My Disappearing Act

Arriving back from site after over 3 weeks away I wasn’t really sure what to expect.  I know I was ready to come back home to Dangila, and it was way before the 3-week mark that I felt that urge to return.  But just because I wanted to go back didn’t mean that nothing would have changed while I was away, and as I rode the 10-hour bus back to Dangila from Addis I contemplated all the possible scenarios.  I recently discovered another transport option to get back to site: The Postal Bus.  I have known there is a postal bus that makes a trip from Addis to Bahir Dar every morning that also carries passengers, not just mail, so I decided to check it out.  With the help of an Ethiopian friend I secured a ticket and began a new journey back to Dangila!  While the trip wasn’t as exciting as alone in the truck full of mail covered to my shoulders with letters to sort through (ok, maybe that’s just a fantasy only Peace Corps volunteers have) it was still a new experience, and one I will definitely repeat for future Addis trips.  

Crossing the gorge on the way back to Dangila.

One of my favorite parts of taking the postal bus was when we stopped in Dangila my good friend, and postal worker Fanta was there awaiting me! Ok, she was awaiting the mail, but I still had someone to walk back towards my house with as I nervously entered town for the first time in such a long time.  I was nervous-- guilty I suppose for being gone so long, like a child creeping back into her house after running away.  One of the most commonly said phrase here is “Tafash,” literally meaning, “You disappeared!” as a way of telling you they haven’t seen you in a while.  Sometimes the phrase is alluding to the fact that they haven’t seen you since breakfast that same day, but others it is justified, and this time I knew it would be the latter case.

To my surprise I didn’t get bombarded with “Tafash” as much as I suspected, but rather a big warm greeting by the society as a whole.  Normally the neighborhood kids near where I live greet me as I walk by, but this time even the mothers stepped out of the house to smile and give me a cheerful greeting.  And I must say, after a few days in site, it seems as if the community had an intervention—as if someone went around with a loud speaker yelling, “The foreigner, her name is not ferengi nor you, you, you.  She is Jennifer!”  Everyone knows my name.  I was on a street I’ve never been on before just yesterday and they knew my name! I suppose the effects of living here for a year are finally starting to kick in, and I love it.