Losey Land

I am a Cloud

The excitement of aspiring achievement has been mired by a consistent schedule of day-on-day-off power. This power problem will solve itself after the rains begin their torrential down pour (as power in Ethiopia is hydro-generated), but then effectiveness will once again decrease as a result of the torrent.

I've felt myself drift like a high cloud over Dessie. My cloud is distant, but at the same time attached to my town by proximity. In the United States, I would base my interactions with friends on the conservations I had. Conversation was the driving force that held social interactions together. I've found it difficult, to the utmost degree, to connect with my neighbors. My conversation skills are so lacking that an intellectual conversation in Amharic is a hyperbolic fantasy.

It was one of these situations where I wanted to rain down on Dessie that pushed me out of my shell. A young man had asked me on a couple of situations to meet with his family and have lunch/drink bunna. I am generally on my way to do something when these invitations come, so I generally continue on my way and apologize for the inability to attend. This kid was so persistent in inviting me over that I agreed to go over to lunch at his house. So he ends up coming to my work an hour and a half before the agreed time. I tell him that I'm not hungry yet and we can go at 12:30pm. We show up at his mom's house and we start our conversation. The usual thing. What are you doing in Ethiopia? How long have you lived here? Where in America are you from? What did you go to college for? Why don't you want a masters? So the conversation went as expected, but then the real reason for the invitation came out. This story started out about his work. He wanted to be a truck driver. To get a driver's license, he tells me, it costs 5000 birr ($500 - it doesn't). His mother would be able to pay 2500 birr, but he needed the other 2500 birr to get his license. Would I be able to pay the remaining 2500 birr. To which I responded, no I am a volunteer, I am only giving my time to Ethiopia. But do you know anyone who can give me the money? No I'm sorry, most Foreign Aid doesn't work that way. The organization I work with doesn't give money to help the communities, but rather the time of volunteers. The rest of the conversation and meal were awkward and I am almost left from how hurt I felt in that situation.

I will not give up without rain. I need the clouds to connect to the land through rain. I need the rain to grow seeds and take up root in Ethiopia and through Ethiopian culture. I will continue to send down drops in hopes that they hit the ground in a torrent. It's not easy to live in such a different culture to my own, but I know I can acclimatize to Dessie. It's 8,500 feet up. That's really close to the clouds.

My town has reached international news, but not for a good reason. The full story is here. http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8129220.stm. Definitely not anything to be worried about, as for my safety. I haven't seen any overt changes in Dessie besides more soldiers being in town. I think I would be right in saying that Ethiopia is one of the countries with the greatest ability for Islam and Christianity to meld well together in society. Therefore, it is even more astonishing to see this conflict arise.

Sleepless in Sodere

The temperature rose steadily as the bus slipped forward. Like a frog sitting in slowly fired water, I was too dumb to get out and go back to cooler haunts. So the plague of frogs descended on Sodere, our destination for in-service training. The stark contrasts of Ethiopia show through at the flip of a coin. My view of Africa to this point hasn't felt similar to the Africa of lore and pen. The highlands that I live in aren't the prototypical African setting. Now in Sodere the heat has dried the ink that I would think typical. The showers here seer the skin from their heat. The toilet seats bring back fond memories of electrically heated toilet seats in Japan, with the same moment of questioning the recency of use. However, in the case of the toilet seats here, they are warmed from the water in the toilet bowl. The heat in the evenings stacks itself like thick layers of bolognese lasagna. At night I lie cocooned inside this lasagna. I am the uncomfortable airplane legs. I am the agitated driver in traffic. I couldn't sleep.

The week started out with permaculture training (permanent agriculture). Even though I was on the right track with the garden I made, I learned some great ways to improve the garden and some viable ways to try and spread urban gardening in my town.

The night of a thousand and one needles started out like any other night. The grand idea of a walk struck us as an appropriate drain of a clock's second hand. Each tick and each tock counted the steps forward. We passed by termite hills 12 feet high, small water falls, huge chest-sized sunflowers, and fallow farm land. Along the irrigation path carved out from the river, little vortexes protruded from the ground. These black holes of dirt were the starting point for the large termite mounds that they would one day become. After we ballerina-walked along the irrigation canal, the path lead us up a cliff. At the top of the cliff my body panned to finally find the more prototypical Africa. Plateaued mountains plunged to hills that curved into a mass of inter placed bodies; hips, shoulders, legs, and feet fell into the river below. In the distance, a herd of camels could be seen resting by the water's edge and gazelle could be seen frolicking in the opposite direction. As we walked further carved farms hugged the cliffs along the small protrusions of land. These color-saturated farms drew stark contrasts to the fallow land upon which we walked high above the river.

Dotting the path that we led were farmers and herders, mostly children or young men. As we progressed forward a group of two children and a young man pantomimed that we should follow them. To the left on the path were some brambles that hid passageways of bogged down farm land.
The sound grew as we hopped through the marsh-like farm land, prancing to and fro to avoid stepping into watery chasms. Finally ducking through a curtain of thorny bush a huge waterfall presented itself in its foggy warm accoutrements. In the shadow of this thundering fall of water bright-colored plastic sandals danced in a prison of current, fallen friends to their river-crossing masters upstream.

On our way back for dinner, an urge to reach a cave up on the hill filled the boyishly idiotic heads of the hiking group and 3 of us made our way up through skin piercing two-inch-needle-bearing bushes and rose-thorn-like bushes that pierced flesh and clothing creating marionettes of us all. We all reached the cave from different paths. The cave seemed to be deep as the curve was just out of site. To get a better angle to view how far back the cave ran, I, with flashlight in hand inched slightly into the cave. I felt a pain and fell back stunned as if I had just been punched in the face. Whether or not it was bravado or thick-headed adventure that drew me into the cave, I think we can all guess which one led me into this life-threatening situation. I guess luck was my lady as the life-threatening situation could not be easily seen for a two-inch wasp was the culprit of my the knock-out punch that I received. If I had been allergic, we would've been in trouble, but instead the cave merely presented me with a sharp pain in my head and I returned said present with a stinger-ed retort of oaths and curses. The verdict is out on who caused the most pain with their onslaught. As all good boyishly idiotic adventures lend themselves to, treasure was at the end of our voyage. We each found forearm length porcupine quills that we wore like feathers in our caps as we debated on the best route down the hill from the cave. While getting up here was easy, the path back was undecided and treacherous.
Imagine the briar-patches that seperated the prince from Sleeping Beauty and you would not be too far off from the maze ahead of us. I felt like Frodo Baggins in the spider's lair as my clothing and skin were caught whilst ducking and bending through the labryinth. The only way forward was to tear oneself free from the snares. After about 30 minutes of this, caution gave way to urgency as the sun was setting in the distance. We finally exited with our cuts burning from the sweat of exertion. Our clothing was worn to mesh, but we all wore smiles from the night of a thousand and one needles as we walked back to the hotel.

The rest of the training passed by quickly. One other thing of note were the monkeys that played the theatrical roles of thieves, beggars and lechers. Some of the more impressive performances are as follows. I come into my room to see that I had left the door open on accident. The monkey had gotten into my medkit and opened up every single package inside of it. Secondly, I open my eyes in the morning after leaving my door open at night thinking the monkeys wouldn't dare enter my room with me in it. About 6 monkeys ran out of my hotel room and leaped into the trees. Lastly, I ended up twisting my ankle on stairs out of surprise that a monkey in front of me was openly showing his love of himself.

I am now back in Dessie feeling better about my work prospects. Also, now that in-service training is over, we are allowed to travel around Ethiopia, so stayed tuned for travel adventures in the upcoming months. Thanks to Ericka, Kat, Pookano, Karen, and Libby for the letter love. Until next time; keep a sharp eye, mind the gap, and watch out for thieving monkeys.

6 Months Hard Time

Today is the last day before I leave for in-service training. This marks my 6th month in Ethiopia and my 3rd month in Dessie. It's odd how much I have changed in this small window of time. Maybe not outwardly. I'm still the same Jon in many aspects, but I do look at the world from a different pair of binoculars.

I've just started to get some things to do. When I get back from training, I will put most of my time into helping local street children start a copy center. We have already purchased the large portion of materials that we will need to start this business thanks to Nichole's funding. Also, to get some extra funds to help the business Nichole, Ken, and I have been putting in long hours this weekend to do a large print project. Another project that I will start when I am back is a class on Microsoft Office. Finally, I will be helping 4 universities come up with some interesting activities and ideas for festivals that are meant to help prevent the spread of HIV/AIDS in young college-aged kids. One of my ideas is an injera-eating contest. We'll see if that can get implemented.

I just hired a seratenna through my friend Elly. Seratenna is the word in Amharic for maid. I wasn't planning on one, but she spoke great things about her and told me that she could only give her a little work during the week. So now Tuesdays and Thursdays I have someone that keeps my house spotless and clean. It's done a great deal for my free time and happiness (as I loathe cleaning). The best part about it is that I can help give someone a job that can put food on their table.

Besides that, my garden has been double dug and I have seedlings that are sprouting quite well. I have been cooking much less lately, partly due to another week where I didn't have water and the required hours it takes to prepare meals. I have been riding to and from work 2-3 times a week on a bicycle I bought here and I'm quite enjoying the ride despite the riveted bumpy road and the dust. I have also been getting better at the guitar. I've recently learned Gary Jules – Mad World, Elliott Smith – Miss Misery, and Iron and Wine – Such Great Heights. Next on the list are Bon Iver – Skinny Love, and Radiohead – Knives Out. Finally, I posted a ton more pictures for those of you that were demanding them. <3

Jon

Easter

Easter calls up in my mind the prisoner I was in childhood. My parents, God bless them, would lock my brother and I in the house as we squirmed in an electric fashion in unbridled anticipation of the search for plastic easter eggs in our backyard. In cruelty, some eggs would be placed out of a child's reach. I may be making this up in my head, but I think they once placed one at the top of a palm tree in our backyard in Hanford, CA. Pure cruelty.

The easter in Ethiopia has not been Hallmark-ed enough to be disassociated with religion. I did not see any bunnies, but I did eat 3 lunches. 3 lunches! One of them did include a large amount of enqulal (egg) and thankfully my vegetarianism allowed me to dodge the large amounts of doro (chicken) wot and beg (sheep) wot that were passed around with much jubilation. Oh if you could only see the long stick with 20 or 30 chickens unconscious from the blood that ran rivers to their heads or the mountains of sheep skin being carried through the streets on this glorious day. I see in my head two faces that remind me of that day. A tribute to the Greek masks of comedy (the Ethiopian smiling and eating the lovingly cooked remains) and tragedy (the bleating sheep who know that the red paint on their skin was not a sign of living a long life).

The first Ethiopian lunch attended was for street children in the Dessie-area. The lady that put this activity together with the help of the Ethiopian Orthodox church, is running (I think) the only NGO that focuses on street children here. In a tent strapped to the side of a building, benches were laid out and plates of injera were passed out. Little hands reached up to provide gorsha (see hand-fed signs of endearment) dripping with meat. Due to the lack of vegetarian options, I dodged the gorsha with quick references to not eating meat.
Soon I took out my camera to take pictures of these hard knocks children. Within the flash of a flash, children were sprouting like speed-framed flowers in my lens. Every time I thought I had a shot that was framed well, another child would blossom into the fray. I didn't get a large amount of amazing photos from the photo session, but I did get a couple of classics and the end result was a tent of smiling children that may have forgotten about the streets for the click of a shutter.

On the second lunch of Fasika my true love gave to me, a large plate of fried eggs and some Ethiopian yogurt that tasted a bit like sour cream. When the glass arrived for the yogurt, she started to pour the yogurt into the glass. I looked on expecting her to stop pouring, but she filled the glass all the way to the brim. A clapped hand or loud word would have caused the glass to overflow. Before I gulped the yogurt, I gulped in fear of the gastro-intestinal effects of such a large glass of foreign bacteria. It was quite good and was made better by a surprising addition of chili powder on top, but that much dairy was harsh on my stomach. After some non-alcoholic home-brewed beer (the second house was Protestant and in Ethiopia that means ixnay on breway), I was stuffed.

On the third lunch of Fasika my true love gave to me, more food and a lot of local beer and coffee. The hostess was such a good hostess that at every point where my attention was taken away from the glass on the table in front of me, she would dive in to top me off. My original strategy of drinking quickly in order to leave early and finish off the day by working in the garden worked against me. She would not let me leave! By the 7th or 8th glass (I think) I finally protested enough to dodge any further incoming beer salvos. I was day-drunk enough to do nothing for the rest of the day.

I have been lucky enough to have my first tourists. They stared at me through my open windows. They sat on the old tire outside my house. When I went to the restroom and came out again, they were gone. I sighed in relief. Then I went outside to water my compost and they were still there, but now they were taking pictures of each other in front of my house … on my patio. Laughing in my head about the whole situation, I didn't refuse when they asked for me to be in the picture. I can just picture these two fine young gentlemen in the future talking about the good old days and “that one marvelous holiday” spent at Jon's house.

Finally, a word on Fidel. No, the Bay of Pigs has nothing to do with this Fidel. The Fidel I refer to is the alphabet for Amharic, of which I am currently learning. The script has 276 letters in its syllabary (there are patterns – I am not learning 276 unrelated letters) and 7 vowels instead of 5. So a word like wendem (brother) would have a letter for we, ne, da, and me (the vowels I would use in Amharic are not on my computer). It's a beautiful written language and being able to learn to write it is, to me, an exciting privilege.

Anyways, thanks to Marina, Sara, Libby, Arsie, Karin, Erika, Jess, and Jennifer for more letter love and the amazing package from abbate, ennate, wendame, and yene wendam gwuadennya (my father, my mother, my brother, and my brother's friend - or in other words Renee :)) The books were great for furthering my limited knowledge on FDR and Africa, the spices will allow me to try and perfect Indian food, and the jump rope will keep me listening to Kris Kross.

Day Today

Last night's sleep was restless. I usually fall asleep in minutes, but instead it took hours. I hate those nights. I float uncomfortably on a bed of nails ... scratching at mosquito bites, twisting and turning. My back is sunburnt from the back-breaking double dig that I am halfway done with for my garden. Just moving my arms upward sends uncomfortable warmth to my back. This was made worse by the what-the-hell-time-is-this mosquito fly-bys, where I blindly and sleep-drunkenly pull my mosquito net over my bed to protect me. The mosquito net is my shield. It leadeth me too green pastures with sheep as far as the eye can see and one solitary fence. I shall not wake up.

I woke up, yawned like a bear, tasted the garlic bread in my mouth from last night, smacked my gums and shuffled caveman-like to the bathroom. I wash my face and blow my nose. I am awake now. I set tea on the stove (Earl Grey thanks to the Britons) and heat up the left-over Potato Soup from the previous night. It tastes heavenly as I sit on my living-room mattress and learn about luff in jibs and windward tack. Batten down the hatches! I still don't know what that means, as I've just learned that battens are hardened wood, fiberglass, or metal rods that you place into the sail. What do hatches have to do with it? Maybe one of the smart handsome/beautiful well-dressed readers of this blog can help me with my predicament.

I pull my solid-steel (it's heavy) bike down the stairs of my house and water the Sweet Corn, Eggplant, Bell Peppers, Mint, Basil, Coriander, and Thyme plants that I've just planted in left-over Quaker Oats and powdered milk tins.

I push my bike up the hill to the main road and greet the music/video shop girl near my house. Then I am off, knowing that most eyes I pass are staring at me. I am of course an oddity for being a farenji riding a bike, but I am a Guinness World Record oddity for also wearing my helmet. I pump my legs ferociously to build up speed and listen to the speed-affected greetings as the sound of them comes in and out of hearing like a passing siren. As I walk my bike over the construction that has closed the main road to traffic for the past 2 months, I hear the cluttering of lose metal behind me, associated with a bike rolling over many rocks. I gear up for a race. I slide down the other part of the hill. I am the Jamaican Bobsled team. I am Speed Racer. I do a double back-flip off the slope of the passing bridge. Time slows down for the flash of photos as I pose. I am brought back to reality as the rickety bike has now passed me. I pretend to not have noticed the race. I was just peddling like normal. I pass him again on the flat approach and he says, “You are fast”. I revel in the glory of those words while I slow down on my approach to the Posta Bet (Post Office). I hit the air brakes and he flies right by. But my new objective is obtaining the three glorious pieces of mail for me in the PO Box.

I go to my primary office with Intrahealth Internatioanl. They are regionally based and are generally in the field. I use the Internet to check my email and order a Macchiato. The waitress got it right this morning. Yale suqwar tineesh tineesh wetet (without sugar, very little milk). As I check my email, I see another farenji walk past. I say a quick hello. It is always very odd to see farenji passing through Dessie. It doesn't happen often enough to be common place and this then leads to thoughts of “why are you here?”. I think it is generally a reciprocal question. I see out of the corner of my eye that he is waiting for his friend in the Internet shop. I offer him a seat, he's from Sweden. We talk shortly and he leaves. Then I see another farenji in a nurses uniform. Is this a coup? Am I being ousted?

I bike the remainder of the way to Ken's office at the AIDs Resource Center. For the remainder of the day, I will come up with a list of 3-4 organizations to have meetings with on Thursday and I will learn language. Language is my directive. Language is my only hope. Bel Ahun Mehed Alleben. Dehena Walu. (Well now, I have to go. Have a good day.)

Learning by Seeing

The room was small. The house was the room. What little light that crowded in was standing room only. Illuminated inside the mud and stick house was the silhouette of a man lying on thin mattresses on the floor. His cough and voice were weak, paired with a gaze that was anything but. His face was sunken from a cocktail of poverty, AIDs and the anti-retroviral treatment that just might prolong his life. One would think that he had two dark skin marks on his nose near his eyes.
As the two dark skin marks fly away one after the other after a few minutes of relaxation, you realize that one might be wrong. One might be wrong about a lot of things.

The crowd was animated. Their were tears dewing their eyes. Their were arms flailing, as if to direct air traffic. An old man sitting to my right knew that my understanding of Amharic left something to be desired. His hands that perched on his cane, one folded neatly over the other told a part of his story. The ring on his right hand seemed to defy gravity. It was a halo around his parched strong hands. He had the same sunken look as the man in the room, but in the light I could see his eyes more clearly. His eyes were the color of Mercury and if I could gauge anything, it was that his temperature was hot. The other part of the story was told in halted fragments. So that I could understand. His first pantomimes were of sorrow. He reached one of his previously perched hands for his wallet. One word hit my ears and stuck quite well ... lij ... child. A paper was neatly folded in his wallet. I didn't need any more pantomimes or halted words. Lying on this was paper was a list. A list of 5 dates, all within the last 6 years. Lines were neatly drawn through the middle of 4 of them; a memorial to things that were but no longer are.

I was invited by most host organization to help with condom trainings in small villages in the South Wollo zone. As a corollary, my PC site-mate Nichole was monitoring and evaluating her home-based care program that a local HAPCO (HIV AIDs Prevention and Control Office) heath worker and she had put together. I can't pretend to write and describe what I saw and gained personally from this experience. The crowd that I described was upset because they didn't have enough food and because they didn't have enough money. For one woman, her husband had just died and she didn't have any way to support her many children. For another, her sons had moved and stopped supporting her.
The kindness of her neighbors is the only thing that propped up her long-lived life.

What can I do to help? When someone in Ethiopia is TRULY in need, I can't do the same thing here that I would do in the United States. I don't feel right with giving money or food to help those in need here.
I can't further the idea that foreign aid will continue to be the opiate of the masses. That's not “sustainable”. But it broke my heart listening to the hurt that was being poured out in these villages, knowing that I could help in a small way if only for a second. I can only volunteer to try and help create something that can be sustainable. I don't know what that is. I don't know if I can even truly help, but I can try.

Sheared Sheep

As a sheep is sheared, it's long thick curls are peeled back from its skin to reveal a changed being. It is now the orange beneath the rind. Stripped of its protected layer, it now leaks sticky tears of citrus. I gave into the same act of malevolence, except on this occasion I was intoxicated and my usual protective rind was thrown away unabashedly to allow my head to be shaved. What of the gorgeous fresh-out-of-the-salon do of yesteryear? What of the begrudged memories of elementary school? The large dome and scrawny body back then did not mix as well as ... as ... say alcohol and scissors. For this time you see my friends, my body size now matches my head size to a larger degree (though I still have quite a large skull) and therefore I don't look like a mutant. But there is one caveat to the resolution of this story. The razor that I had bought for 200 birr was of the not-working varietal. So scissors be damned, the devil that provoked the cuttage of locks had her last laugh as my hair had many small plateaus and valleys.

If you've hung out with me long enough to have me tell you about travel, you've definitely heard me speak of couchsurfing. I love the idea. I love meeting new people. I love traveling and learning about culture. To quickly describe couchsurfing, it is a website that allows you to network with people from all over the world and either allow them to stay on your “couch” or ask them if they would allow you stay on their “couch”. The whole process is free on either side of the board. No one pays a dime in the interaction. You may clean the hosts dishes or make the host dinner as a “thank you”, but really the experience is about meeting new people and experiencing life for its diversity. Well to sum it up, I was quite excited to have my first couchsurfers in Ethiopia. They were two Spaniards that have been biking from Nepal for the past year. I made them food (black bean burgers, potato soup, chocolate cake) , they made me Spanish food (the tortillas de patata was awesome). We had great conversation. They also taught me Reiki (a meditative exercise dealing with chakras and energy). The whole experience was great and I can't wait to host and learn from more travelers.

I can hear the hyenas on most nights if I wake up after midnight. The sound of their call is like a slide whistle that slides up instead of down. Take the sound you know as a whistle and change into a whoop. Whoooooooooooooop. It is unmistakable. If you haven't seen a hyena, they are usually bigger than dogs here. I have only seen one once. It had an arched back that whispered to me that it was a crooked, evil creature. One night one of the other volunteers that lives in Dessie was greeted by not one but four hyenas. To cross the bridge to get to this person's house, you have to pass by a dumpster that dogs and hyenas usually scavenge from. Hyenas are pack animals. They hunt in packs. Luckily for this person, three of them scattered. Imagine that you are this person and you walk across the same bridge while just one of these beasts stares into your soul. Okay, maybe I'm being a little bit melodramatic. She was safe and nothing happened. But I wanted to be face-to-face with evil incarnate and so did the Spaniards. So one night with defensive staffs and flashlights in hand we walked like Elmer Fudd all around the area with the trash bins. Every sound was clear. My night vision was clear. Occasionally I would twist my flashlight on for a split second to illuminate the shadows around us. Nothing. We walked into the forest behind my house with the trees casting moving shadows all around us. An illusionary army of hyenas clawing their way towards us was just out of sight. Nothing. We walked for two hours. Nothing. Someone come visit me so that we can look for them wabbits together.

I have fancy new gadgets. A fancy new Phoenix bike and a sheesha/hookah pipe. The bike doesn't have tassles on the handlebars, but I'm thinking strongly about putting a deck of cards in the rear tire. Kids that have bikes here hella pimp their rides. They get tassled velvet-looking seat coverings and Jesus/Allah stickers are the new in/hip thing. I'm thinking that spicing up my bike wouldn't be that bad. Phoenix in Amharic is pronounced phonics. I've given up telling locals about the mythological fiery bird of the names origins, let alone that hot hot city in Arizona. The only tough part is the number of yous, antes (you in Amharic), farenjis, laughs, snickers, and Chinas I hear increases like America's outstanding debt when I ride the bike. Oh well, something I'll have to get used to. As for the sheesha, I found it in Dessie and I am quite happy to report that the first night I smoked it I learned how to blow smoke rings. YES! This of course is thanks to sensei (the person that taught me the strategy), a person who deserves the title. Next goal is to learn how to blow smokey-ships like Gandalf.

Cultural screw-ups. Those times when you say or do something that is inappropriate in a specific setting. Allah knows I've had them. I've said or done things that aren't culturally appropriate, but not once have I felt heavy guilt from a screw-up in Ethiopia. Until the water line. Currently I have not had water for almost 3 weeks now. It sucks, but you get used to it. Almost the whole neighborhood has the same exact problem. Wuha Yellem. There is no water. I have gotten water before from the local well, but only by myself or with foreigners. This time my neighbor offered to come with me and help me lug back water. The lines at this watering hole, especially in the morning can become very long. So when we arrived, there was a line of say 8 huge water canisters per water spout, which is extremely short. To get through all 8 canisters in any given line would've taken about 30 minutes. In the past, the man in charge of the water has let us bypass the line. He also didn't charge us. I thought nothing of it because we had small buckets that filled up quickly. I usually refuse farenji (foreigner) special treatment in every given situation. I want to be treated the same as everyone else. But this time, when I was offered special treatment, I accepted it blindly without looking at the unfairness of the situation. After we filled up our buckets, my compound-mate looked a little disgusted. That's when it hit me. That's when I realized the injustice in my small action. I didn't come here to have things handed to me on a silver platter. I came to help people. To instill the idea that all foreigners aren't dollar signs or privileged folk. That foreigners are human beings just like everyone else. That one small action of cutting in line furthered the negative stigma. The guilt has faded from my mind, but not the learned lesson. Never take advantage of a situation to the detriment of others.

Finally to end this post with a glimmering shimmering conclusion. My English class to HIV/AIDS orphaned and vulnerable children is the twinkle in my eye, despite having to wake up early on Saturday mornings. As such, what should be a fitting song to indulge them with but Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. It's been a song that I return to in class frequently and they seem to know it well right now. It's the cutest thing when you get to parts of the song that they know best and how the decibel of their singing increases dramatically. But I digress, in the most recent class I taught, I had them name classroom objects and colors. I split them into two competing teams. The team that won got two candies and the team that lost got one candy. Under small boxes, I would put a random object in and they would have to say “This is a/an ...” or “This color is ...” as I said “On your marks, get set, go!”. The first person on either team to say it correctly and completely got points. Anyways, when I asked them to pick team names, the first team's name was Team Snake. Impressive, I thought to myself. I would've and would still pick a name like that for my team.
Something manly and dangerous about snakes. Then, I just about cried. The 2nd team wanted their name to be Team Twinkle. Teaching can be a pain in the ass, but I'm sure that's what makes it for teachers. Those small moments when you feel that you are teaching something and that “your” kids love you for it.

Thanks to Grandpa and Grandma for the goodies and kind words. Thanks to Becky for a book that will help me to continually expand my exploration, wine, and of course the Chinese medicine. If anyone was thinking of sending me a care package, I could really use some new tunes on a cheap USB stick. Amazing folk/acoustic artists will help me to expand on my guitar skillzzz, but anything you like or anything that's different is equally as important. I'd love you forever and of course you would receive a small piece of Ethiopia and my heart in return.

Not So Full House

I have debated holding off on writing a blog entry on my house until a later point in time due to the slightly untidy nature of my abode. You see my friends, the road construction in my neighborhood took a turn for the worse. I don't mind finding new holes to walk into on the streets around my house, but this new problem has created some difficulties for me. There isn't and won't be water in my house for an unspecified number of days. Right now, I am on day 9. What this means is that keeping my floors mopped, my latrine watered and washing dishes has become an algebraic equation. A part of me enjoys this rationing scale of life. As a result, I have rationed my house to a state of slight messiness and slight cleanliness. I would like to stress the notion that the difficulties of life that are commonplace for me here in Ethiopia make life all the more beautiful and poignant, so please don't assume that any of this is complaint.

Because I know you all will not judge me for my lack of cleanliness, I'm going to start this visual walk through with a visit to my room of rest. The ceiling is a white chessboard above me. In the center of the chessboard is a chandelier that you might find in a temple to Bacchus ... if Bacchus also happened to live next to Barbie. It's gold-rooted veneer moves into purple flowers and fruiting from this is a plethora of dangling circle and rod earrings that bud into plastic grapes. The walls in my room are an amazing sky blue, offset by a light blue mosquito net strung to a wire running directly over my bed. I set this wire up so that I could easily move the mosquito net onto my bed during the rainy season when mosquitoes want to come over for blood tea. Luckily though, I won't be getting malaria in Dessie, the elevation is too high for malarial mosquitoes. On the wall next to my bed are postcards and pictures from the letters and postcards I have received from friends and family. They greet me good days and bad and remind of the loved ones I miss dearly. Below this is a wicker table that hosts a framed picture of my father, mother, and brother, a flashlight, a camera, a deck of Rook cards, a book entitled “Helping Health Workers Learn”, and a receipt for the dresser that is currently being made by a local craftsman for 600 birr. From my bed, I can look out my barred window to a slivered view of Mount Tossa, a governmental office for Dessie, and large eucalyptus trees. My mattress on my bed is bowed from my egregious weight, or rather I should've popped for a better mattress. My bed is still comfortable, but you just end up sliding into the middle of it like a lion ant's trap or maybe Boba Fett into a monster's belly. Strewn haphazard on my bed are red lumberjack blankets and blue flowered sheets, a measure of my dichotomous personality. The sheets I purchased seemed to have been made for a twin bed instead of my full bed, so they tend be pulled in with Boba Fett and I when we sleep. Below that is my creaky wooden bed frame, another procurement from local artisans. On the concrete floor next to me is my makeshift dresser, a cardboard box ripped at it's seem to hold piles of clean clothing. In the corner is a section of floor/basketball hoop that houses my laundry bag. As we open the door to exit to the hallway we can make a right to the bathroom, we can head straight for the secondary bedroom, or we can make a left to run into the kitchen and/or living room.

You picked right to head to the bathroom. Good choice! The walls are tiled in white, an indication of this bathroom's purity. Above the sink that is tilted to provide a soap dish marshland for incoming water, is a hand mirror gilded with plastic diamonds hung from a nail. Here I spend a good portion of my morning primping for the day. To my left is the shower a walled tiled rectangle at knee's height. I was gifted with a hand-held extension for the shower so now I have unidirectional cleanliness. One small thing that keeps me on a multi-day shower detail is how damned cold the water is in my city. Behind me when I'm facing the vanity mirror is the latrine, reminding me that my balance is not as attuned as I'd like it to be. It has remarkable flushing power to rival that of the finest airlines and it also came bejeweled, with speckled cement. Just recently I spotted a very hairy millipede/centipede thing that emerged from the crack in the wall next to the sink. It looks poisonous, but my lack of knowledge in entomology leaves me with skepticism about its intent. Altogether a very nice bathroom and I do not say that with sarcasm (like most of this post seems to be written with). After basking in the glory that is the shint bet, shall we make a right to the 2nd bedroom or continue down the hallway to the kitchen and living room?

I would've picked the closest destination too. The 2nd bedroom has the same general lay out of my room, with a tad bit less size being the major difference. Due to the lack of storage receptacles this room has been converted into a storage area for most things. You can find here a wealth of medical apparatus, books, bags, knick knacks, patty whacks, and especially bones. Well wasn't that boring. Sorry.

As we exit the 2nd bedroom we see to our right a doorway that opens up into a place of absolute wonderment and titillation. The kitchen with its double sink that leaks onto the floor (really it does, the pipes below the sink are not connected to a drainage system), with the rickety kitchen table that rocks precariously when I roll out dough with my wine bottle rolling pin. I also sprang for a butane stove that gives me the ability to quickly cook many things, even when power is lacking. If you were to think to yourself, I wonder which room Jon likes the most, it might just be the kitchen (at least until he gets a sheesha/hookah pipe). The spices and herbs either bought in Addis or donated by good friends and family help him to paint with the palette of the palate. On the floor lies a bucket for kitchen water and two tubs for washing and rinsing dishes. And finally, the kitchen floor holds his dutch oven. Take that Nicolas.

This leaves us with our final destination, the living room. The yellow walls blend in the large amount of light that is buttered throughout the room through the 2 windows and the large windowed door that takes up the majority of the front wall of the house. I have, as of yet, purchased any curtains for my house, so I am a peeping tom's fantasy. As is likely in Ethiopia, the other people that live in my compound know everything that goes on in my house, the un-curtained windows just make it an aquarium-like experience. The room is mostly barren, barring the carpeted area, Orthodox umbrella, and two mattresses (thanks to Alison who has recently left back to Great Britain). The mattresses are covered with the flowery sheets that are so common in Ethiopia. The mattresses are cornered together and provide an adequate couch situation aided by back-support in the form of the rough pillows that are easily purchased for 20 birr a piece. For romantic evenings (by myself of course), I have two wine bottle candelabra and a candle sent straight from Santa Cruz, CA that smells of surf wax. Also in this room are gardening tools, a jump to conclusions mat, a poster reminding me to always do what is best for the company, and my guitar.

My house is comfortable. It is much too big for what I'd need here, but at the same end of the spectrum it's home. I will of course add to what I call home as time passes by, with both memories and curtains. Thanks to Mike and Karen Gardner for the huge package (way too generous!!), Kat for the knitted Ethiopian scarf (it's brilliant!), Libby for the St. Patrick's Day love, and Zander for the beer chiller (being that I don't have a fridge, it will be used quite often). Arsie keep the letter love coming :)

Talk to you soon!

Jon

Keeping Abreast of Jon

Days are blowing through like the dust that blows through Dessie; thick with personal accomplishments and mixed with a little bit of exhaust. I continually find myself smiling at the smallest achievements or the smallest experiences in life. I have even caught myself chuckling to myself for no apparent reason. I don't even know why I was laughing, but it was a spontaneous bout of glee set on by doing the dishes and listening to Iron & Wine. I find that while I miss so many things exceptionally (including friends and family) that the simplicities of life here have a strange happiness effect on me.

While I have tried to find some tasks to do through the organizations I work with, it seems that I will have to come up with my own work. I expected as much, but I feel a tad bit useless in realizing that I haven't really started the work that I came to the Peace Corps to do. I've only been at my site for 4 weeks now, but in the mean time I have been getting to know my community and my town. I have attended a training for Intrahealth and done some research for PSI, but I think and hope I will start to achieve more shortly.

One thing I am quite stoked on is something a British VSO that recently left asked me to take over for her. I am now teaching children who have been affected by HIV/AIDs English on Saturday mornings. They are very young and have in many cases not been able to attend schooling on a consistent basis. There are a couple of kids that always take part in class, but it seems I will have to come up with some better ways to motivate them in class as I see wondering eyes and vacant expressions. I wonder how my teachers felt when I started to drift in class. While I have really only taught them the American ABCs and “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star”, I have plans to teach them the most annoying song in the world ... Lambchop's “This is the Song That Never Ends” next class with accompaniment from my trusty steed, my guitar. I hope I don't have a flurry of parents complaining in rapid Amharic to me after I teach them the never-ending song.

At the end of class I was bum-rushed by all of the children all catapulting their hands toward me. It's always a mixed bag with the children. I don't turn down an extended hand from a child and believe you me I've had many a hand stuck out towards me, but it seems more often than not that it's a sweaty/sticky/wet surprise that greets me with its sludgy embrace. Alex, one of the bright students ended up holding my hand and walking me to the Post Office after class. In the United States I would be tasered and detained indefinitely, but in Ethiopia children holding hands with adults that they hardly know seems to be a sign of respect. To any degree, the whole goal of the class is to get them interested in learning English, so if you have any amazing lesson plan ideas, send them my way. I'll need all the help I can get. The social worker that helps with the class told me that some of the children said that they really enjoy my class. I guess I'm taking a step in the right direction.

So the garden is slowly but surely coming along. It took me awhile to get my pick axe finished (had to make the handle), but now I can bust through the gardener's nightmare of rock-hard clay and quarries of rock. Those girlishly soft hands that you know and love will be a thing of the past the next time you see me. Also, I have started my compost heap and it seems to be coming along swimmingly. To activate the thermophiles that kill off weed seeds, I had to trek around and continue the “what is the farenji doing this time” program by picking up the random animal droppings that inhabit the roads by my house. I hit the jackpot and found dried manure lying next to someone's house. After asking if I could take it from a bewildered older lady, I proceeded to collect. Imagine me with white gardening gloves scooping manure into plastic buckets with the lid of the bucket. I suppose it has similarities to an upper torso limbo with Stretch Armstrong-like arms extended downwards. To show how hardcore she is, a younger girl came out and picked up the manure with her bare hands and deposited the remainder in my buckets. Show off! The locals seem to get a kick out of my antics of carrying bales of straw on my back, transporting whole trees, and picking up manure in buckets. What will I do next? Stay tuned.

Most of the rest of my time I've spent reading, cleaning, buying stuff for my house, playing guitar, or cooking. Cooking is the long lost friend that I never really called. I've been calling him a lot lately. We're on a first name basis. Cooking and I have been creating all our food from scratch: burritos with enchilada sauce (with flour tortillas), kung pao vegetable, pizza, pasta, potato masala, avocado tomato soup, samosas, and yes even brownies (the altitude of 8,500 feet and inability to accurately control a dutch oven's (a big pot on a stove with a smaller pot inside) temperature made it a little bit more of an accomplishment. Maybe now I can gain back the 10-15 pounds that I've lost since moving to Ethiopia. The one difficulty that I had regarding Ethiopia has now been solved. I find myself actually wanting to eat shiro and misir wot with injera from time to time. I'm sure that I'll soon start to crave it.

In other news, during a bout of candle-lit dinner (which happens at least once a week due to scheduled power outages) a spider the width of a coffee cup appeared on the wall across from me. It scared the brownie out of me. I was about to smack it with a shoe when a friend trapped it in a coffee cup and threw it outside. Commence whole body shivers. Those things really creep me out. From now on I sleep with one eye open, one hand on my longsword the other on a religious text. Thanks Nick and Juawana for the package and Arsie and Libby for more letter love. Stay tuned shortly for a visual tour through Casa De Jon.

P.S. I had an email from Fresh Air Fund Counselors asking that I mention their cause. You can read more about volunteering with them at http://freshairfundcounselors.smnr.us/.

Talk to you soon <3

Qesbeqes Settling In

Here I am at 6:24 (or 00:24 in Habesha time) in the morning waking from a drugged sleep. After 4 days of “running”, I was given the go ahead to relieve my runner's high. Already this morning I feel like a million birr. Currently I'm sitting on my foam mattress on my cement flooring next to my bed with the missing frames. Above me hangs the apple of my affection, a purple plastic flower and grape chandelier. It has all the charm of Sesame Street with a dash of 5-year old dress-up added in for good measure. By the way that reminds me of the dress-up names that my brother and I had as children, Jay-lean and Joan. Don't judge. But I digress, my house is strewn with the belongings I have collected thus far, but I have no furniture to speak of.

Between picking up food and cooking supplies and trying to straighten up my house/do laundry, I've been keeping decently busy here. The roads in the city are now torn up to the point of post-apocalypse, so getting around is a bit of a pain with my 45-minute walk to the center of town from my house. First topic of cooking, making tacos from scratch. Wish me luck as I don't have a taco press or a rolling pen or a table for that matter. A bottle of Gouder wine (pronounced Goo-der: ploy in advertisement, the wine takes like sulfur) will be my rolling pen when I do end up getting a table. Good grief.

Already I've experience a couple of firsts. On my 1st evening in my house the rain came down upon me like a category Vincent hurricane (that's a category 6 for those not in the know). It actually didn't rain that hard, but the tin roofs that are so common here amplify the effects to heavy metal proportions. At that time, I thought it apt that I should bust out the guitar I bought from a fellow PCV and work through my butchered version of Moonlight Sonata that I've been dutifully transcribing onto the guitar. Even though my skills are not even close to acceptable on the guitar, the combined sounds of Beethoven and bolting rain put me at ease with all the anxiety I have about actually living alone (might I add in Ethiopia) for the first time in my life. As the time of my strummed soliloquy rolled forward, I realized that I was late. Trekking to dinner after a heavy rain is a torturous event in Ethiopia. The path that I was to take was replaced with a waterfall. After a bout of the “hell no's”, I cinched my belt, harnessed my misgivings and clawed my way up the stepped storm-age. I arrived for dinner bringing cake, or rather the 40-some pounds of caked mud that now turned my shoes into something more like a snowshoe. I mentally added another trip to the market to buy galoshes for the upcoming short rainy season.

Last night, I woke up to the sound of hyenas outside the gate to my compound. I still have not seen a hyena yet, but I was stalked by a couple of rabid dogs the other night. Luckily my trusty pocket flashlight that JP gave me back in San Francisco stopped them dead in their tracks. For the rest of the nervous walk home, I was a human lighthouse sprinkling my light down each side-path and towards my back to make sure that nothing else was stalking me.

Also, recently one of my site mates purchased some straw for me to start my compost pile. It was a wonderful thing to do and I was quite stoked that she took the time to buy these two huge stacks. As I was debating on how I should get it home, I once again cinched my belt and threw the bale over my shoulders. Now mind you, I draw attention comparable to a scientist's love of amoebas in a petri dish, but carrying a hay bale down the main road of Dessie is almost Brangelina bad. I think people were more shocked to see a farenji carrying a load of straw on his back like a rural habesha (Ethiopian). But more than anything the lady that stopped and decided to help me flag and pay for a cab after my grass rope for the bales had broken, as well as the old rural gentlemen who immediately set to re-bundling my straw at this point made the situation all the more interesting and vivid. Ethiopians are so damn helpful.

Yesterday I received 3 packages (two from my folks and one from Erika). I also recently received letters from Libby, Arsie, Kaitlin, Karin, Kat, and Sarah. Just want to say thanks for the love and let you know the letters were received and much appreciated.

Also, I thought some of you would be interested to know that our volunteer group had a special appearance on the state-run E-TV channel for our swearing-in ceremony. Also, here is the news article regarding our swearing-in. Keep in mind that they used pictures from last years volunteers in the article, so you won't find me in the article.

On my list of things to do:

1)Finish straightening up and furnishing my house (although we aren't given enough birr to actually get everything we need in the first month) 2)Go in to work and start learning how I can add some sustainable positive change in my community 3)Take my 3-year old grasp of the Amharic language and increase it to a 4-year olds grasp 4)Start my garden and compost (thanks again mom and dad for all the seeds and veggie meat) 5)Get better at the guitar 6)Become a Ratatouille-type chef 7)Read and become more knowledgeable 8)Finally, I would like to improve my writing skills :)