I am writing this on a scrap of paper while I am sitting in Dangila’s bi-weekly town meeting comprised of various health workers and government employees. While my three months of Amharic get me through the day, my vocabulary is nowhere near good enough to comprehend the current dialogue, so I have had time to thoroughly study the features of this room which I am now sitting. As I surveyed this room initially, nothing seemed particularly interesting enough to write about, a sign that I have redefined ‘normal’ here already. While having a ferengi in attendance causes enough commotion, I figure I should not stand up to take a picture of this everyday Ethiopian scene; instead, I will describe the happenings, which I now realize will sound anything but average.
This auditorium-type building is located just a few minutes walk from my workplace on a plot of land set aside as public recreational space by a generous owner. After a quick headcount, I determine that there are around 57 people in attendance, not even filling up half the benches. The walls are made of a mud and straw mixture, a common building material that also surrounds me while I sleep each night. The mud in this case displays a two-tone paint job of yellow and white, while my house flaunts a bright and cheerful pink shade. Two large windows that remain permanently open decorate the left wall, supplying the only light for the meeting and ensuring that the inside temperature remains comparable to the outside heat. The floor slopes slightly downhill towards the front of the room, leading to a currently unused stage. Today’s meeting is directed by a woman who instead stands at the front merely leaning on the stage for support and listening intently as the guests take turns discussing various issues. Above the stage on the far wall hangs a large chalkboard used in days past which still bares half-erased Amharic script, which has the same worth to me as if it had been complete. To the side of the board hangs a sagging hand painted banner that reads, “Don’t Turn Your Back on AIDS” above of which reads the same in Amharic.
Empty teacups clank together as a crew of two ladies pour each attendee a steaming cup of tea and distribute them amongst the crowd. A tray of fresh local bread is circulating through the aisles, to which I happily help myself. I catch eyes with the mayor’s assistant and he smiles while abruptly raising his eyebrows, as Ethiopians often do to greet people. The man next to me, whom I met at the last meeting, whispers occasional English phrases my way such as, “hot tea!,” eventually exhausting his vocabulary. I whisper Amasegenalahu, “Thank you” in Amharic, as he passes my empty teacup down the aisle to be collected and I hear the ladies behind me all whisper in Amharic, “She said thank you!”
The benches are made of a popular building material in Ethiopia, small trees just over three inches in diameter. I still do not know what trees the wood comes from, but the logs are piled high at each of the local lumberyards. The beams have been cut in half and lay in groups of three at seat-level to form semi-flat benches. Another piece of the same material is suspended at back level, which I assume was meant to be comfortable, but somehow failed to meet its purpose. The benches, which are permanent fixtures in this auditorium, allow just enough legroom for a child it seems, and so adults are awkwardly angled to fit in each row and are constantly shuffling around for a bearable position. The same trees also line the ceiling; the rafters are exposed to the room, as is the ribbed tin roof above them. Raindrops begin to ping on the roof, amplifying the simple sound of small drops of rain. Dark clouds that are visible through the windows pass overhead, a sight that seems to come every afternoon lately- a sign that rainy season is coming early this year. Panic is not a factor, as right behind the dark clouds shines bright sunlight, proving that the rain will not last long.
I was told beforehand that today’s meeting would include topics about condom usage in Dangila. My supervisor told me that these community members would be debating whether condoms interfere with sexual pleasure, and dispelling the myth that condoms carry HIV. I can tell by the hushed giggles and intermittent laughs that it must be a good conversation. I asked my supervisor to take good notes in order for me to get all the details tomorrow. An older woman dominates the conversation after a long pause; a pause, which may have been awkward if I had any idea of the latest question asked. Her animated speech causes several episodes of laughter to break out. The woman I am sure is secure in her role as a woman and comfortable talking about sex; I previously met her as I joined a team of three Ethiopian health workers on a hike into the nearby rural area where they conducted a mobile voluntary counseling and testing of HIV one Sunday. The woman was the counselor, delivering over 75 HIV results that day.
It seems that before I was even aware of the moderator speaking again the meeting is adjourned and guests quickly hustle out of the building. I must now go and wait by the door, as all the lingering guests are surely waiting to shake my hand and hear me speak a few Amharic words.
This auditorium-type building is located just a few minutes walk from my workplace on a plot of land set aside as public recreational space by a generous owner. After a quick headcount, I determine that there are around 57 people in attendance, not even filling up half the benches. The walls are made of a mud and straw mixture, a common building material that also surrounds me while I sleep each night. The mud in this case displays a two-tone paint job of yellow and white, while my house flaunts a bright and cheerful pink shade. Two large windows that remain permanently open decorate the left wall, supplying the only light for the meeting and ensuring that the inside temperature remains comparable to the outside heat. The floor slopes slightly downhill towards the front of the room, leading to a currently unused stage. Today’s meeting is directed by a woman who instead stands at the front merely leaning on the stage for support and listening intently as the guests take turns discussing various issues. Above the stage on the far wall hangs a large chalkboard used in days past which still bares half-erased Amharic script, which has the same worth to me as if it had been complete. To the side of the board hangs a sagging hand painted banner that reads, “Don’t Turn Your Back on AIDS” above of which reads the same in Amharic.
Empty teacups clank together as a crew of two ladies pour each attendee a steaming cup of tea and distribute them amongst the crowd. A tray of fresh local bread is circulating through the aisles, to which I happily help myself. I catch eyes with the mayor’s assistant and he smiles while abruptly raising his eyebrows, as Ethiopians often do to greet people. The man next to me, whom I met at the last meeting, whispers occasional English phrases my way such as, “hot tea!,” eventually exhausting his vocabulary. I whisper Amasegenalahu, “Thank you” in Amharic, as he passes my empty teacup down the aisle to be collected and I hear the ladies behind me all whisper in Amharic, “She said thank you!”
The benches are made of a popular building material in Ethiopia, small trees just over three inches in diameter. I still do not know what trees the wood comes from, but the logs are piled high at each of the local lumberyards. The beams have been cut in half and lay in groups of three at seat-level to form semi-flat benches. Another piece of the same material is suspended at back level, which I assume was meant to be comfortable, but somehow failed to meet its purpose. The benches, which are permanent fixtures in this auditorium, allow just enough legroom for a child it seems, and so adults are awkwardly angled to fit in each row and are constantly shuffling around for a bearable position. The same trees also line the ceiling; the rafters are exposed to the room, as is the ribbed tin roof above them. Raindrops begin to ping on the roof, amplifying the simple sound of small drops of rain. Dark clouds that are visible through the windows pass overhead, a sight that seems to come every afternoon lately- a sign that rainy season is coming early this year. Panic is not a factor, as right behind the dark clouds shines bright sunlight, proving that the rain will not last long.
I was told beforehand that today’s meeting would include topics about condom usage in Dangila. My supervisor told me that these community members would be debating whether condoms interfere with sexual pleasure, and dispelling the myth that condoms carry HIV. I can tell by the hushed giggles and intermittent laughs that it must be a good conversation. I asked my supervisor to take good notes in order for me to get all the details tomorrow. An older woman dominates the conversation after a long pause; a pause, which may have been awkward if I had any idea of the latest question asked. Her animated speech causes several episodes of laughter to break out. The woman I am sure is secure in her role as a woman and comfortable talking about sex; I previously met her as I joined a team of three Ethiopian health workers on a hike into the nearby rural area where they conducted a mobile voluntary counseling and testing of HIV one Sunday. The woman was the counselor, delivering over 75 HIV results that day.
It seems that before I was even aware of the moderator speaking again the meeting is adjourned and guests quickly hustle out of the building. I must now go and wait by the door, as all the lingering guests are surely waiting to shake my hand and hear me speak a few Amharic words.
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