A Day in the Life, Part 2

Continuation from A Day in the Life, Part 1….

When we left off, I had just returned home from a morning at Salaj Elementary School as part of the JDC rural outreach program.

After the doctors drop me off at home, I call my driver Yemena and ask him to pick me up in an hour. Having a driver is both helpful and frustrating. Walking and taking public transportation opens me up to so much more harassment, both physical and verbal – my ferenji friends walk around with headphones in so as to shut out the harassment. Plus people can drive like maniacs here and I’ve heard stories of some pretty horrific car crashes. For all these reasons, JDC does not allow us to take public transportation and instead hired Yemena, for which I am grateful. However, riding around in my own car all day distances me from the community in which I live and further reinforces the wealthy foreigner perception.  Plus, Yemena’s English, though much improved over the past few months, is still not great, which has led to many frustrating attempts to explain where I want to go and when. Despite this language barrier, Yemana makes very clear his displeasure of driving at night and on weekends, which I sympathize with because he has a family, but means that I am often left to beg my friends to come over in the evenings or skip out early from get-togethers so that I have a ride home.

For lunch I make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on whole wheat bread that I made myself. I never made bread before coming here, but I get bored here and the bread that I made from whole wheat flour my friend brought back from Addis turned out pretty well, even with the changes to the recipe required by the elevation. There are two “supermarkets” near my house that sell peanut butter and jelly. Both are actual buildings, about the size of my bedroom, that have a few shelves filled with things like liquid laundry soap, dish soap, pasta, peanut butter, flour, yeast, sugar, juice, beer, and the occasional dried fruit, chips or cookies. They also sell toilet paper, eggs, lentils, and some fruit, but I prefer to buy those at the stalls throughout town. Two or three shops in the “downtown” area of Gondar carry more ferenji goods such as butter, cheese, canned fruits and vegetables, candy, and cocoa powder. These items are pretty expensive (on my Ethiopia budget, not by American standards) so I don’t buy them often.

At five minutes to two, I hear the car bumping down the road to my house, and I speed up the pace with which I am devouring my lunch. I race around the house finishing up a few things, get another hug from Zelalem on my way to the car, and hop in. I ask Yemena how his day has been, discuss the weather (it’s been raining every day even though it is dry season) and then we ride in silence. As we drive on the main street into Piasa, the center of town, I look out the window at the people we pass. The man pushing a wheelbarrow of ripe mangos, pausing occasionally for a sale, the delinquent student quickly walking the opposite way of school, the groups of women laying down stones for a new sidewalk, and the teenage boys riding on wooden carts pulled by emaciated horses. Once we are near Piasa, where most of the shops, restaurants, and hotels are, we see a few white tourists wandering around.

A side street near the Piasa

“Ferenj,” Yemena states, declaring the obvious. “Yes, I see,” I reply, thinking to myself how amusing it is that he calls people that even though he got mad at me for jokingly shouting that at one of my friends a while ago. “Your friend?” he asks, the same thing he always asks every time we see a white person. No, I don’t know all the ferenj, I remind him.

We arrive at my destination, an organization called Kindu Trust, and I ask Yemana to come back to pick me up in an hour and a half. Kindu Trust is an amazing organization – based in the U.K., but run by all Ethiopians in Gondar, it offers so many services to the community, such as financial aid to impoverished families, micro-finance projects for women, and my favorite, a block of communal latrines and shower in an area with no latrine facilities. The feces from the latrines gets processed into cooking gas so that women can come prepare meals on gas burners the organization has installed nearby. Although the project manager and I often chat about different projects and I act as an informal consultant on projects when needed, I am here today for one particular project.

In the malnutrition ward, a baby with a feeding tube plays with a doll from Kindu Trust. This photo may not be reproduced for any reason.

A few years ago, a visiting doctor on a program with JDC and Baylor University created a development stimulation project for the pediatric malnutrition ward at Gondar University Hospital. As part of the project a group of women from Kindu Trust would make toys for free that would then be used in the therapy program at the hospital. The pilot program was wildly successful and offered physical and mental benefits to the children of the malnutrition ward and their families, who often watched helplessly as their malnourished kids stared at the ceiling, listless, passing the hours. However, for many reasons, the program fell apart once the doctor left. When I was looking for an independent project to do someone suggested I re-start this program, so when the founding doctor came to visit, we got the project up and running again.

The women who make the toys are all have health issues of their own, and meet every other week at Kindu Trust to make the toys for the hospital or scarves that are sold in Kindu’s shop. They bring their kids, drink coffee together, and offer one another support and a social network (the human kind, not Facebook). Sometimes I teach them how to make new toys, like toys and rattles, out of every day materials such as construction paper and plastic bottles, but mainly I just hang out with them. Even though I can’t understand anything they are saying, and am often embarrassed to try out the Amharic I am learning with them, I feel at peace with them. They never ask me for anything, and I think they respect me and as such don’t try to harass me. And even with the language barrier we are able to communicate.

The women’s group at Kindu Trust sewing dolls for children in the hospital

Today, one woman finishes sewing a doll and shows it off to the woman next to her, who immediately begins making fun of the handiwork for being so lopsided. It really is an oddly shaped doll, and when it is held up for everyone to see we all laugh. One woman brings her child every week, and at first I thought that he might be developmentally challenged, but he showed very quickly that he is a bright trouble maker. When I first showed the women how to make balls, they were clearly unimpressed. Then we gave the ball to the little boy to try, and he made everyone laugh by throwing it and kicking it around while clapping and giggling, and almost instantly his endorsement led to the respect of the ball and my skills as a toy creator. Even when I sit in the circle with the women and don’t speak, I feel content watching them socialize with one another while the little boy tries to sneak a pair of scissors off the table and put them in his mouth. Whenever Yemana drops me off, I always worry that I am going to feel uncomfortable and want to leave, and I always end up calling and asking him to come later.

When Yemena calls to say he is at Kindu (and without saying it, makes clear he is ready to go), I finish off my cup of coffee from the coffee ceremony and say my goodbye. I have learned to make coffee the traditional way, but it never turns out as rich and satisfying as when it is painstakingly made by an Ethiopian (traditionally a woman) during the coffee ceremony. The ceremony calls for each person to drink three cups, but I politely excuse myself after one, firstly because that much caffeine makes me feel like I’m having a heart attack, and secondly because the cups are neither washed nor given back to the same person in between rounds, and with all the deep coughing that is emanating from the group, I don’t want to risk my health for a cup of coffee (even if it is great).

On the way back home, I ask Yemana to stop at the “banana place.” There are many places that sell bananas across town, but for some reason Yemana associates the place that I buy vegetables solely with bananas (he won’t know what I am talking about if I say the vegetable stand). I think it is because I often buy an extra banana for him when I go. Vegetables and fruits are also sold all over town, in shacks and from women who sit alongside the road. However, this place gets a twice-weekly shipping of “ferenji” fruits and vegetables from Addis, such as eggplant, bell peppers, strawberries, and plums, but also sells more traditional items like carrots, onions, and papaya. Even though it is sold in town, every Ethiopian I have asked about it has never heard of eggplant (and it isn’t just a difference in language, I have shown one to a few people, who still have never seen such a thing).  The shipments come in Monday and Thursday nights, which is why I’ve asked Yemana to make a stop on the way home.

A vegetable stand near my house that sells common vegetables like tomatoes, onions, and lettuce.

I like this stand because the people are always friendly and don’t treat me differently because I am ferenji. Today, a teenage boy is working, and, knowing that I am a teacher from our past discussions, asks me about school and tells me about his classes. I point to his Notre Dame shirt, which he asks me to explain, and when I tell him that it is an American university that one of my best friends attended, he and his friend start giggling. He weighs all the fruits and vegetables I pick out, loads them into flimsy plastic bags that I often worry will break under the weight, and adds up the total. I buy quite a lot today, probably around 8-10 pounds of various fruits and veggies, so my total is right around $5, or 100 birr.

With my haul in the car, I ask Yemena to stop a little further up the road so that I can buy some eggs and better looking bananas. At this stand the two people who are working mock my Amharic, and as much as I try to ignore it, I get frustrated. Luckily, the experience is over quickly, and I’m back in the car on the way home, but the fact that people who don’t know me and who I am very polite to would openly mock me leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

Back at home, I fill a giant plastic bowl, normally used for clothes-washing by my housekeeper, with a lot of water and a few drops of bleach, and empty in my haul for a 20 minute soak. Soaking food in bleach seemed like an incredibly dangerous idea when my ferenji doctor friend first told me about it when I was settling in, but I looked up it, and sure enough, it is recommended by PeaceCorps and many other organizations for cleaning food and water in developing countries. What’s the need for bleach, you ask? Because without latrines, people defecate into open fields and water sources, allowing dangerous bacteria to make its way into crops. Although not all of my friends bleach their fruits and veggies, it makes me feel better.

During the veggie bath, I change into work-out clothes and set up to do an Insanity workout in the living room. I’ve found that a lot of people working around the world without access to a gym do Insanity to stay in shape, and when a friend offered to give me a copy, I nervously and reluctantly accepted. I think my favorite part of the workout is when the incredibly in-shape participants in the video fall on the floor in exhaustion or have to take a break. It makes me feel in good company when I have to do the same. I’ve also realized that one of the perks of at home workouts is being able to yell right back at the instructor. So take that, Shaun T.

For dinner, I sauté some eggplant and make a basic tomato sauce to have along with whole wheat pasta. Although there are quite a few things I can find in Gondar, I went pretty crazy in Djibouti because there was a real American-style grocery store (which for some odd reason I had really been missing) and got things like whole wheat pasta. I also brought things with me from the U.S. like kitchen knives and quinoa. Other things like cake and bread pans were passed along to me from other ferenji upon their departure. While I eat dinner I watch old episodes of “Friends,” which makes me miss New York City but also feel less lonely as I once again eat dinner alone. However, my friends are coming over for dinner and movie night the next night, which eases the loneliness a bit.

Despite my best efforts to go to bed early, I end up watching too many episodes of “Friends” and before I know it, it is after 11 o’clock. Despite being tired, I take a shower in the one shower in the house with hot water and good water pressure, knowing that it is very likely that in the morning, or even ten minutes, the water could run out for a day or several. Afterwards, I set my alarm for 8:30 the next morning in hopes that I will be productive in the morning, all the while knowing full well I will sleep until 9:30, put in my ear plugs in an attempt to drown out my dogs barking beneath my window, try not to scratch a new-found mosquito bite, and fall asleep dreaming of an all-you-can-eat buffet of my favorite American food.

And that is the day in the life of a JSC fellow.

To be honest, most of my days are a little less jam packed –on school days (as I hinted) I often sleep in and somehow fill my mornings doing something and nothing until it is time to leave for school.  And while some nights I end up reading and baking bread, there are also nights where I rush around trying to cram in a work-out and chores before my friends come over to make dinner and hang out. Like I said in the beginning, no day is every the same. However, there is typically one constant in every day: several “highs” or really great, rewarding moments, and several “lows” in which I feel humiliated or defeated. But that is life for a ferenji in Gondar.