Ethiopia on Tap
23 June 06
I used to have several friends that participated in a weekly discussion called, "Theology on Tap." The idea was to bring together people who were on the fringes of the Christian community but yet were interested in discussing the deeper aspects of theology. The man who brought the group together felt that rather than pushing people away based on one aspect of their lifestyle - they knew how to enjoy a premium malt beverage - he would "meet them where they are."
Whatever one's thoughts on the holiness movements general teetolatarianism, I find beauty in the idea of sharing a common cup, and the unity that it brings between people who drink together. After living in Ethiopia for nine months, last month I began to drink the water - strait from the tap. Those who have read my blog will note that at least on one occasion in the past I've swallowed a healthy mouthful of tap-water, but that was more of a mistake than anything. I now proudly ask for "water" in the restaurants, rather than for "Highland," the common nomenclature for bottled water. The result? I'm healthy, if that matters much. More importantly, though, I should add that the people around me immediately recognize what I have done. The locals are so accustomed to foreigners drinking only bottled water that to see me do otherwise is a shock. I doubt that it instills some idealistic sense of commonality in their minds towards me, but in a small way it does from me towards them. For better or for worse, we drink the same water. I have always had a philosophical hatred of bottled water, but my sense of hypochondria got the better of me for nine months. Can there be anything more insulting than saying to people, "you water isn't good enough for me?"
Alas, my feelings of commonality only go so far. A few days ago I joined a group of Ethiopians on a contract mini-bus to go to the other side of Jimma. There are two types of mini-bus taxis; the one is a daily route and price-fixed. The other is created on demand when a group needs to go in a direction not normally served by the daily route bus. The latter has no fixed price. On this occasion I made the mistake of not negotiating my price beforehand; when I got off the bus the driver asked me for thirty birr. Anger - hot, flush, boiling. I wanted to start screaming and using the various words that the kids have taught me over the past year (the ones evangelicals aren't supposed to say). Thirty birr should be the price for the whole bus, which was to be shared ten ways.
"No," I laughed, keeping my composure. "What is the price?"
"I'm sure - it is thirty."
"No, tell me the price," still smiling but starting to crack.
"Thirty birr."
"What is the price?" - this time directed to the other passengers. They kept quite. What good does it do them to support this thief? It is scenes like this that make me feel thousands of kilometers separate from Ethiopians, even though I am a meter away. It would be wrong to characterize all Ethiopians as willing to steal from foreigners, but this type of treatment happens far too often. Often enough that I am tempted against my own desire to generalize in an unfair way the people I have come to love. To my own question, "Is there anything more insulting than saying 'Your water isn't good enough for me'?" The answer is Yes - taking advantage of the alien, the outsider in your midst.
"Fifteen," someone finally mediated from the back. Fifteen is a ridiculous price. Fifteen is an insult to my intelligence. Fifteen is the mediators attempt to help broker a theft; they will probably get a 'thank-you' bonus. Perhaps their fare will be free. I shake my head, reach for fifteen birr and - pause. I don't want to pay. I want to spit at him, grab my bag, and walk away. Let him be so bold as to try to accost a foreigner on a busy street. I have no doubt that I could have walked away free. I didn't - I threw the money on the seat and walked away. I won't take him to account. He both won and lost that day.
Brief moments of xenophobia aside, I am more at ease now than ever. To think I am leaving in less than a month is as of yet incomprehensible. I know that I am leaving, and am in fact studiously preparing for my exams in August. But the reality of not being here has not yet taken.
It will though.
Michael
I used to have several friends that participated in a weekly discussion called, "Theology on Tap." The idea was to bring together people who were on the fringes of the Christian community but yet were interested in discussing the deeper aspects of theology. The man who brought the group together felt that rather than pushing people away based on one aspect of their lifestyle - they knew how to enjoy a premium malt beverage - he would "meet them where they are."
Whatever one's thoughts on the holiness movements general teetolatarianism, I find beauty in the idea of sharing a common cup, and the unity that it brings between people who drink together. After living in Ethiopia for nine months, last month I began to drink the water - strait from the tap. Those who have read my blog will note that at least on one occasion in the past I've swallowed a healthy mouthful of tap-water, but that was more of a mistake than anything. I now proudly ask for "water" in the restaurants, rather than for "Highland," the common nomenclature for bottled water. The result? I'm healthy, if that matters much. More importantly, though, I should add that the people around me immediately recognize what I have done. The locals are so accustomed to foreigners drinking only bottled water that to see me do otherwise is a shock. I doubt that it instills some idealistic sense of commonality in their minds towards me, but in a small way it does from me towards them. For better or for worse, we drink the same water. I have always had a philosophical hatred of bottled water, but my sense of hypochondria got the better of me for nine months. Can there be anything more insulting than saying to people, "you water isn't good enough for me?"
Alas, my feelings of commonality only go so far. A few days ago I joined a group of Ethiopians on a contract mini-bus to go to the other side of Jimma. There are two types of mini-bus taxis; the one is a daily route and price-fixed. The other is created on demand when a group needs to go in a direction not normally served by the daily route bus. The latter has no fixed price. On this occasion I made the mistake of not negotiating my price beforehand; when I got off the bus the driver asked me for thirty birr. Anger - hot, flush, boiling. I wanted to start screaming and using the various words that the kids have taught me over the past year (the ones evangelicals aren't supposed to say). Thirty birr should be the price for the whole bus, which was to be shared ten ways.
"No," I laughed, keeping my composure. "What is the price?"
"I'm sure - it is thirty."
"No, tell me the price," still smiling but starting to crack.
"Thirty birr."
"What is the price?" - this time directed to the other passengers. They kept quite. What good does it do them to support this thief? It is scenes like this that make me feel thousands of kilometers separate from Ethiopians, even though I am a meter away. It would be wrong to characterize all Ethiopians as willing to steal from foreigners, but this type of treatment happens far too often. Often enough that I am tempted against my own desire to generalize in an unfair way the people I have come to love. To my own question, "Is there anything more insulting than saying 'Your water isn't good enough for me'?" The answer is Yes - taking advantage of the alien, the outsider in your midst.
"Fifteen," someone finally mediated from the back. Fifteen is a ridiculous price. Fifteen is an insult to my intelligence. Fifteen is the mediators attempt to help broker a theft; they will probably get a 'thank-you' bonus. Perhaps their fare will be free. I shake my head, reach for fifteen birr and - pause. I don't want to pay. I want to spit at him, grab my bag, and walk away. Let him be so bold as to try to accost a foreigner on a busy street. I have no doubt that I could have walked away free. I didn't - I threw the money on the seat and walked away. I won't take him to account. He both won and lost that day.
Brief moments of xenophobia aside, I am more at ease now than ever. To think I am leaving in less than a month is as of yet incomprehensible. I know that I am leaving, and am in fact studiously preparing for my exams in August. But the reality of not being here has not yet taken.
It will though.
Michael
posted by Michael Rodgers at 4:59 AM
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