I have been working on a big project for work recently that I will talk about soon, but for now I have two funny stories from Dangila that I just felt like I had to share. I completely understand the concept of “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” but I’m not sure I’m comfortable with it when it is referring to my actual trash. In my compound we have a trash pit where all garbage is thrown. When it was first dug, it was over the head of the man that was digging it, but over the past few months the trash has piled up to a level that is reachable from ground level, if you really wanted to reach it. And apparently my neighbors really wanted to reach it.
I empty my bucket of trash every couple weeks, not really thinking about what I’m throwing away. That is, until all the trash items I threw away one morning where displayed nicely in the back yard that afternoon. My landlord’s eight-year-old daughter, and her friend, somehow dug out all my items that intrigued them from the trash pit. Wrappers from cookies and pasta meals, and old cans of chicken even were set up in a shine-like fashion for all to see. I’m sure they didn’t even consider it embarrassing to me, as a shine to my consumerism. This happened right before I left for my trip to Tigray, three weeks ago, and still the items are displayed in the yard.
Just yesterday, I was walking down the street near my house, where most of the children know my name. I was surprised to hear, “Ferengi! Ferengi!” yelled at me as these three little children eagerly ran up to me. I looked at them shamefully and put my hands on my hips as I said in Amharic, “What is my name?”
They all looked at each other and almost simultaneously answered with three different responses:
“Ferengi?” one answered.
“Arbay?” another guessed (that is my dog’s name, haha).
“Jennifer!” the third exclaimed.
I empty my bucket of trash every couple weeks, not really thinking about what I’m throwing away. That is, until all the trash items I threw away one morning where displayed nicely in the back yard that afternoon. My landlord’s eight-year-old daughter, and her friend, somehow dug out all my items that intrigued them from the trash pit. Wrappers from cookies and pasta meals, and old cans of chicken even were set up in a shine-like fashion for all to see. I’m sure they didn’t even consider it embarrassing to me, as a shine to my consumerism. This happened right before I left for my trip to Tigray, three weeks ago, and still the items are displayed in the yard.
Just yesterday, I was walking down the street near my house, where most of the children know my name. I was surprised to hear, “Ferengi! Ferengi!” yelled at me as these three little children eagerly ran up to me. I looked at them shamefully and put my hands on my hips as I said in Amharic, “What is my name?”
They all looked at each other and almost simultaneously answered with three different responses:
“Ferengi?” one answered.
“Arbay?” another guessed (that is my dog’s name, haha).
“Jennifer!” the third exclaimed.
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