Bonfires & Rockets

Rockets were ignited; the sound deafening and chaos erupted in the streets of Dangila. There was a sigh of relief when I finally made it safely inside the gates of my compound as darkness fell around me.  I stared for a moment at my red-stained hands and reflected on the pandemonium the day held.

I went to bed last night after double-locking my door and comforting my dog who was scared as small explosions popped loudly near my front door.  Around 3am I awoke to silence and was thankful for the peace it brought me, but at 5am the noise was once again inescapable.  I peered out my window and saw that fires were raging in the street and smoke filled the air. Time to join the celebration, I finally conceded!

Today was my first Meskel holiday spent in Dangila and it quickly had turned into my favorite.  Ethiopia has a lot of obscure holidays, but most are celebrated in the same fashion: coffee ceremony, killing a sheep, eating injera.  But Meskel proved to be a unique and wonderful reprieve from the monotony of holidays here.

Although the holiday is officially today, Monday, September 27, 2010 (Gregorian calendar, because let’s not forget we just rang in the year 2003 in Ethiopia), Meskel celebrations began yesterday.  All over town cone-shaped bonfires were built and children anxiously ran amuck in the streets wanting to set fire to them.  But their parents' warnings halted their pyro-instincts.

I visited neighbors’ houses all day yesterday, which officially started the holiday and the process of being over-fed.  At one house, “the house of 5 girls” as I’ve labeled them, I came in just as the henna mixture was ready for application.  I accepted the fact that my hand was going to get the same treatment as theirs without a word and enjoyed my girl-time with this wonderful family.  As I sat there letting the henna dye my skin I thought about how majestic the henna dye looks on habesha hands, blending the natural golden brown skin on the back of the hand into a deep red palm.  Then I looked at my pale hand and realized I’d inevitably look like a kid who stuck their hand in Georgia clay or Kool-Aid, but what could I do about it now?

Hands stuffed in my jacket pockets, I continued to visit neighbors and enjoy the atmosphere.  I stopped to hangout with some children on my street for a while and they showed me their clever invention made from an old metal pipe and a nail all strung together with wire.  If you scrape off the head of a match and put it in the pocket formed by pipe and nail, and slam it against a rock, it creates a loud POP sound.  Some kids buy fifty sentim “rockets” which create a much louder effect, but using matches proved cheaper, so most kids opted for this method of being annoying.

The kids and I watched as parents built the bonfire tower out of wood and wrapped it in fresh evergreen branches which by the end resembled a Christmas tree by both sight and smell.  They told me the bonfire would be lit at nine o’clock, which would normally translate immediately in my head (there is a six-hour difference), except for some reason 3am seemed an unfathomable meeting time and instead 9pm stuck.  It wasn’t until 8pm, after I returned home from watching the Addis Ababa bonfire igniting on ETV and reminisced in my head about my Meskel spend there last year, that it clicked with me that the kids meant 3am!  I immediately wanted to double-check because I wasn’t going to be the fool who wakes up in the middle of the night for nothing, but at this point I was home, in my pajamas, and safe from the raucous in the street.  My final walk home just 30 minutes before was filled with dodging little boys running up with their fire-cracker invention and popping it at my feet; no way I was going back out.

I went to sleep cursing the children who kept throwing the rockets over my compound fence which would then explode in noise on my porch.  At 3am I awoke without an alarm from a loud but comforting noise, rain pounding on my roof.  The street itself was quiet though and I easily put my head back down to keep sleeping.

Around 5am was the next time I woke as children screamed with joy and rockets once again began their popping.  I threw on a jacket and hurried outside, unsure what to expect.  My neighbors happily greeted me and handed me a small bundle of sticks.  The streets where pitch black except for bonfires ablaze on each block.  My neighborhood’s bonfire was just about to be ignited and I joined in carrying the flame from an already burning fire to ours.  We chanted yohey, yohey, yoho, yoho lead by an elder and danced in a circle around the Christmas tree-like structure, then we lit it with our bundles of sticks.  The bonfire went up in a blaze and smoke from the green branches filled the air.

Bonfires eventually turned into ashes and darkness turned into a beautiful sunrise.  Corn was roasted on the remains of the fire and neighbors began their holiday celebration together in the street.  The rest of today has been spent bouncing back and forth between neighbors to accommodate all the bunna invitations; there have been quite a few coffee ceremonies.  Despite the number of cups of coffee I’ve had to drink today, the caffeine couldn’t overpower my four hours of sleep last night.  What a wonderful holiday; it will end the only way a good Ethiopian celebration can end: with a deep sleep!

St. Mary’s: The Ethiopian Block Party

Time is flying by and already I find myself celebrating St. Mary’s holiday without knowing it, again.  Last year you’ll recall I drank coffee with my landlord’s family and neighbors on their front porch, only later to find out this is how they celebrate St. Mary’s holiday.  This year I knew it as soon as I saw it, but still didn’t realize the holiday was approaching until the rest of town was well into their celebration.

Unfortunate scheduling had me rushing to an appointment across town yesterday afternoon to tutor a couple of the orphan boys I met last fall.  I hadn’t done much in the physical movement department on my lazy Sunday so I decided to walk, taking the shortcut through back streets instead of the paved main road.  What I didn’t know from my celebration of the holiday last year was that those without front porches instead celebrate with neighbors out in front of their houses or in the yard within their compounds.

It didn’t take me long to realize the holiday was being celebrated, neighbors from every single celebration calling me to join their party.  I kept repeating my excuse, “I have an appointment, but thank you for inviting me! Happy holiday!” while taking a obligatory scoop of nefro in my hand as I walked away.  Nefro is the holiday specialty treat, a mixture of boiled beans, corn, chick peas and barley eaten by the handful.  A few more persistent neighbors wouldn’t accept my excuse and insisted that I at least sit down for a minute to celebrate with them.

After a few blocks of walking it was comical, literally every celebration bringing me a plate of nefro for me to take a handful from.  At any single point of my journey I had nefro in hand, barely finishing one household’s snack before politely taking some from the next.  It figures that about half way to my appointment my landlord’s family calls me, beckoning me to come drink coffee, and, of course, eat nefro.  I knew I had to go; I already missed their big Easter celebration with neighbors and felt horrible.  I debated turning around, retracing my steps back to my house right then, but thought the path of least resistance (without having to explain my sudden return to every celebration along the way) was to continue to where I was going, which was on the main road, and from there I could get a bajaj taxi back to my house.

The second half of my walk turned out to be the same pace as the first half.  Five steps forward, two steps back, one scoop of nefro, repeat.  I was impressed by how many of the celebrations had at least one person who knew my name, meaning there were hardly any “ferengi” calls.  I finally made it to the main road and waved down a bajaj, never making it to my appointment.  Luckily appointments here are easily rescheduled, and hardly ever obligatory.  And I didn’t disappoint my landlord’s family, whom I’ve come to think of as my own family.  I managed to turn a simple walk across town into a joint-celebration with more families than I can count, on a holiday I didn’t know was going on!

The Fourth Invitation

To continue my story of Fasika, Easter in Dangila, at 4pm I returned to the house of my fourth invitation of the day.  Earlier in the day I was only able to drop in for a brief serving of duro wat, so of course I was expected to come back later to machewat, play.  More than that, I wanted to go back; I find myself visiting their house just about every day now to hangout with this wonderful family.

Invitation 4: my “house of 5 girls” I call them.  I may have mentioned them before, but I adore this family.  The littlest girl from the family is in my little “street gang” of children that chants my name as I walk to the post office.  I should mention that by “gang” I mean group of toddlers, most of whom don’t wear pants or shoes, but play in the street around my house, and with whom I have a mutual adoration.  One day a while back, I accepted a coffee invitation from this family (meaning they yelled from their house “drink coffee!” as I walked past) and have been an honorary family member ever since.  The mother is very traditional and comes from the rural area while her four daughters are rather modern in comparison.  The eldest of the four moved to Addis a few months back, but left her daughter to be cared for by the family, who is Meskerem, the little girl in my “gang.”  The youngest of the four daughters is mentally handicapped and blind.  The two middle daughters are around my age and know a decent vocabulary of English, so often, when composing sentences will throw in an English noun of two for me.  The second oldest is exactly my age actually, and she will often offer to paint my nails while I’m sitting in their house, which I always kindly accept.  The roughly painted coat of polish typically lasts 3 days and serves as a wonderful reminder of how much I am loved in Dangila for those few days.  I doubt any manicurist in America will ever quite suffice.

Most of all, I love and admire the mother of this family.  How strong would you have to be to not only support four daughters by yourself (ok, husband is around, but let’s just say he doesn’t really do much for the family) but also take in your granddaughter, not to mention the fact that one daughter is handicapped.  This whole family lives in a house the size of my house: a mere 20-square meters.  Ethiopian mothers do everything, especially those not fortunate enough to have a helper like my landlord’s family has.  You prepare injera and wat from scratch, clean the clothes by hand, and sweep the dirt floors until they are spotless.  The work is never ending.  Every time I come by, they insist on feeding me, finding it insulting when I refuse.  On Easter, as a treat, I brought them a half-kilo of coffee beans (worth 30 Birr = $2.50) and the mother, Fantanesh, was beside herself, almost refusing to take it.  I justified the gift by saying that I cannot perform coffee ceremonies, so this is simply all the coffee I drink at their house.  She then wouldn’t let me leave until she prepared a special ceremony just for me.

I always want to give them something; I want to give them everything.  Yet they are so humble, not wanting anything.  Some people don’t know anything about me other than the color of my skin yet boldly ask for money while the people who I know and love won’t even accept the smallest gifts.  It’s hard.

More stories from the “house of 5 girls” to come.  For now, I should end my Easter stories so I can finally digest all the food I ate.

Final Count:
Plates of duro wat eaten: 3
Plates of tebs eaten: 2
Cups of coffee drunken: 9
Number of times I had to remove a sheep’s head from Arbay’s mouth: 3
Piece of raw meat Arbay hid in the sofa cushions: 2

Fasika, Take Two

‘This is wonderful duro wat!’ I complimented my landlord’s wife, as is cultural here in Ethiopia.

‘If it is wonderful duro wat that means it will be a wonderful Easter!’ she replied.

A great omen I thought for the day ahead.  Good thing too, since it was bound to be a long one—that first helping of duro wat was served to me at 6am this morning.

As I prepared my new group 3 neighbors for the biggest Ethiopian holiday celebration, I had one piece of advice for them: don’t over-commit yourself!  I have been anticipating Easter for a month now, and knew that while I was going to thoroughly enjoy the holiday here in Dangila, this year would be different; I wasn’t going to tell more than two families I would come to their houses on Easter.  Somehow, that plan went awry.

Last year I think I accepted any invitation that came my way, an "I’ll-take-what-I-can-get" kind of attitude.  As you can read from my blog last April, I had far too many commitments for one day, and had no idea what I’d gotten myself into.  This year it was a completely different situation; I have so many wonderful and close friends that I simply couldn’t refuse people’s offer for me to spend the holiday with them and their families.  And I knew exactly what I was getting myself into, but I just couldn’t say ‘no.’  Moreover, because I have such close friends it was less an invitation and more a statement of what time I was going to be at their houses on Easter Sunday.  Three such invitations presented themselves throughout the past week and I obliged them all with a grateful acceptance, but I will admit the fourth invitation was not exactly unsolicited.

Knowing Easter was approaching, I couldn’t have imaged not spending part of my day with Tizita’s family, who I spent Easter morning with last year.  Something about having a constant between the two celebrations was appealing, so I planned on having lunch at Tizita’s family’s café on Thursday before Easter, hoping to secure an invitation.  Worked like a charm; I hadn’t even placed my order for lunch before Tizita’s mom asked if I was going to be in Dangila for Easter.

So with all the invitations in place I anticipated a long day with way too much food, but I was looking forward to the festivities as if it were Christmas day! Easter is such a huge holiday here that I suppose I really did get wrapped up in all the preparations and I was also looking forward to finally breaking the fast!  I woke up at 6am and hopped right out of bed, knowing my compound family would already be awake and enjoying the first course of meat for the day.  As soon as they realized I was awake they summoned me inside for a tasty platter of duro wat (chicken stew—the holiday specialty).  For all you injera-lovers out there, well, anyone who actually knows good Ethiopian food, it was more than just good wat, but tequs injera, freshly made within the hour—yum! 

And so the day had begun, the fast had been broken, and my only obligation for the day was to eat! I brought the children some Easter candy and unwrapped a few myself before I witnessed the first sheep slaughtering of the day by my landlord.  Then I was off to Tizita’s family around 9am (I received 3 different times from 3 different family members about what time I should arrive, so I decided on a 9am average).  I was promptly served another platter of duro wat—a whole tequs injera all to myself. As the day began I savored every bit, eating to fill my stomach with the delicious food.  Next came a coffee ceremony with a snack (as is required for the ceremony) followed with a platter of homemade “cheese” (old milk), and I began to realize that fasting has its perks in Ethiopia.  In fact, I realized all of my favorite Ethiopian foods are fasting foods, but I politely ate my fair share of all the holiday goodies.  I knew Tizita and her family would never let me leave before having some of the first platter of tebs from the second sheep of the day I just witnessed slaughtered.  So I waited for the food and finally left after tebs right around noon. 

I loved being invited back to Tizita’s family’s celebration.  It was such a treat for me to be in a familiar place with familiar people and to have an idea of what to expect.  Year 1 here I may have been comfortable with the people, but the traditions surrounding each holiday were still a mystery—moreover, it is like Christmas in America, where every family celebrates in a different way, so it isn’t something you can simply be taught.  Those three hours spent at my favorite little café, with a family who loves me and knows me was relaxed and easy.  And although it had differences from the year before, the major constant, which I expected, was that for those three hours I continually had a plate of food in front of me, and was continually told, “Be!” eat!

I should have known that appointment would have lasted until noon, but I guess I was optimistic about the amount of time it takes to slaughter a sheep, so now I found myself with my third invitation starting at noon and had just received a phone call from the fourth telling me to come now!  I swung by number four, ate a quick plate of duro wat, ran home to grab some candy for the kids at the next house, and luckily caught a bajaj to the other side of town for invitation number three: Yebeletal and his family.  He is my co-teacher for the English Club and a wonderful friend; his house had recently become a place I have frequented, especially since his wife just had a baby girl whom I adore!

Arriving 30 minutes late for the appointment, I was surprised to see that I was the last to arrive—surprised because Ethiopians are never on time.  However, I was greeted with warm smiles, holiday wishes, and not a mention of my lack of punctuality.  I was served several cups of coffee right away, we had a blessing from the elder in the house (Yebeletal’s father-in-law), and my third sheep slaughtering of the day commenced.  There came a point in the day where the meals became less of a treat and more of an obligation, and the instruction, “Be!” was less a friendly reminder and more a dreaded command.  I really enjoyed socializing with Yebeletal and his family for the two hours I was at his house, and one of my favorite things about him is his great English.  And we often chat about cultural differences, so he knows that I don’t like certain Ethiopian foods, namely, qeybay, butter with spices.  So while I was absolutely full, I really did look forward to the tebs made exactly the way I like them.  And you really can’t complain about meat that fresh, so I slowly but surely ate the food placed in front of me.

At 2:30pm I bid farewell to Yebeletal and family, waddled out to catch a bajaj wishing my skirt had a button to unfasten, and made my way home thinking I had until 4pm to rest up.  I let the kids come inside and watch a DVD on my laptop (Enchanted was the pick of the day) and I happily lounged on the sofa for about 30 minutes until my landlord’s wife called me in for “coffee”… but it’s never just coffee.  I sat around with my landlord, his wife, and one remaining guest while they fed me dulet and a beer and told me how I’d disappeared for their coffee ceremony—oops!  I actually preferred the calmness of just being with them though instead of the chaos of the ceremony where all the neighbors cycle in and out, despite their disappointment (in my defense they never told me what time their coffee ceremony would be).  I then watched a bit more of the movie with the kids and at 4pm went back to the house of invitation four, with whom I’d only briefly eaten duro wat before.

For now, I’m going to leave you waiting—I’ve decided to write about the rest of the day tomorrow.  The story about my “fourth invitation” family is extended, so I’ll make this a two-part entry.

to-be-continued…

Easter Eggs

There is one telltale sign of an approaching Ethiopian holiday: the loud cry of sheep being led down the road by their new owner. This week the sheep are in full force.  You cannot walk down a single street these days without seeing at least two.  My landlord has already purchased two and is keeping them in a small room in the back of the compound, which has been piquing my dog’s interest for the past week as she smells their scent from under the door and cries like a child being kept from her best friend.  Well, Arbay just likes to make things run, doubtful that the sheep would consider that a friendship, but either way it is better she doesn’t get too attached (if you know what I mean).  

Another sign of the beginning of a holiday here is a clothesline filled with neon-colored crocheted doilies.  “What?” you ask. Well, amongst other house-cleaning routines Ethiopians wash these brightly colored doilies used to decorate the backs of the sofas.  I doubt we’ll ever get to the bottom of how they became popular in Ethiopia! Note the decorations in this photo of Yenebeb taken by his sister in their house.

In my own preparation for Easter I have preemptively purchased half a dozen eggs and decided to store them in my landlord’s refrigerator for freshness.  Knowing that eggs sell out around holidays (they are used in the fabulous holiday dish duro wat), and knowing that Easter is the end the fast, I wanted to make sure I could make myself a fabulous Easter breakfast.  A whole new meaning of Easter eggs!

Easter here is the biggest holiday of the year, and I briefly forgot just how big it is until I was asked by several people in one day, “Are you going to your home for the holiday?” At first I thought it was a funny question—traveling halfway around the world for what I think of as a one-day celebration.  But then I equated it to asking someone in America if they were going home for Christmas, and well, I would travel the globe to be home for that holiday season.  And that is exactly what Easter becomes here, a season which lasts a lot longer than one Sunday.  I would say the season begins with the purchasing of livestock for the Easter meal (and don’t forget washing those doilies!), and lasts for some time after Sunday also.  I asked if Monday was a national holiday, like Good Friday is, and my co-workers shake their heads, “No, Jennifer, Monday is a work day, but we will not be here,” they replied.  School technically is in session, and offices are supposed to be open, but everyone knows that work won’t get done.  Most people travel to be with their family (sometimes hours off the beaten path into the rural areas) and they like to make a week out of being home.

I was told by a friend that the Easter holiday lasts until the meat is gone.  So depending on how many sheep you buy, or how fast you eat the supply of meat your family has, the holiday just keeps going and going! 

I also must add that the day after I wrote my last blog about “dirty season,” as if only to make me grateful for what I have, it started raining.  Just a couple-day reminder of what summer season brings, namely, mud. Let’s just say I’ll be careful about cursing the dirt and dust again.  Below you’ll find a picture of my neighbor preparing the Good Friday bread in the rain!

Ter Marium

The bus rumbled down a dirt road and Ethiopian music blared over the loud rumble.  The scene was anything but calm, nevertheless I was able to find a piece of serenity as I put in my headphones and watched the countryside pass by my window.  I was on my way to Mertolemarium to celebrate the biggest St. Mary’s Day of the year with fellow volunteers.

After a longer bus ride than I anticipated I was finally in Mertolemarium, where Group 3er Sher lives.  She was kind enough to host the volunteers in the area in her spacious house for the weekend.  There was going to be a parade through town, ending at the hilltop Monastery and the town’s namesake.  Not entirely sure what to expect from a holiday we’d never celebrated before (somehow last January in Ambo we didn’t see a celebration); we set out in the afternoon to join up with the procession.  Most Ethiopians were dressed in the traditional white clothing, and seeing everyone crowded in the streets carrying ornate parasols never fails to take my breath away.

Groups of men would chant to the beat of a drum and everyone would dance as they walked slowly through the hills of the town.  We, the white people, were of course, just as entertaining to the Ethiopians as they were to us.  One man in particular stood out as unique, as he was jogging down the middle of the crowded street chasing children with a whip! Behind him, were children clapping and dancing.  Our Ethiopian friends kindly explained that this is a tradition mostly in the Omo region of Ethiopia, but this man lives in Mertolemarium and carries on the tradition here, to make the kids dance!

It seemed like as far in front of me and as far in back as I could see the street was filled with mobs of people.  Part of the way through the parade we took a break to get a cold soda, get out of the sun, and lose the crowd of children we’d collected.  When we joined back with the parade after our refreshments though, the street was just as crowded! Earlier in the day we had visited the Monastery, which was built in the 16th century, so once the parade packed into the Monastery compound, we decided to head home and not endure the crowd anymore. 

That afternoon was of course filled with plenty of injera and wat, as all of Sher’s neighbors invited us to eat! She politely asked if it was really ok if all 8 of us come over for a meal, as that seems like a lot of people to feed, but as I’ve learned, entertaining is something Ethiopians do best.  In fact, as we sat in her neighbor’s house eating, the son of the woman feeding us, one of Sher’s good friends, watched two local guys come in to eat and he said, “See, I don’t even know who they are! But my mom will feed them!”  It is basically an open-door policy.  Anyone who comes in is fed.  After we were stuffed with many delicious stews, we went back to Sher’s house to rest, and other neighbors were upset we didn’t come to their houses too.  The fact that we’d just eaten more than enough didn’t seem like a good enough excuse.

While at Sher’s house two men came and dropped off a note for her, which invited her to a dinner the next night at the local Chinese camp, with road construction workers.  Most of the road work here is done by a team of Chinese guys, and right outside Mertolemarium is a big construction project.  Sher called one of her friends there and again said how many guests she had, and they still welcomed us with open arms! So the next night we took a car out to this Chinese camp, complete with hot water, air conditioning, and electricity by generator.  We sat outside in the cool evening air and shared in the most bizarre cross-cultural exchange of my life.  Half of the team was Ethiopian (mostly from Addis), our group of Americans, the team of Chinese men, along with an engineer from England, and one from Nepal!  Although egg rolls weren’t on the menu, we happily ate the injera, enjoyed the bonfire, and danced around to Ethiopian music.

The next day included a 5:30am trip to the bus station as we all departed in our respective directions.  Even though buses can’t leave until 6am, apparently they fill up fast, because they escorted our group to this bus in the back, as the rest were already full.  After a while of waiting and watching the other buses leave, the girl I was sitting with tells me that there is a ranking of buses, and this one, since it is the oldest, has to leave last! That pretty much set the pace for the day.  A painfully slow bus ride later I was finally back home in Dangila able to rest up after a wonderful weekend.

Twice the Thankfulness

I recently celebrated my first Thanksgiving in Ethiopia, quite an experience. Those of us around Bahir Dar decided to celebrate the holiday with as much replicated food as possible. We split up the list of non-perishable food items to have sent from home, and agreed to try to substitute Ethiopian equivalents for the rest. I was also fortunate enough to have a “Thanksgiving box” arrive the week before, and decided to make a feast in my town for my Ethiopian friends (Thanks Mrs. W).

My celebration began the Sunday before Thanksgiving. I woke up early and began heating my dutch oven. My only method of baking here, you place a big pot on your stovetop with several empty tuna cans inside where you then place the item you are baking on top of the cans and close the pot with a lid. Sweet potato casserole, green bean casserole, stuffing, gravy, and even cans of turkey were each prepared one-at-a-time in my slow little MacGyver-ed oven.

I invited five friends to come over at 2pm, and by 1:30pm found my house as clean as it has ever been. My curtain was taken down to serve as a table cloth and candles were placed on the table set for six. I never knew my house could feel so homey. Coupled with the smell of my favorite foods and I was in heaven. Guests arrived somewhat on-time and I introduced each new dish to them and made them serve themselves (something that they are not used to). In Ethiopia you are typically served by the host, who scoops the food onto your plate, so serving your own food, and particularly going back for seconds and helping yourself, was something I had to force them to do. We each said what we were thankful for, and had a wonderful American meal together.
My favorite discussion was having them comment on the similarities and differences of the holiday to Ethiopian holidays. The sweet potato to them looked with a thick local wat, shiro tegabeno. The gravy looked like its thinner version, shiro fesis. And the stuffing I realized, as I told them about how it was made, is like a local wat, dabbo ferfer, which consists of torn up bread and spices. It was very entertaining to hear them compare the foods and cultures. They also added that the only two things this holiday needed to become Ethiopian are coffee and injera!
My real holiday was celebrated in Bahir Dar surrounded by Americans, some Europeans, and a few Ethiopian friends. Chickens were cooked (bought live at the market the day before), pies were baked, and all the fixins’ were in attendance. It was definitely a celebration to be thankful for. Both communities, Ethiopians in Dangila, and foreigners in surrounding towns are wonderful support groups. While making the feast wasn’t quite as easy as going to the local supermarket and buying everything for the occasion, the additional work added to the enjoyment. I am so grateful for this support system in country and my support system holding me together from across the globe. Thank you.

 

Meskel Square

Last weekend I was all packed up and ready to leave for about a week to visit the northern part of Ethiopia, Tigray Region.  We left on an 11-hour bus trip to the capital city, Addis Ababa, to begin our journey and we were planning on flying out Sunday morning to Mekele, the capital of the Tigray Region.  I knew Sunday was the Meskel holiday, but I didn’t know that it was celebrated in Addis with a mass gathering in Meskel Square!  Since we were coincidentally there on Saturday afternoon, we decided to brave the crowd and experience Meskel the right way.

Three of us met up with our Ethiopian friend and started walking towards Meskel Square.  The main streets were blocked off and masses of Ethiopians were starting to gather.  It looked like downtown right before a baseball game.  We joined the flow of people and along the walk there was a glimpse of the normally bare Meskel Square that was now overflowing with people.  The Square is about the length of a football field; enclosed on one side by a half-oval of steps where people were crammed into, and open on the other side to the main road which was closed to traffic.  The square (which is actually not square, but a half-oval) and out into the street formed a stage filled with hundreds of performers and priest all dressed in white traditional clothes.

As with most mass-gatherings, it was a bit chaotic, and the only way in was now packed with people.  The crowd around us became more dense as we were being pushed towards the small opening in front of us.  Once through a security check and around a corner we realized that the only way to get into the raised section above us was to scale a 6-foot wall.  It seemed like this was the only option, so while clutching our bags and forming a chain we made our way to the wall and followed the Ethiopians in helping each other over.  At last there was no pushing.

We then followed a natural aisle through the masses of people and found a spot where we could peak over people to see the festivities down below.  Luckily in a crowd of Ethiopians I can actually see over most people!  There was a presentation from the Orthodox Pope, and performers dressed in red, yellow and green formed the shape of the Ethiopian flag.  After about an hour, around dusk, waxed rope used as candles was passed out among the crowd of people and the highlight of the Meskel holiday was about to take place: the bonfire!  In the middle of the square a huge pile of wood was being prepared for burning as the people started to pass their flame from candle-to-candle throughout the mass crowd.  The sky turned dark blue just as the candle light filled the square while groups of Ethiopians continued chanting and dancing.  Just as the whole crowd had received the passing flame, the bonfire was lit and fireworks were shot into the air.  The sky filled with smoke and the thousands of twinkling candles formed a sea of lights.  It was a truly majestic scene.  Not long after the fireworks stopped the crowd disseminated in what seemed like a much easier fashion than the initial wall-climbing fiasco.  It was such a great evening; one of my favorite days in Ethiopia.  I retract my former comment about all Ethiopian holidays seeming the same, because Meskel was different in many ways.  I loved celebrating in Addis, feeling like I was a part of something big and truly experiencing the Ethiopian culture in a new way.

It’s 2002!

Happy New Year 2002!!  That’s right, Ethiopian calendar just saw the end of 2001, and I had the pleasure of helping ring in 2002... for the second time!  I spent part of the last week in Bahir Dar working on some PC projects with friends, but arrived back in Dangila on Saturday for the remainder of the festivities.  Friday was New Year’s Day, but since Orthodox Christians don’t eat meat on Wednesday or Fridays, much of the celebration was pushed to Saturday.  The odd thing about Ethiopian holidays is that most of them look the exact same.  I once again found myself sitting in the living room of various Ethiopians being fed qay wat (meat stew) with injera, refusing tela, the homemade alcohol, and downing far too many cups of coffee.  If I couldn’t read the computer-printed Amharic signs on the walls declaring what holiday it was, I probably wouldn’t be able to differentiate between them.  As opposed to in America where the Christmas tree, jack-o-lantern, or plastic eggs filled with candy indicate what holiday is being celebrated, in Ethiopia there is just a lot of eating meat and drinking coffee.  Apparently Hallmark hasn’t found this country yet.

The kids all make signs for the New Year though, which I helped out with in preparation for the holiday.  The signs read, “Enkutatash” which is a cultural way of saying, “Happy New Year” but it literally is welcoming in the flowers of the green season, as this is the time of year where everything is in blossom and rains are finally clearing.  I think the best part of the New Year is the fact that schools will be starting back next week! Not only do I enjoy working with some of the clubs in the schools, but that means the kids on the streets will have something to do besides knock on my door asking for candy.  I’m half joking-- I love walking with the kids in my neighborhood, even if their little hands are snot-covered, but I won’t mind them being in school for half the day either!

Happy Easter and Melkom Fasika!

I don’t normally eat meat at 7am.  I’m not normally even awake at 7am.  However, this is just one difference between American Easter and Ethiopian Easter, which they call Fasika.  To start with, you should clear your mind of pastel colors, sugary candy, and bunnies carrying baskets of colorful eggs (by the way, thank you America for having the weirdest traditions ever, it makes explaining American Easter so simple).  As I have mentioned previously, Ethiopians have a completely different calendar system, so they celebrated Easter a week after the rest of the world.  Fasika is probably the biggest holiday celebrated here, comparable to the American Christmas celebration and hype (well, who am I kidding, nothing even compares to the Christmas hype in America).  Good Friday was a national holiday and even before Friday, people started traveling to their hometowns to be with their families.  In the Orthodox religion, they fast from all animal products for 55 days before Easter, so building up to the big celebration, the animal section of the market began to grow massively.  Walking down the streets on any Monday, Thursday or Saturday you were bound to see proud new owners of sheep and goats leading their purchase home on a rope leash.

Starting with that 7am knock on my door, I will walk you through my very fascinating Fasika experience.  It took a few minutes I am sure for me to realize the knock, knock, knock was on my door.  I rolled over, noticed the time, knew it was Sunday, and almost went back to sleep.  Then I remembered that it was Fasika, and knew it was time to start my culture-filled day.  I opened the door to find Eyerus, the 7-year-old daughter of my landlord, telling me in Amharic that is was time to come eat.  The night before I had seen my landlord kill a chicken, which his wife along with the two worker-girls began cooking.   Around midnight many Orthodox go to church service that lasts until 4am.  After the Easter service, the fast is over and it is time to eat meat!  I found out that I was lucky they waited until 7am to wake me, as they started eating at 5am!  I sat with my landlord and his family and ate a healthy serving of duro wat, chicken stew, with injera of course.  After I finished eating I had some time to rest, I thought, before I had to make my first appointment for the day.  Leading up to Easter most of the people I have befriended in Dangila insisted that I come to celebrate Easter with their family.  Everyone was so welcoming and I felt so blessed for the invitations.  I decided to celebrate with four different families, and everyone who asked after that, since they wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, made an appointment with me to join them for a meal later in the week.

Well, after I ate duro wat I headed back into my house to rest when I heard the sharpening of knives coming from the back yard.  It didn’t even faze me for a couple minutes, and then I realized that they must be preparing to slaughter the sheep! I’m not one for guts and gore, but I am one for new experiences, and seeing a sheep slaughtered on Fasika is like decorating a tree for Christmas, necessary.  Little did I know that this wouldn’t be the only sheep slaughtering I would witness for Fasika.  It was around 7:30am when the episode began, and I watched my landlord and his 12-year-old son as they dissected the animal that my dog had been chasing for a week before.  It was more of an anatomy lesson than I ever received in high school.  While I decided that pictures of such an event were not necessary, Eyerus begged me to use my camera until I gave in.

9:05am I began walking to my favorite restaurant across from my office where the owner, Tizda, invited me to celebrate with her family.  I arrived a little late, but punctuality is often overlooked in this country, so it was not a problem.  In fact, it was 9:45am before the first cup of bunna, coffee, from the ceremony was poured.  Bunna qurs, a snack food that goes along with the bunna ceremony, today was injera spread with a mixture of butter and berbery (spicy crushed peppers).  I learned that this was a traditional bunna qurs for Easter because butter is an animal product, which could not be eaten during fasting.  Sometime after arriving, they served me a plate full of duro wat and I happily ate as I observed the festivities of the family surrounding me.  It was 10am when one of the brothers led a sheep by a rope collar into the restaurant area where we were all seated.  I thought maybe they were showing off the sheep to the family before taking it around back to slaughter; I was wrong.  Ten minutes of wondering later, they began slaughtering the sheep in the room where we were all sitting.  Needless to say, I won’t feel awkward ever again about simply bringing my dog inside when I stop by to buy bread! After killing the sheep, they first cut out the tongue.  I realize this is gross, but I witnessed it, so you can read about it.  I watched the elderly mother of the family cut up the tongue meat and hand feed it to everyone in the room as a sign of respect.  When she offered it to me I politely declined, saying that I do not eat raw meat; about ten minutes later she came over to me with a piece cooked especially for me and I couldn’t turn down her thoughtful gesture.  After the final two rounds of the coffee ceremony, they insisted that I stay to eat some of the freshly prepared sheep meat, and it was around 11:45am when I returned to my house.

Just as I sat down to take a deep breath and literally digest my morning, my landlord knocked on my door and invited me inside.  Every household prepares coffee and a meat stew for Easter and then you invite neighbors over to celebrate and eat, so each house I went to there were also many other friends and family cycling in and out of the house.  It was noon when I took a seat in Ato Belacho’s house and was served bunna qurs, and for the next hour, I socialized, drank three cups of coffee, and ate sheep wat.

 I had just one hour to allow myself to rest before walking to my next appointment for the day at 2pm.  The Head of the Bank, whom I have gotten to know over the past two months, invites me over just about every weekend to socialize with his family, so I could not decline the Easter invitation.   I spent an hour there where I ate bunna qurs, duro wat, and drank two cups of coffee before excusing myself to head to their neighbor’s house.

3pm I met my friends Getameh and Manny where they fed me sheep wat and a couple rounds of coffee.  Ethiopians are very forceful when it comes to eating, and “no” is not really listened to when the ladles of food are being scooped onto your plate.  This was a fact I overlooked when booking the four appointments for the day.  It was 5pm when I waddled home, filled to the brim with meat and coffee.

6:30pm my landlord offered me some sheep, and I said that I was way too full.  He then corrected his statement, asking if I wanted some of the sheep meat to cook myself.  In broken Amharic, I still turned down the offer, not even able to imagine a time in the future where hunger would be an option.  A few minutes later, his middle son, 9-year-old Yenebeb, knocked on my door with a container of sheep meat. Like I said, “no” is often ignored.  I thanked him for the gift, re-packaged the meat into a Tupperware and took it to store in Ato Belacho’s fridge I use on occasion.  I am blessed to have such caring neighbors surrounding me!

All in all, I had the experience I wanted.  I have successfully experienced Fasika for all it’s worth!  Many people continue the celebration all week though, not returning to work.  Neighbors I have learned take turns hosting dinners and lunches throughout this week, and I have already set up two lunches and two dinners for various days. Many times in fact, it is not so much of an invitation to eat, as it is a knock on my door and the imperative statement, “eat!”