For months, my mom has been asking me to write about what my day to day life is like here, and given her powers of persuasion (“everyone I know has been asking you to write about it”) it is pretty impressive that I have yet to do it. However, since Sunday was my Mom’s birthday (happy birthday, Mom!) I figure it is about time to write the post that apparently everyone wants to read.
In reality, there is no typical day here as my relationships with the people and environment around me change constantly. However, I will still try to give you a taste of what life is like by writing about one jam packed day in which I undertake different projects. It is not an exact account of a particular day, but rather a conglomeration of experiences that I wanted to share with you. However, this is a pretty accurate portrayal of a typical Tuesday.
Most days of the week, I don’t have to wake up early, which suits me just fine as I am definitely not a morning person. But today is rural outreach day, which means an earlier morning. Twice a week during the dry season, a rotating group of doctors from Gondar University Hospital goes out to one or two schools in the rural areas surrounding Gondar in order to treat ill children. The program, a JDC initiative, is innovative in that it brings medical care to areas where such care is limited to non-existent. Jason and I join the doctors for the first day of visits, which take place on Tuesdays when we don’t have class, but don’t usually join for the second day because we have to teach.
Today, we are going out in two groups, which means that Jason and I will visit separate sites. We’ve been told by the JDC staff person that the doctors will pick us up at 8am; however, I am skeptical that they’ll be even remotely close to on-time, as I know that most of the doctors who take part in the program have their weekly meeting to go over cases on Tuesday mornings from 9-9:30am. So once again I am faced with the weekly dilemma of being ready at the time I’ve been told the doctors will arrive or sleeping longer and not being ready to leave until the time I know they will arrive. Since, as I mentioned, I am not a morning person, and I really don’t like waiting around in the mornings, but also don’t want to be caught in my pajamas the one time the doctors actually arrive at the scheduled time, I devise a plan. I wake up, get dressed in my daily uniform of a cotton t-shirt and quick dry pants, throw a protein bar leftover from a visiting JDC group into my bag along with my camera and notebook, and then get back into bed. Before falling asleep, I text the JDC staff person who will be joining us, find out that the doctors are still in their meeting (as I thought) and ask him to text me when they’re on the way.
When the text finally comes at 9:30 that the vans are on the way, I give myself a mental pat on the back for sneaking in some extra sleep, and head outside to wait for the vans. Today, my favorite guard, Zelalem, is working. I’m not quite sure how old he is as age can be a tricky guess with Ethiopians since the harsh living conditions can rapidly age some people, while others looks much younger than they actually are due to a small build and delicate features. Even the fact that Zelalem has nine kids doesn’t give me much of a clue as early marriage is still very prevalent in Ethiopia, as is the lack of healthy spacing between children. Regardless of his age, Zelalem is the warmest, friendliest person, and despite the fact that he works two guard jobs and rarely, if ever gets to spend time at home with his wife and children, he never complains and is always smiling. The only time I have seen him upset was when he recounted to me one morning how our dog Sophie had “eaten” (bit) the other dog, Lily, the night before. Since he considers the dogs his children, he was near tears over their altercation.
Our guard, Zelalem, with our dog, Sophie.
Every morning that he’s at the house, as soon as he sees me walking around the house, he shouts out “Salamnu!” (hello) and continues to do so until I yell back “salamnu!” from inside the house and then answer his question of whether I am fine. This continues all day every time he sees me pass a window, which usually makes me feel loved, but I won’t lie, can sometimes get irritating, which I feel bad saying as he does it with so much love (and probably a small amount of boredom because he does the same thing to the housekeeper). This morning when I go outside to wait for the vans, he breaks into a huge grin as soon as he sees me and runs over to give me a hug and a big kiss on the cheek while the dogs jump up and down and nip at my backpack. Today he is wearing a t-shirt and baseball cap I brought him from the US and a pair of dress pants. Sometimes he wears a full suit, and others he wears pink and lime green girl’s pajama pants left over from one of the JDC trips, which made me giggle the first time he came out wearing them. I never quite know how he decides on the formality of his outfits for the day.
I hear the vans rumbling down the dirt road alongside the house, and head out the giant gates surrounding our house, careful not to let our dogs escape. The doctors barely look up when I hop in the car and continue to ignore my presence as we leave town and head towards the school. Since I am not a doctor and do not speak enough Amharic to be of use, I think the doctors see Jason and I as burdens, especially because we often require crowd control as ferenji. As we bump along the dirt road, which will soon be paved and become a major road to the town of Bahir Dar, I try to avoid inhaling the massive amounts of dust coming through the windows and watch the people walking along the road, wondering what their lives must be like.
We arrive at Salaj Elementary school, a cluster of several one-story long mud buildings, in between classes, and as soon as the kids milling about the courtyard see me, absolute mayhem ensues. Shouting “ferenj, feren” they run towards me in droves, but usually don’t make it very far as teachers and older students swat at them with branches and long strips of rubber. “Swat” is probably too kind of a word – every time I hear the crack of a branch connecting with a kid, I impulsively wince and say “ouch!” The kids who escape or ignore the beatings crowd around me, reaching out to shake my hand or just touch me. Soon, the crowd is too big and I can’t move until the teachers descend on the group with their branches raised. Although I’d love to stand around and chat with the kids (in perhaps a slightly calmer environment), I’m supposed to be helping the doctors. By the time I make it to the classroom where the doctors will be seeing the kids, everything has already been set up. The two cardboard boxing overflowing with medicine have been emptied of all useful medicines, which have been organized and arranged on a table. Since organizing the medicine is one of the few things I do to help the doctors during these outings, I’m now left with little to do. Soon I plan on interviewing students about their hygiene as part of a project proposal I am creating for JDC on hygiene and sanitation education; however, since there is no one with us today who can act as translator, I stick to my usual role of placing a sticker on the hand of each child who sees the doctors.
Little girl giving one of the pediatricians a laugh during her examination. This is from another school, but is my favorite photo from the rural outreach program. This photo may not be reproduced for any reason.
Mostly though, I watch the kids who are waiting, who are more often than not are watching me as well. I look at their clothing, a mix of traditional and donated clothes, like the same striped Obama shirt that I see all over rural Ethiopia but have never seen in the US, and the occasional frilly dress that in its past life was probably worn by a flower girl, but is now so worn and dirty, like everything else that the kids are wearing, that it is merely a shadow of its former being. I laugh inwardly as they cut each other in line or try to get a second sticker from me. And I am awed by their maturity, as I watch young children, probably around eight years old escort their younger siblings into the classroom, playing parent to a child only a few years younger than themselves.
Most of the kids have illnesses caused by poor sanitation and hygiene such as intestinal parasites and scalp infections. While they are easily treatable problems, it is likely that the illness will return since the underlying cause – lack of clean water, latrines, and knowledge of hand washing – is not treated. And although such easily remedied illnesses barely cause concern in the U.S., here they can lead to serious impairment or even death. While the doctors are able to treat the majority of these illnesses and others on site, sometimes a child is referred to Gondar University Hospital for further evaluation and treatment.
A little boy being seen by a doctor during rural outreach at Salaj Elementary School. This photo may not be reproduced for any reason.
Often I am so wrapped up with what is happening inside the classroom that I forget what is happening outside. I glance at the door –the group of children who were pre-selected to see the doctors, as well as a few others who managed to skip class, stand around the doorway, watching me. I know they’re staring at me because they are standing far enough away from the door that they can’t possibly see the doctors from where they are standing. On occasion, though, when the teacher who is acting as the bouncer gets distracted, they will all surge towards the door frame and into the classroom, crowding around the doctors who are in the midst of seeing patients, while a few brave souls will venture towards me in hopes of a sticker.
At around 12:30 the doctors announce that it is time to go, and we start packing the vans to leave. As I emerge from the classroom, I see a few kids still hanging around. The angel on my shoulder reminds me that I brought 6,000 stickers from the U.S., so it couldn’t hurt to hand out a few more, while the devil chants over and over that it is a bad idea. I listen to the angel, and as soon as I pull out the sheet of stickers the kids crowd around me, shoving each other with one hand and raising the other as high as they can in hopes that I will crown it with a sticker. One of the doctors comes over and offers to help. He asks the kids to get in a line so that they can come forward one at a time to get a sticker. Just as the first kid steps forwards, the one behind him gives him a shove, and a group of kids from across the courtyard spot what is going on and race towards the line. As soon as the kids start running towards us, the ones in the now dissolved lines start grabbing at the sheet of stickers. The doctor tells me it’s time to go, so I throw the stickers in my bag and make a bee-line for the car, all the while holding my arms up in the air like a hostage to show that the stickers are gone. The devil on my shoulder snickers in victory, and I decide only to hand out stickers in a controlled environment in the future.
As the vans leave the school, the kids chase after the car, waving and shouting “ciao,” all the while dodging the branches and rubber whips of their teachers. From the school, we go to the JDC founded health clinic in the nearby town to make a quick stop. A few minutes after we stop, I am shocked to see a few of the kids from the school racing up to the van. How they managed to practically keep pace with the car for so long is beyond me. Future Olympians, perhaps? The rapidly growing group surrounds the open door, and apart from the occasional wave, the kids just stand there, staring. Periodically I will try to speak to some of them in Amharic or English, but I get no response back, just stares.
A group of curious kids gathers around the van to watch me
This photo may not be reproduced for any reason.
Eventually, one of the doctors turns to me and says “maybe you want to get in the back of the van?” which is a nice way of telling me that the attention I am attracting is getting annoying. The back of the van has curtains over the windows, which you would think would deter the group; yet, I can see them, pushing their faces up against the glass, trying to get a look at the strange white girl inside.
As I watch the kids watching the van because they know I’m inside, I realize that to an extent, I understand what it is like to be famous. Everyone wants to talk to you, shout things (both kind and horribly rude) at you, touch you (both appropriately and inappropriately), chase after you, and in some cases, try to sneakily take photos of you (this is always done by men, and I have no tolerance for it). While people can be as kind or rude to you as they like, when you ignore a hello shouted at you after you’ve walked by someone, you get chastised for being rude. Not only do you have to be on your best behavior all the time, no matter how you are treated, but everyone knows your business. One time I was getting my shoes cleaned in Gondar, and a guy I had never met started listing all the details he knew about me, including where I had been the day before and who I was with. During a well visit a JDC staff person kindly reminded a group of kids that was following me and Jason that we were also human and to treat us as such. When he said that, I thought to myself how nice it would be if someone would follow me around all the time and remind everyone of that fact. It’s a good thing I’m not a celebrity in the U.S, I don’t think I’m cut out for a life of this.
To be continued…
A Ferenji in Gonder 
Your Mom is right…I am always excited to read your blog. Please continue! Your accounting of your experiences are so vivid and engaging I feel spurred to action.
Thanks.