15 March 06
In an email, Sandee Townley mentioned that reading my blog, she is sure that I must be developing the gift of patience. Outwardly this is more or less true, though I must confess often my patience is shown its limits. A few recent examples. Last week Anbessu left and took the Land Cruiser with him (at least, so I thought... it turns out the Land Cruiser has been in Jimma all week being "painted" though I don't think they have started yet). This left us with only the old, beat up Hilux for transportation. Alemu needed to go into the field to deliver some papers to various government and school officials. Just as Anbessu was about to get on the plane, he called me from Addis and said, "Don't let Alemu drive. Our insurance has lapsed and he only has a Class 2 license. If he needs to go out you must drive him." First of all, the logic of this request makes absolutely no sense. I also only have a class 2 license, but the license class is irrelevant for insurance purposes. Moreover, if there's going to be an accident, we are much better served by having an Ethiopian as the driver and not a white foreigner. A white foreigner involved in an accident without insurance will end up paying thousands of birr, if not dollars. In any case, I drove Alemu as requested. This involved driving to remote, hillside villages throughout Jimma zone. I was stared at and called to a few thousand times before I finally thought we were finished. "One more school," he requests. As we drive up, I know I'm in for a zoo. In this case, however, I am the animal. School had just let out, and a few thousand children were milling around the school yard. As I parked in the shade of a tree to wait for Alemu to deliver his papers, the mob surrounded the truck.
"Name, my is what... what name is my... what are my names," they struggle to ask me. Finally one gets it right, "You! What is your name," and the murmur begins as they realize the right sequence. "What (what what) is your name?"
"Michael," I respond.
"What is your name! What is your name! What is your name!"
"My name is Michael," I reply, wondering if they are deaf due to the ridiculously loud level they play their stereos.
"Michael! Michael!," they call, "What is your name?"
At this point I'm just laughing, realizing this is their only English phrase, and they are going to repeat it ad naseum whether they know my name or not. If I wanted to get out of the truck and follow Alemu, this option is now gone as I would have to punch my way through a few hundred kids if I opened my door. The teachers decide to take up my cause, and begin "switching" the kids closest to the truck, beating back a perimeter. When the backs turn, the rush to the truck continues. Again the teachers push the wave back, simulating a rapid tidal force. Alemu charges through the crowd, jumps in the truck, and as I pop the clutch to get out of dodge the throng follows closely at our rear.
I've also recently purchased a road bike to replace the hulking monstrosity I inherited from a previous missionary. Finally getting back into road biking has been a wonderful outlet for me, but it does draw considerable attention my way. However, he attention I receive on the bike I tend to actually enjoy. When I ride in the countryside its like I'm riding the Tour de France. Locals cheer me on, give me thumbs up, and try to run next to me for a few hundred feet. Most foreigners who come to Ethiopia speed through the small towns in air conditioned Land Cruisers. When I arrive on a bike the locals are ecstatic that I would travel in such a way through their country. This is similar to the reception I receive when riding the bus, except that long distance sports (running and cycling) are highly valued in Ethiopia. When I ride my bike in Jimma, though, the attention gets old in a hurry. In the countryside the attention directed my way is spread out. In Jimma its far too compact. A few days ago I was riding with a friend to the marcato, the densest part of the city. Shouts of You! came from all directions. From atop a large truck to my right, three guys were screaming YOU! at the top of their lungs. For the first (and hopefully only) time in Ethiopia, I lost my temper. I doubt they even realized it, but I responded by turning and yelling WHAT?! back to them. One of them stuck out his hand and said, "How are you?" I smiled regaining myself, shook his hand, and said, "I am fine thank you." They say there is a culture shift at the six month mark in a foreign country. I can't remember if this one is supposed to be a good shift or a bad shift, but perhaps my response to them was caused in part by this "sixth-month change."
Overall the last few weeks have been pretty laid back for me. Next week I'm going to take a break and go backpacking with Dan and Hannah in the Simiens, what should be a beautiful trip. One thing I want to blog about sometime soon is the different way that money is viewed culturally here, and the way that international NGO's exacerbate common problems. That, however, is for another time. I've finally - and mysteriously - finally gotten the picture function to work again. I'll post a few more before I disappear for a couple of weeks in the north.
