely learned and was changed more than any of them did in those three months. However, even if I never see them again, even if they forget me tomorrow, I can only hope that at the end of the day, the people they are growing up to become will be just a tiny bit different—happier, more secure, even just plus one or two dance moves—because I was a part of those three months of their childhood. I have more to thank them for than they will ever know. I only hope that I was able to return just a tiny part of the favor.





P.S.-Photos

P.S. I took about a million photos there that I’m extremely proud of, but for privacy reasons and to protect the HIV status of the children I can’t post pictures in which the children are easily identifiable publicly online or sell them for publicity purposes. I will put together a slideshow to show friends and family, and I’m trying to figure out how to post them privately online and just provide viewers with a password. We’re also working on making a photo/informative book with the usable photos for AHOPE to sell…I’ll keep you posted! Thanks for reading!

Tuesday, April 5, 2011


So, my amazing aunt from Pennsylvania sponsors an Ethiopian boy through a Christian organization called Compassion. When she heard that I was going to be here, she contacted the organization to arrange that I visit her sponsored child.

On March 12th, a driver and a translator for Compassion picked me up in Addis Ababa and drove me to Ambo, a town about two hours (150 km, roughly 100 miles) away. In Ambo we were met by the boy, who is nineteen years old and studies at a university in eastern Ethiopia. He had come back to Ambo just for the weekend in order to meet me. We went to his home, which was a small stucco house off a dirt road in the hills. Standing just outside of their gate, one has a gorgeous view of the mountains. Inside their property they have a small garden next to the house. There we met his mother, his two sisters, and two of their neighbors. Inside, we sat down in a small living/dining area. The kitchen and sleeping area were hidden by a doorway covered by a long curtain.

Ethiopians honor guests by performing a coffee ceremony. Ethiopia is famous for its coffee—for good reason, Ethiopian coffee is definitely the best coffee I’ve ever tasted—and they generally drink it black with a lot of sugar. A traditional coffee ceremony is when they roast green coffee beans over a bowl of hot coals on the floor, before grinding the beans very finely by hand—they don’t use filters—and heating the coffee over the same coals. It is served with sugar in very small cups. Popcorn is also traditionally served at a coffee ceremony. Except for making the popcorn, everything is done (usually by a woman) sitting on the floor in front of the guests. The room fills with smoke and smells like roasting coffee beans. At our guest house, Selam, our wonderful cook/Ethiopian mother/friend performs the coffee ceremony the day of or before a volunteer departs. She also serves cake.

So anyway, the boy’s mother served us injera and performed the coffee ceremony while we all sat around and talked. He is studying civil engineering, and plans most likely to go into construction. His mother described him to us as a “free spirit,” and he looked embarrassed but pleased. He showed me pictures that my aunt had sent him of her family and talked described how grateful he was to her, and how much he wants to meet her. It was a short visit, but it was very sweet, and I’m very glad I went.
It was also the first time I’d traveled far out of Addis Ababa, and I got to get a good luck at the countryside. Addis Ababa stops very abruptly, and suddenly it’s all hills and planes and it’s absolutely gorgeous. For lack of a better description, it looks exactly like Africa. There are huge, rolling mountains in the distance, and on the planes there are those trees with the flat tops—I don’t remember what they’re called—scattered all over the place. We went through a few small villages, which were mostly clusters of mud huts and hay bales.


I have suddenly become Ethiopia’s designated mural painter. Last Thursday I commented on a painting of some shepherds and stars that had gone up in the classroom at Little AHOPE, and mentioned idly to the teacher that I’d love to do some kind of painting somewhere while I’m here. She looked at me and asked with surprise why I hadn’t asked earlier, and then told me that I was welcome to paint the rest of the classroom if I wanted to. So I went straight to the classroom and dug out some of my favorite children’s books from their collection and went to work. That day I painted a giant Cat in the Hat on one of the walls. Then the teacher, who we all call “Miss,” asked if I would paint Spiderman on another wall. I thought it was a bit weird that a schoolteacher would want a giant Spiderman painted on her kindergarten classroom’s wall, but I started Spiderman on Friday, and when the children came in to see my progress, they were all very excited—they hardly glanced at Cat in the Hat. (I think Cat in the Hat’s much cooler, but I guess he’s not terribly popular in Ethiopia.) Anyway, since finishing Spiderman I’ve also painted Winnie the Pooh, Barney (their idea, not mine), and flowers in the Little AHOPE classroom. I’ve started a painting from the children’s book Guess How Much I Love You in the classroom at Big AHOPE, and they want a Spiderman as well. On top of that, one of the nurses is married to a man who teaches English at a local private elementary school, and last week he asked me if I’d be willing to come to his school and paint something. So on Thursday (March 17th) he picked me up from AHOPE and I got to visit his school. He had told his fifth grade class that I was coming, so for the first half hour I stood in front of the class answering questions they’d all prepared (it felt very much like that other English class I’d visited) and then I got to work. They also requested a Cat in the Hat, which I was more than happy to do.


On Friday (March 18th) Selam taught me how to make one of the wet sauces often served with injera. Selam is an excellent cook and she taught me a few new cooking tricks as well as the recipe. We couldn’t make the injera itself, not having the pan/machine thing they use to cook it, but we whipped up the sauce and then went out and bought the injera from the bakery around the corner. It was actually very simple—just onions and tomatoes and garlic and potatoes and oil, as well as water and a ton of a spice I don’t know how to pronounce. I’m going to try to bring some of this spice home with me.



On Sunday (March 27th), two American women arrived from Seattle. They’re on the board of AHOPE for Children, so they’re basically in charge of all the funding for AHOPE Ethiopia. Obviously this is kind of a big deal, so everyone seems to be bending over backwards for them while they’re here—I actually had to give up my room in the guest house, cuz it was apparently one of the nicer ones. Anyway, on Monday the cooks at AHOPE made a huge, amazing meal, and I decided to help in the kitchen that day. I didn’t do all that much—I basically just cut cucumbers and arranged the salads and watched as they bustled around expertly whipping up meals for both the children and all of the staff. They did let me try to make injera though, which was a bit exciting. Injera (the flat, sourdough crepe-like bread that they eat for basically every single meal) is cooked on a stove that is a flat surface griddle thing over a fire. The batter, which is just teff flour and water, is poured onto the stove in a spiral pattern, usually from the outside inwards. The cooks do it quickly and expertly, and they end up with a large, very thin pancake. I was slow and clumsy, and my injera was extremely fat and uneven. They served it anyway, and I was very proud of myself.



On Tuesday (March 29th) Camille and I went to the Mercato. We’re both in the process of scrambling around to finish our gift/souvenir shopping. The Mercato in Addis Ababa is the largest open-air market in Africa. It’s huge. We were there for a good two or three hours, and we didn’t even see a fraction of it. You can literally buy anything you could possibly need somewhere in the Mercato—you just have to know where to go. It’s always extremely crowded and there are lots of pickpockets—foreigners are especially advised not to bring a bag or even wear hanging jewelry. My camera was out of the question, unfortunately. We saw sections where shops sold nothing but spare car parts, or hot peppers, or toilet paper, as well as sections for traditional clothing, or beverages, gadgets like cell phones, TVs, computers, etc.



This will probably be the last time I blog before I leave…I'll be leaving this coming Saturday (April 9th). I absolutely can’t believe it—these have been without a doubt the fastest three months of my whole entire life. It’s going to be an extremely busy last week—it’ll be full of pictures and painting and coffee ceremonies and last-minute touristing and shopping and not to mention spending every single possible minute with these kids who have stolen my heart and will most definitely be keeping a large part of it when I go. I’m dreading saying goodbye to them. I promise I will write again when I get back to the States. Till then…I hope everyone’s having a good beginning of the springtime!
See you guys soon! All my love!