When the Sour Bite of Injera Finally Sweetened
Like on cue, tears shamelessly trickled down as the vehicle carrying me and my colleagues left my house for the airport.
“Sorry, I’m crying,” shyly wiping away the tears that clouded my eyes. “I’d be concerned if you did not,” said my fellow volunteer who came down for a visit. If that was a movie, I swear I would be up for nomination for best actress. Hands down.
As we cruised by the patches of green and brown fields, I could not help but reminisce the day when I first got the taste of life in Ethiopia.
“Chocolate crepes!” I felt my heart beat faster with delight after seeing the brown piles of rolled-up thin cake-like dish on the table among the spread on the table. I had to give in. One, two. Wait, one more. Why resist? I took a bite. “This is definitely not crepe.” The trance I was prepared to be in dissolved that second, as I labored to swallow my first bite of injera, the staple food in Ethiopia that is made from tef that uniquely grows there.
Hard to believe that sixteen months had since passed.
(Continuation here: http://www.travelblog.org/Africa/Ethiopia/Benishangul-Gumuz-Region/Asosa/blog-785636.html )
Being Pensive.
Solitude is often a companion when traveling alone. But then she allows thoughts to flow in freely. Reflection becomes easy. Beauty and goodness is seen even in the smallest of things or gestures. Love is magnified.
Then you get to meet angels along the way. They keep you company and safe. They keep you sane. They keep that smile across your face when the journey has become a little bit trying.
(Photo: Morondava, Toliara, Madagascar)
Dusk. Serenity. Bliss.
(Photo: Morondava, Toliara, Madagascar)
(Photo: Vezo fishermen on their pirogue early in the morning for the day’s catch. Itampolo, Toleara, Madagascar)
“It is only with the heart that one can see rightly. What is essential is invisible to the eye.” (Antoine de Saint Exupéry, The Little Prince)
It was so magical the way he painted the baobabs on this novel. Chased after them after 16 or so years. I’m going home satisfied. c”,)
(Photo: Baobabs in Morondava, Madagascar)
What is a great way to end a long-term volunteer work?
Travel. c”,)
So me and my backpack have been roughing it up over the past 4 weeks in Madagascar. Went local (but still paid at times like a tourist!). We’ve been regulars of all their means of public transportation — taxi-be (like marshrutkas), taxi-brousse (trucks that take passengers), real truck (that’s brimming with stuffs and animals, then filled with 50-60 people if space permits….what space?!), back of pick-up cars also filled with things and people, pirogue (a small boat operated by paddle and sail), and cart pulled by zebu.
Met wonderful people. Saw wonderful and remote places. Experienced another country — its people and culture. Learned a lot.
Fun. Tiring. Body (and pocket) aching.
(Photo: This ring-tailed lemur posed for me, as if on cue. Tsinamanpesotse National Park, Tsinamanpesotse, Madagascar)
Kok
I confess: I was party to a homicide. And it was actually funny.
“Aay, aay…” muttered Abduwahid as he stepped on the break. Two brown chicken-like birds decided to cross the road as we were cruising the highway. One managed to escape unscathed and gave one last forlorn look at its companion.
“Did we hit it?” The thought that we killed something mortified me. Without any response, Abduwahid went back. “That’s so nice of him to not just drive away,” I thought.
The driver got off the vehicle, walked around the back to check on the crime scene. The kok was lying on the ground with its eyes closed and barely breathing.
The driver left and went to the bushes on the other side of the road and, after a couple of minutes, came back with dried twig that he fashioned into a sharp object. He took out from his shirt pocket a palm-sized prayer book, opened it and said a short prayer in Arabic.
After the prayer, he lifted the bird’s head, took the twig and slit the throat of the animal.
“Impressive. He prayed over and ended the suffering of the bird. Now he is going to bury it,” I thought, as he carried the lifeless kok.
Abduwahid went to the vehicle, opened the door and took a plastic bag. As he placed the bird inside the plastic bag, he turned to me, smiled and said “Lunch”.
And once more, I found myself asking: “So why did the chicken (technically it is one, Abduwahid said) cross the road?”
(Photo: Lorie and her friend taking a cool dip in a lake in Arba Minch, Ethiopia.)
“We did it! We did it!” in the words of the great Dora the Explorer herself. These boys and girls from our Speech & the Arts (STAR…ehem) Club successfully conceptualized, wrote, and staged their very own play that tackled equal access to education for both boys and girls.
If you’ve seen them ten months ago, you would agree with me how far they have gone and improved. Their self-confidence has reached a new level, I would say. One of the girls used to be so shy I could barely hear her voice. Lo and behold! She came out of her shell and gave us a fine act.
I’m so proud of them. Makes leaving Assosa a bittersweet thought.
“They wanted to look at my boobs,” I told my friend when I extricated myself from a group of Mursi women. “Yeah, someone there just got to third base with me,” she said.
Tables had been turned. We were the interesting kind. A lot of the Mursi women were wondering why we were covered up…and why our boobs were “imprisoned” somewhere.
I sort of envy them as they are free like that. Breasts for them are purely non-sexual. I wonder who started making breasts as sexual objects? I should probably do research on that soon.
So, did I show them? I couldn’t do it. I guess I missed my chance at flashing myself (not that I am looking for another).
Happy International Women’s Day (tomorrow)!
(Photo: A Mursi woman showing her scars, a sign of beauty. Yes, she was actually wearing a bra. A red one at that. Nice, eh? Go girl power!)
(Photo: Another Hamar woman with iron rings on neck, indicating she’s married. The additional protrusion in front signifies she’s the first wife.)
The Hamar women from South Omo are known for their tradition of bearing the pains of getting whipped to show their love and devotion for male relatives, as well as getting scarred as a symbol of beauty.
The extremely painful and scarring whipping is done before the bull-jumping ceremony that a Hamar male undergoes as part of rite of passage to manhood. The women incite and beg the maza to flog them. The maza is a group of unmarried males who already finished the bull-jumping rites, who live separately from the tribe and goes from one ceremony to another as part of their livelihood. The male relative becomes indebted to the women from the family for undertaking such a sacrifice.
I once declared that I will not go and see the Hamar people because I don’t want to show support to how their women are being treated. I know this is part of an age-old tradition that would be difficult to stop, particularly when tourists flock to their villages to witness how it’s done. BUT surely, there must be a way to let them see that there are other measures to show love for family.
(Photo: A Hamar woman in Turmi market with scar-laden back from prior floggings)
Why am I volunteering in Ethiopia? Because one day, I saw a picture of a man from the Mursi tribe and I told myself, I will go see them. Twenty five months later, after debating with myself if I really would like to pay just to get a photo of them, I gave in. Might as well, right?
BUT I’m glad I did.
Far from what other people have said about them being aggressive and only wanting money from tourists, the Mursi people are actually very lovely, friendly, and plain wonderful. They are very willing to share their culture and let outsiders in on how they go on with their daily lives.
Paying for a photo of / with them is a double-edged sword. On one hand, they get additional funds that could help them; on the other hand, the authenticity of how things are is lost as they try to preserve traditions for touristy purposes.
I would love them to preserve their traditions but not in this way. I hope that in the very near future the government would be able to figure out a way to get them out of this trade and be able to provide them easy access to basic services like health and education.
(Photo: A Mursi woman who gamely danced with us one fine morning at Mago National Park)
Don’t be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world without end, amen.
a woman beside her 2-day old baby inside their dark house, warmed by embers of firewood, the smoke from which filled the air
(Photo: Metema Gorabiche kebele, Bambasi, Ethiopia)
that moment when you capture the glitter of pure joy in the eyes
(Photo: A boy from Womba kebele, Bambasi, Ethiopia)
