Ode to Arbay

The gawkers of Ethiopia sure got a treat today. If a ferengi alone attracts a lot of attention, and ferengi with a dog on a leash is laughable, imagine ferengi and dog in a public bus for ten hours!  I have known for some time that I would take my dog to America one day, she’s family and there is no way I could ever leave her behind. But, taking my dog to America means actually taking her there myself, and all the misadventures that come with it, and that ten-hour bus ride to Addis was the one I was dreading the most.

Having my Ethiopian dog, Arbay, for the past year and a half in Ethiopia has been such a blessing.  I got her after just one week in Dangila; picking her up off the street, bringing her to my town and starting to train her.  I didn’t like the idea of living alone, and she was the perfect antidote.  That one decision has shaped my entire Peace Corps experience.  Hearing my landlord’s kids echo my commands throughout the day, even when Arb wasn’t around: “Sit!” “Stay!” “speak!” ; Running at 6am only because she woke up before my alarm and sat next to my bed crying, wanting me to get up and run with her; Pretending she wasn’t mine as she teased someone’s tied-up sheep enough that it broke its’ rope and ran down the street, my dog hot on its tail.

The kids that cheerfully yell “Jennifer! Jennifer!” as I pass each day also yell “Arbay! Arbay!” when I have her with me.  I remember the first day I got her and how she threw up in the bus and wouldn’t walk with a leash; I should have known back then that she’d always have a mind of her own.

My landlord’s children, who watch Arbay when I’m out of town, think of her as more than just a dog.  Everyone I tell that I’m bringing Arb to America simply says, “wushash sechine,… give me your dog.” And that command alone assures me that I could not leave her.  If they understood what a ‘pet’ truly is they would never suggest that I just give her away.  They like her, they feed her, and they think she’s cute, but they don’t think of her as part of the family.  If I left her with any of those people she would never sleep inside, they would never pet her, and she would never get a bath.  They just don’t get it.

Having a dog has also taught me a lot of new Amharic.  Without Arbay my third person female conjugations just wouldn’t be the same.  “She does not bite,” “she will not eat you,” “she loves to run.”  And occasionally, if a group of obnoxious kids asks, “she bites!”  If I go to certain neighbors house without her they ask where she is, as if she is always suppose to be with me.  They ask what she eats, where she sleeps, how she is so clean.  It’s almost as if I were raising an alien, not an animal that is in abundance here.

In the days leading up to Arbay’s permanent departure we went around to visit all the homes that have shown her love and given her meat since she was a puppy.  They patted her head and said “selam” one last time as she raised her paw to shake their hand.  I spent a while at my landlord’s house having a photo shoot of Arbay and the kids.  The day before we left my landlord’s kids, Eyerus and Yenebeb, and I went on a final run, out to Arbay’s favorite rural area where she trots with her crooked gait through the cattle and donkey carts, and gallops through puddles and fields of tef.  That afternoon Eyerus and a friend came over to hangout one last time with Arbay.  She is probably the person who had bonded with Arb the most and really gets it.

 

We sat on my front porch to play with Arb for a while and say goodbye.  I really started to get sad myself about Arbay leaving. I know I’m the one taking her, and it means I’ll get to have her with me for years to come, but I also will have to live in Dangila for two months without her, something I’ve never done before.  I also began to realize how hard my own goodbyes with Dangila are going to be in the very near future.  But this week is about Arbay, and I’m glad she had her proper farewell to the town she loves.

I stood on my front porch at 5am this morning waiting for this arranged minibus to show up to take me, Arbay, and way too much luggage to Addis.  My friend and I had arranged with one of the bus station workers a couple days before for a bus to pick Arbay and me up at my house, and deliver me to where I was going in Addis, all for a reasonable ferengi price. When the driver arrived and doubled the price I didn’t have much room to bargain, so I told them to load the bags.  My very old guard mumbled how it would be a lot easier if I just left the dog with my landlord. He really doesn’t get it. 

We bounced down the road south for a few hours as the sun was rising out our left window.  We arrived in Debre Markos at 8am and the driver who kept calling me “my Jennifer” passed me along to a big bus, driven by, “my brother.”  I was skeptical by the exchange but I heard him tell the new driver to get me to my house, so I didn’t question it.  Arbay was a gem, sitting beside me on the seat the whole time, staring out her window, sticking her nose into the cracked window to feel the breeze, drawing attention every time the doors opened and only throwing up once.

Ten hours later we pulled into the bus station and they announced it was the final stop. “Excuse me,” I said in Amharic to the bus driver, “I paid to go to my house.”

“No you didn’t,” he replied.

I tried my best in broken Amharic to be pissed off and angry.  I explained that I had a dog, huge suitcases, and I paid to go all the way to my house.  Luckily one other passenger had been traveling with me since the beginning and knew exactly how much I paid (of course) and told them that I did in fact have a deal to be delivered to my house.  We got the Dangila bus station guys on the phone who denied my claim, and I yelled between tear that I had no money and had no other way to get to my house, hoping he’d have pity on me.  The crowd of bus station workers that had boarded the now empty bus I remained on was growing.  They listened to my sob story and tried to talk to the Dangila folks themselves to no avail.  At this point I was exhausted, fed up and not loving Ethiopia so I let the tears flow, not holding back the culturally inappropriate display of emotion.

Apparently when I heard the two drivers talking about getting me to my house I missed the verb “to see off,” a crucial mistake changing the meaning to, “You must see Jennifer off to a minibus to her house,” not, “You must get Jennifer a minibus to her house.”  Everyone felt bad for me and they kept retelling my story to more and more people who joined the crowd.  Just as I was cursing the bus station employees who ripped me off this morning, the Addis guys made up for all my negative thoughts.  They pooled their money (an elderly lady walking by even pitched in 10 Birr) and paid for my taxi to where I needed to go.  I was amazed by their generosity, and while I had money to cover the fare in my pocket, I’d told such a good story over the phone about not having money that I couldn’t pull out the money now.  I graciously accepted their offer, allowing their kindness to redeem Ethiopia in my mind for the day.

A few more days until Arbay and I are on a plane to America! I couldn’t be more excited, and I’m glad I get to leave Ethiopia on a positive note.

People Who Live In Mud Houses…

The view over Gondar, Ethiopia

Today I returned home after a weekend in Gondar, where I had visited to finish a Peace Corps project with a couple other volunteers. Just over a week ago after returning from previous travels and training, I found myself in just about the complete opposite mood that I now find myself in, elated to be in Africa. This post will be a testimony to the real ups and downs of Peace Corps.

Last week I arrived back in Dangila after a fight with the airlines at 6am and continued problems with transportation as the day continued. The one-hour minibus ride back to Dangila from the airport in Bahir Dar was just about the worst event I’ve witnesses in Ethiopia so far. A fight between the man who takes money and a passenger broke out on the side of the road in a rural area which ended in stones being thrown and a window two seats away form me being shattered as we erratically pulled away from the fight. Shaken up already, I arrived back in Dangila to find gray skies, green grass and streets full of mud. I didn’t feel like I even recognized the town; it didn’t feel like the home I had been looking forward to returning to. Not to mention the layers of dust on everything in my house and the pile of dirt in my bedroom from the hole my dog dug in my mud walls. I guess people in mud houses… shouldn’t raise dogs?

The pile of dirt my dog had dug out of the wall.

Today the circumstances haven’t made the day seem any more bearable. On the bus ride I encountered the worst rain storm I’ve seen in a long time. All the phone lines were literally broken in half for several kilometers, trees were blown down, and rivers replaced the normal drainage ditches. Hail pounded down on the bus as the driver pulled full speed through flooded roads. At one point, the minibus (which I thought slowed down for nothing) actually came to a stop on the side of the road with several other buses. I asked in Amharic, “Is this normal for rainy season.”

He replied, “It is not,” with a slightly scared look on his face. Somehow pulling into Dangila the rain slowed down, and I enjoyed a cool walk home in the sprinkling rain. Shop owners and children yelled my name and asked me where I had been. I didn’t have a single person yell “ferengi,” and I suddenly remembered why I loved my town so much. I arrived just in time to run into the post office before it closed to find several wonderful letters from America, and on the walk home, I had a great conversation in Amharic with the children who hold my hands and walk me home. The kids who live in my compound anxiously greeted me and had many questions, which I happily answered. 

Then I actually had a moment of quiet to read the wonderful notes from home, which brought a tear to my eye. I could not ask for a better support system. Every postcard, letter and package brightens my day. Even email, when I am able to access the internet, is a wonderful connection to home. I am so happy and content with life right now. I am so blessed. Thank you for your mail, support and prayers. I am looking forward to settling down to spend some quality time in Dangila figuring out what exactly I can do to help. I couldn’t be happier. 

My dirty but loving dog.

My Compound and Its Pecking Order

New puppy checking out mama cow.

With all the animals running around my compound I am still trying to figure out who actually lives here and who has just found his way through a hole in the fence for a visit.  My compound has a ten-foot high cement wall around two sides and a wood/metal fence around the other two sides.  The latter of which is known to have several holes, found recently by my growing puppy.   Within my compound, there is one main house where my landlord, his wife, and their three children reside.  Beside the main house is a long building containing five rooms, with three separate doors.  Two of those rooms and one of those doors belongs to my humble abode, where my puppy and I reside.  The other three rooms are the home to another family with just a little 10-month-old baby.

As you walk through the yellow door to my compound, you find the main house in front of you on the right, and the longer building I live in on the left. In front of the house is a small yard area usually filled with construction material belonging to my landlord who works as a contractor.  Between the two houses is the walkway to the backyard, which contains a few rooms used as the landlord’s kitchen and housing for various animals. 

Part of the backyard is partitioned off to house the large cow at night (see the post titled “My Undefined Role” for more details about her); another partition stands to hold loads of scrap wood used for fire, and in the center of the main yard area there is a small water tower and faucet where we all get our water.  This tower in the backyard creates the perfect circle, around which the animals tend to chase each other, battling for a dominate position and respect.  This brings me to the subject of my ponderings this week- the pecking order forming in my compound.  Allow me to first list the order, and then I will try to explain some rather entertaining stories that lead me to these conclusions.

Human adults
The large mother cow
Human children
The baby calf
Arbay, my puppy
Chickens

Now each of these steps contains obvious exceptions.  First, I have seen the children, and adults often fall down on this list to just above chickens, as a small puppy brings them to shrieks and screams.  Rather entertaining for me, especially when it is children who come into my compound uninvited to sneak a peak at the “ferengi house.”  I also might add that Arbay has never bitten anyone, as I would then find their horrified reaction as appropriate rather than amusing. I have often been one of the adults to fall below the large cow on the list, but on principle it is the humans who corral the cow into her sleeping area each night, so she will remain below humans on the list.

Arbay, as she grows bigger by the day, grows equally braver. I predict in another month that she will be just about equal with the calf.  I have often seen her curiously approaching the calf, whom we call Teja (Amharic for calf, and therefore his name), and each time she gets slightly more daring.  However, she remains second to the bottom on this list because as she grows, so does Teja, and I can’t help but think of the consequences of Teja’s agitated head-first charges once he grows horns bigger than his mother’s.

Arbay also has been known to drop to the bottom of this list.  Most of the time the chickens do not stand a chance against her; a few times I have seen her scare them so much that they have actually made the flight over the ten-foot compound wall!  I do not however feel pity for them, because it is that rooster who also serves as my alarm clock each morning before the sun even dares to show its face.  One of the funniest interactions I have seen though was when the chicken turned around mid-chase, pecking her beak back at Arbay, causing her to become the chased for the first time in their relationship!

My Newest Addition

My puppy living on the street a week before I got her in February.

One of the hardest parts of living here in Ethiopia is living alone.  As a recent college graduate, I have never lived anywhere besides my parents’ home and on-campus housing at college, which means my transition here is more than just cultural.  I am growing up in many ways I never imagined I would.  I guess I never thought about the situation I was entering into until now; everything during training went by so fast. I was busy it seemed like every hour of the day with class, friends and host family.  Somehow, the whirlwind of events cleared and I found myself living, alone, in Africa.

Like with anything in my life that startles me, I rectified the situation.  Call me crazy, but I am now the proud owner of an Ethiopian puppy.  I could not resist. Her little face was too cute and I have seen what happens to dogs on the street here, it is not pretty (they are mostly turned into vicious guard dogs).  Only a few baths later and she could almost be mistaken for an American dog.

Playtime with the baby cow on my compound.

I thought I was crazy myself about 48 hours after she arrived in my house. Thinking to myself, I’m not responsible enough for a living animal. Given, I have had family dogs practically my whole life, but it never occurred to me that I was only 10 when we were raising my current family dog.  There is a big difference between raising a puppy when you are 10 surrounded by family and raising a puppy in Africa by yourself when you are 22. The responsibility level goes up a bit.

I know I am ridiculous for getting her, but honestly, she makes my house feel more like home all of a sudden (and my dad thinks it was a good idea! Right, Dad?).  I have someone to come home to, and company late at night when I start thinking those scary thoughts about living alone.  I must admit, I do not live completely alone.  My house is in a gated compound where two families also live, but still I cook for one, and find myself without an English-speaking companion.  The puppy, Arbay, is a great friend, and she listens to my English as though she understands every word (except “my house is not a bathroom” it seems).

Arbay has allowed me to get to know my community even better also! Each afternoon the children on my compound and I run around the yard together feeding her injera as we play.  One day I went in search of the local Muslim butcher, because most butchers are closed during this Orthodox Christian 55-day fasting period, to add some protein to the puppy’s diet.  A few hours later I had met the family that owns the shop, been invited into their home, downed a few rounds of coffee, and made a collection of new friends!

All wrapped up around the poles!

 Almost every day I walk her to my favorite café for lunch where we sit outside together while I eat my daily dose of Ethiopian food, passing her scraps of injera.  If a ferengi walking down the street in my town draws attention, a ferengi leading a puppy around with a leash multiplies that number by 10 at least.  But, now when I leave her at home the people I pass on that route ask, “Where is your puppy?”

I also realize now that I am not alone, even without the puppy.  If she somehow finds a hole in the fence and sneaks outside the compound, I have the whole neighborhood helping me find her.  Then the children that live in my compound go around with scraps of wood blocking all the possible escape routes around the fence.  Even as I write this, the children on my compound just knocked on my door announcing there is a coffee ceremony in my landlord’s house.  I am not alone here even though sometimes it can feel like it.  Ethiopians are so warm and hospitable it amazes me.  Nevertheless, the puppy has afforded me some new and wonderful experiences and I am so blessed to have her in my life now.

To answer the most commonly asked question from Ethiopians, no, she is not a ferengi dog; she is Habesha (Ethiopian).  I think they are surprised because they have never seen a clean dog before.  And, to answer the most commonly-asked question from home, yes, I plan on bringing her home with me. It is possible to do, and I have gotten some advice from a current volunteer who plans to do the same, so here’s hoping that works!