Our Meskel Vlog

This is our video about Meskel, otherwise known as "the finding of the true cross." For some reason, this is celebrated with lots of singing, dancing, drinking and tons of bonfires around town. I do not understand it perfectly, but I like the way they celebrate!

 

~Jessie

The Expat Disaster Multiplier Effect

D-“Shit happens.” A comforting remark I have heard many times in reference to life’s minor albeit annoying inconveniences that may befall a person on any given day. You get locked out of your house, you forget to go to the market, you get 90% of the way through cooking a meal before you realize you are missing an essential ingredient…these sorts of things. Well, I have learned from my travels and multi-year stints abroad that life’s “minor inconveniences” are made many times worse just for having them happen to you abroad. It all began at 4:00am this morning. I was startled awake by the loud crackling speakers broadcasting what I suppose is the morning prayer from the orthodox church. The sound can only be described as sort of a sour, droning chant that can (and did) carry on for hours without pause. Exactly what days this will happen is hitherto unpredictable for me. For obvious reasons, I procrastinated on getting ready for work this morning until it was time to run to the kitchen to heat up water for my bucket shower. When I got to the bathroom I decided I only had time to wash my hair (bathing is an extremely time consuming ritual now when we choose to do it). I proceeded to reach for the shampoo when suddenly I slipped back and gave myself the deepest cut of my life just above my elbow on the rusty, corrugated sheet metal door of the bathroom. The gash was BAD. If I were back home I almost certainly would have stitches by now, but if you read my previous post about my last visit to the hospital you might understand why I decided to try and tough it out at home. I went to work and taught as normal. The cut was on my left arm unfortunately as it is the arm I use to write on the chalk board. Luckily, despite how deep it was, it didn’t bleed a lot. Still, I was beginning to worry that I might actually need to call the medical office about it since my entire arm was feeling sore. After I showed it to Jessie, however, she demanded I call about it. We were coming home from an after-work coffee break with our site mate when I suddenly noticed that I did NOT have my keys. When I misplace something important in this country, I tend to get a little more worried than usual, as other PCVs and locals alike have warned me that if you leave ANYTHING in ANY public place, you will NEVER see it again. This time, I had lost the house key, compound key, and my school locker key that I share with another teacher. All kinds of things are going through my head as I panic looking EVERYWHERE for this key. Even doing that irrational thing where I look in my pocket 10+ times as if the keys would reappear there. Did it fall out at the coffee shop and the people who found are just waiting until I am away so they can rob my house? Etc. Luckily, I have an awesome local counterpart. I say that because he GETS SHIT DONE! I told him I was locked out and the only place I could think to look was at the school (it was 8pm). He grumbled on the phone but said he would come right over. When I walked over to meet him he said he had phoned the principal and she would walk with us to open the office and see if my key was there. My counterpart elected brave the pitch-black streets of Fiche with its gangs of wild dogs, torn up side roads, the distinct possibility of hyenas, and various other miscreants that roam the streets of the town after dark on the off chance that my keys were at the school. Cool guy 8-). It was a little awkward though when I got a call back from the PC medical office about the gash on my arm. I didn’t want to explain that it wasn’t a good time to talk since we were dodging wild dogs in the dark on the way to find my lost keys. After I hung up my counterpart laughed and said “This is probably the worst day in Fiche.” We were let in to the school compound by our M-14 toting security guard. “That’s some serious fire power to guard an empty school” I thought to myself. I should have been embarrassed, but I was so relived to find my keys dangling out of my locker. After I got them back, the cut on my arm hurt a little less and even looked smaller. Or at least, the worry I felt over my arm was quickly eclipsed by the key ordeal. Gotta love self-manufactured crises $-D Donovan Gregg

I Love Zombies!

J-I had a bit of a rough one today. You see, teaching here works in shifts. Since last week, I had been working the afternoon shift, and I thought that I was going to change shifts at the “end of the month.” I was in the midst of writing out my lesson plan for today, when I was informed that “the end of the month” had already come to pass because the calendar here is very, very different. Unfortunately, I was informed of this only after I had missed several classes. I might not be living in the West anymore, but even after 2 years living in a culture with a different sense of time, this type of thing does still occasionally get to me. I was essentially told not to bother showing up today, and I knew that this would wind up reflecting poorly on me as opposed to those who had not told me of the change. So, why did I end today grinning instead of agitatedly pressing my temples in frustration? I’ll tell you why: zombies. Specifically, “The Walking Dead.” Now, anyone who knows me will tell you that I am no fan of horror/gore as a genre. However, for some odd reason, I am nuts about the AMC series “The Walking Dead.” For at least a week now, I have been slumping in my seat every time that a promo for the next season was aired on the Fox International station that is often playing on restaurant TVs here. It’s mostly a movie station, but it kept airing promos for the upcoming season. Considering what a cliff-hanger the last season left off at, you can imagine how bummed I was at the thought of not being able to watch the next season as it unfolds (or more likely having people back home post spoilers about it that ruin all the best moments in the season as would often happen back in South Korea). I thought for sure that at best we would have to wait until someone over here got a bootlegged copy to circulate among the volunteers, or at worst I’d have to wait until I went home. Well, It turns out that I was dead wrong about that (I’m not touching that pun; it’s too obvious). We were hanging out at our favorite juice bar again, drinking a couple of avocado juices, when we noticed that the place was starting to get really packed. They still had the channel tuned in to Fox, which was running plenty of pre-season-premier related stuff, but they had music playing over it so that you couldn’t tell what was being said. We cleared out as they were running the final episode of last season because we didn’t want to watch the first episode of this season without sound (and subtitled in Arabic). Still, the place seemed pretty packed and lively, and it did seem like a lot of people were paying a lot of attention to the silent TV. We decided to hit up a local net café to pass the remaining hour before the show would premier, and then we would duck into the hotel across the street from our house to see if they were playing the show with the volume up. This hotel, of which we are regulars at the restaurant/bar portion (for better or worse), normally plays the news on high volume all evening. Still, we took a chance, and at 7:20 PM we walked in to find the last episode of last season finishing up with the volume on, and a large collection of locals sitting around waiting anxiously for the new season. We grabbed a seat at a partially unoccupied table, ordered a couple of beers, and had a serious hour of bonding time with some of the men in our community. It was an AMAZING episode, a great experience, and we look forward to continuing doing this every Monday until the mid-season finale. The people of Fiche are Walking Dead fans; who knew?

My Trip to the Hospital

D-WARNING: The following story contains details that no true gentlemen would ever recount in any proper conversation, but because this story pertains to life in the Peace Corps, I will dispense with these formalities. No, seriously, this story is gross; consider yourself warned. Ughhhhh, when I get diarrhea at home it is unpleasant and inconvenient. When I get diarrhea in the Peace Corps, I know that the diarrhea is going to be the least inconvenient part of my day. You see, the worst part about getting diarrhea is what you have to do about it. That, or maybe I have had two exceptionally bad experiences, or I am a sissy…. who knows… but I digress… The course of my day started with calling in sick once I determined that walking to school and standing all morning would be dangerous. Still, I had to walk to the hospital very, very slowly, for obvious reasons. Thinking back it would have been smarter to take a tuktuk (or bajaj as they are referred to here). Anyway, on my way there a gangly beggar-woman started following me while rambling in a language that I am sure only she understood. I asked her in Afan Oromo “Maalbarbada?” (What do you want?), but I couldn’t identify an intelligible response. Normally they reply by asking for money or something. I really badly wanted to lose her, so I quickened my pace when suddenly she knelt to the ground and started screaming “WAYYO! WAYYO!” If you read the last post, this was this same thing that the “demon-possessed” girl was screaming. Obviously this woman was also deranged, but luckily some other local folks descended upon her and kept her from harassing me further. I finally reached the hospital after asking half a dozen locals who were shocked that I could speak any of the local language. I had to explain to at least three differentpeople what the Peace Corps is. One of them even replied “I don’t understand” to which I replied “It’s okay, I am not entirely sure my family does either.” I arrived at the clinic entrance only to find that is crowded with at least 70 people waiting to see a doctor, and many of these people were truly sick looking. Here’s where things got a little awkward. Because I am obviously a westerner, I was immediately served first, as had been the case the last time I had to go to the hospital for a similar issue. On one hand you feel bad about it, but on the other you just want to get the hell out of there. So I just went on ahead. By the way, the Peace Corps medical staff are amazing! However, in a case such as this, they will advise you to go to a local clinic to run tests, after which my Peace Corps doctor will consult with the local doctor over the phone to determine the best course of action. Per the Peace Corps doc’s request, I called him immediately after I arrived at the clinic, which would be necessary anyway since neither my Amharic orAfan Oromo skills are up to the task of explaining the problem. You can also see why pantomiming would also be awkward. People already think you are weird enough because you are white and in their town in the first place. Embarrassed at the extremely blatant priority given to me, I walk past all of the other sick people and into the doctor’s office. The doctor luckily spoke English very well and determined with the help of my Peace Corps doctor that I needed to provide a stool sample. Ahh man, I knew this was coming. I walked over to the lab with a man who was asking me the usual questions, and as per usual went right to the front of the line at the lab to get my tests done. Then to my befuddlement, the nurse hands me a stick that looks like a little tooth pick with a tiny little piece of cotton at the end and instructs me to bring back a stool sample. I thought to myself “Okay, at least they only need tiny bit. Last time they made go into a cup.” Another nurse directs me outside to the latrine, outside of which there are at least half a dozen other people there for the same purpose only they were content with just squatting out there on the lawn sans privacy. Well, I am still a little too green to do that, so I proceed to the latrine where it immediately became quite clear to me why no one was inside of it as it was near full and completely filthy on the inside. Still, I wanted my privacy. I proceeded to do what I thought was the right thing with the stick and just swabbed the area a little bit when suddenly I dropped the stick down the hole. Damn, now I had to go back and get another one. This time I was handed a Q-tip and a little lid to rest it on when I was finished (Couldn’t they have given me that last time as well? Whatever.). I repeated the same steps I took before and was very happy to finally hand over the sample and get out of there. Not so fast. The lady looked confused at the stick and said “No stool?” She explained that there needed to be more and handed me a bigger cup, to which I argued that getting it in a cup squatting over a latrine simply wasn’t an option because I am passing only liquid which is expelled like a shot gun blast. She still didn’t understand. Suddenly a woman pushes past me with a bloody sample of her own. The nurse actually grabbed the woman’s sample and showed it to me and said “See! Like this!” Getting angry, I explained that there was no way to collect a larger sample under these conditions without making a mess on my hands. Setting the cup on the ground wasn’t an option either unless she wanted to sample every other patient who had hitherto been there that morning as well. I asked for toilet paper, but she refused, saying there wasn’t any. There was also no soap and water available, so it wasn’t like I could just take it like a man and wash up later. By now I am furious and contemplating hopping a bus to Addis and meeting the Peace Corps doctor face to face. I called him instead and passed the phone off to the technician. Finally, the male tech produced toilet paper, rubber gloves, a bigger cup, and lead me to a TOILET. Anyway, to keep a long story from becoming an epic novel, I only have gastroenteritis, which is treatable with simple antibiotics. Luckily, I already had the antibiotics in my med kit so I didn’t have to navigate a pharmacy after that as well. Donovan Gregg

Spiders and Demonic Possession

D-Ahhh, it’s that time again… time for another blog update! This week was the first week of teaching in our new schools. So far, Jessie and I are both satisfied with our classes; however, with only 35 students to teach, it is safe to assume that they are only 2/3 full as more are expected to arrive next week. Why? I have no idea. It’s best not to ask. I find that most times the answers to my questions leave me more confused than I was before I asked. Perhaps you are wondering about the curious title of this post, and as I attempt to describe the following events I am reminded that I really need to carry my camera with me everywhere I go. I was finishing up my first class of the day; the students all stood up and uniformly said GOODBYE TEACHER!! I picked my jacket up off the floor (as it had fallen off of the desk), and in a manner becoming of a respected teacher in Ethiopia I briskly walked out of the room in a cool fashion. With my jacket over my shoulder, I suddenly felt a slight tickle under my collar. The floor was filthy so it must be a leaf or something, or so I thought. It was the latter. I reached back to remove whatever was bothering me, and when I brought my hand back in front of me…well, let’s just say for a second it looked like I brought a baby pet tarantula for show and tell. I started flailing around like the little sissy I apparently am. All of the other students outside were laughing hysterically, of course, until they walked up and saw this thing. Many of the boys walked up, and you could just see their faces sober up the second they saw it. It was black with a red tint and a big fat black ass. I am assured there are no poisonous spiders in the Highlands, but still. Still trying to recover my usual resting heart rate from the spider incident, I suddenly became aware of frantic screaming coming from up the dirt road leading to the other classroom. By this time I was standing with some of the other teachers. I noticed a girl who was being carried out of the classroom by five large (by Ethiopian standards) guys. This girl was moving her body in ways I have never outside of the movies. The girl was also screaming “MALO, MALO, WAYYO WAYYO!!!” which roughly translates into “PLEASE, PLEASE WHY ME? WHY ME?” Naturally, I asked the other teachers what in the hell was going on. The teachers replied with what sounded like “Satin, Satin.” Since I was a bit dense it didn’t dawn on me that they were actually saying “Satan, Satan.” I was about to ask where they were carrying her, but I noticed that they were carrying her in the direction of the Orthodox Church. Apparently, the consensus was that this girl had been possessed by a demon, for which she would presumably receive an exorcism. In the end, I counted over 8 people trying to restrain her. Donovan Gregg