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!

Finding My Role

I have officially been at my sight for one month! This is a very exciting milestone, because now we are allowed to travel within our respective zones.  The first month we could not leave our site, even for a day trip, in order to integrate into the community and build a foundation.  Just one month later, I am proud to say that I now call my two-room oasis my home.  I have not written a lot this past month, mostly because internet is rare in my town, but that does not mean there was a lack of stories and adventures, so I will try to catch you up with all my recent happenings.

My bedroom, outfitted with a fancy blue mosquito net.

Let me start by explaining my role as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Dangila.  It is a little bit like trying to explain what a cow does all day, who really knows? (Note: most analogies these days will coincide with animals that now live in my compound).  A massive cow, with rather intimidating horns, lives in my compound at night.  Each morning a man comes into the compound and takes the cow away, much to the dismay of the baby calf that also lives here.  Each night the same man returns the cow and it strolls past my door nonchalantly swinging its head, and weapons, as it walks.  “Where does it go all day? What is it doing?” I ask myself nightly.  I am sure it is working and being useful, but I have no idea what it accomplishes.  This cow is like me. I am not sure where I go each day, but I know I leave each morning and return each evening having accomplished things.  I might buy a new bucket, or eat at my favorite juice house, or chat it up with the post office worker, or drink eight-too-many cups of sugary coffee with new friends; each day is a little different than the last, one of my favorite parts of living in Ethiopia.

This is one of my main struggles as I try to explain my role to my supervisor across a large language and cultural barrier. My role is, well, undefined.  I am here to work on HIV/AIDS and other health related ‘projects.’  A project could be anything from helping with a HIV testing campaign, to teaching English in a high school, to organizing an income-generating activity for orphans.  The hard part is that in order for a project to be sustainable (i.e., it won’t collapse when I leave in two years) you need community involvement and motivated people to work with.  This means that during the day I spend a lot of time getting to know various community members, and hoping motivated people come to me seeking assistance or information.

While my host organization is HAPCO, they are a non-implementing organization, so they may serve as a good resource and link to other community members, but I do not work a 9-5 desk job with them (despite my supervisor’s wishes).  That is another issue I am dealing with; almost two months ago all 40 volunteers from my training class spent three days in the capital, Addis Ababa, meeting our counterparts and sitting through informational sessions on how we as volunteers will be working with our host organizations.  Unfortunately, my counterpart had moved towns by the time I returned to Dangila three weeks later, leaving my only other contact, my supervisor, making comments like, “you are late to work!”

One of my favorite days yet; working at a HIV testing event in the rural area with my supervisor.

HAPCO was generous enough to donate an office desk and chair for me to work at when I am in the office, but since our office was the size of a cubicle, where three people already worked (with only two desks), my supervisor asked the government building across the street for an extra office.  By this point, several “this is what I do” conversations later, I thought he understood that I would not be sitting in the office for 8 hours a day simply reading a book and writing letters (I try to limit that time to just a couple hours daily). However, when he said, “this will be your new office, but they say you can only have it if you sit here in the morning and the afternoon,” I realized we still had a problem.  Sitting in the office with the other Ethiopians for a few hours each day served as time to get to know my co-workers and ask plenty of questions in order to try to figure out what exactly the office does, but sitting in an office across the street, by myself, for the whole day would be completely pointless.  Things managed to work themselves out though, and all four of us at HAPCO transferred over to the new and bigger office they originally wanted to give just to me.

The police station is that lovely two-tone building.

This would be a good time to explain the location of the old HAPCO office. It was in the police station.  Please disregard any mental images that have just come to your mind that resemble the set of “NYPD Blue” or the like. Instead, picture a small compound of mud-walled rooms that open into a common outdoor ‘hallway.’  At the end of this hallway is a room surrounded by a simple wooden fence where petty criminals are held before being released or taken to jail.  If I arrived at the office to find my office door locked (which happens often when people decide to take tea breaks) the policemen sitting facing the prisoner area holding their rather large guns would insist that I take one of their chairs and chat with them until my co-workers return.  Despite having some rather entertaining conversations and making friends with the entire police force, I am very glad we were able to move offices.

Communication is always tough, even with my supervisor who speaks very good English.  I realize though that my role is somewhat bizarre even to Americans, who understand my language and culture.  Just the other day, on our first official move-in day to the new office, which is in the same complex as the mayor’s office, I spent the morning helping move office furniture across the street, and then sat in the office until lunchtime.  After lunch, I ran some errands and visited some Ethiopian friends to have coffee at their house, which they invited me to do a week before.  The next day, the mayor’s assistant, a friend of mine, came in and told me, “You were not here yesterday afternoon!” I smiled, nodded, and repeated my key phrase, “Oh, yes, the community is my office! All of Dangila!”  I am still hoping one day they will get it!

I will be sure to let you know as soon as I figure out what that cow, and what I am doing in Dangila.

Just Your Average Town Meeting

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.