Released from Lock-Down!

Our three months of being confined to our sites is finally over.
Christie, Straw, and I took the opportunity to head to Gondar for the
weekend, with my friend from the Clinton Foundation and his wife (it's
about 3 hours North of me). I'm trying hard not to be insanely jealous
of the volunteers living in Gondar. It's a great little city, tucked
into the foothills, cool and breezy, and full of medieval castles,
pine trees, and much-friendlier-than-in-Bahir-Dar street kids. We
spent the weekend relaxing (being away from work!), cooking delicious
food, meeting fabulous travelers from all over the world, and
exploring the city.

On the way up to Gondar in my friend's car—got to avoid the bus!—we
stopped to see a castle built in 1537. It was already about a million
degrees out and the sun was pretty intense, but the mile or so walk up
to the site was absolutely lovely. A group of four little boys, about
10 or 11 years old, followed us all the way up. They were sweet, until
we got to the wall surrounding the castle, at which point, the four of
them ran in front of us, made a line blocking the path, and told us
that we had to stop, that they were the guards, and that we had to pay
them 10 birr (about a dollar). Um, no, we're not going to pay you, we
say, and we go back and forth for a few minutes, arguing about whether
or not they could actually charge us to get in there. They finally
relented when we just decided to push through the brambles to get in.
A slightly older guy showed up a little later, and reiterated that we
needed to pay 10 birr, apiece. The castle was beautiful, and worth it,
so we just ponied up. This "guard" was probably no more legitimate
than the kids, and we realized that the kids didn't get anything out
of the deal (and 50 birr is the equivalent of a couple of days worth
of work), but what can you do? None of us spoke Amharic with enough
authority to get out of being cheated. Hindsight is 20/20. And I
suppose he needed it more than we did.

In Gondar, we stopped by the Tara Center, where the three PCVs living
there volunteer some of their time. It's a
child-sponsorship/environmental/animal rescue/artisan
support/generally amazing NGO run by an Englishwoman who's married to
an Ethiopian man. The most exciting moment of the visit? Having a baby
Gelada baboon (named Mary, no less) sit on my shoulder and groom my
hair. Yes, this is Africa.

Got back to Bahir Dar on Sunday afternoon, and met up with Levi and
Megan, who was visiting town. Meg is one of the only volunteers who
can cut hair, and we opened up an impromptu salon on my lawn. In the
dark. She cut hair by the light of a headlamp. It was a very Peace
Corps moment. I'm planning to have my hair braided into elaborate
cornrows in a couple of weeks by the hair cutters who live down the
block from me; they've been eyeing my hair since I moved in.

Less than two weeks now until our In-Service Training. Time is
simultaneously both flying and crawling along. Each day feels long,
but suddenly it's the end of the week, or indeed of the month. Been in
country nearly 6 months now, which is hard to believe.

P.S. Exciting news: mangos are in season as of a week or two ago. Four
birr for a kilo, which I will be buying approximately, oh, all the
time. Sad news: tomatoes are no longer in season. The ones that are
left are yellow and scrawny. Funny how much my life revolves around
produce…

A Little Red Tape

March 10

On Friday morning, I handed our Safety & Security officer a manila
envelope stamped with four official looking purple Bureau of
Immigration stamps across its flap and the Amhara Regional insignia on
its face. In it were two letters (each itself generously and variously
stamped), a photocopy, and some forms that I had fought for most of
Wednesday afternoon to procure. This whole process, of course, is to
get a replacement card for my stolen Ethiopian Resident ID Card.

The odyssey started at the police station. I arrived around 12:30pm,
thinking that some officers were bound to be on duty during lunch, and
that in fact the station might be less busy. That was true, I suppose,
but didn't really serve me. I chatted for a long time with the lone
guy on duty. He spoke no English, so we had a halting conversation in
Amharic, trying to find my police report, and, more importantly,
trying to figure out what exactly I was doing here in Ethiopia (this,
if you hadn't gotten the idea, is a very common topic of conversation
here). Next, my buddy offers me some coffee. It was probably 90F
degrees out at this time of day. I politely declined, citing the heat.

"But that's exactly why you should drink it!" he exclaims, "for making
an internal-external balance." I laugh…and somehow the next think I
know, there's a cup in my hand and I'm being asked if it's delicious
(to its credit, yes, it is).

Still no report located. Hmmm. What date was the theft? That depends
on what day it is today. It's March 7th by my reckoning, but we can't
seem to come to an agreement over whether it's the 25th or the 26th of
February in the Ethiopian calendar. We decide it's probably the 26th,
counting exaggeratedly on our fingers. Knowing the date doesn't help
to find my report though. I begin to suspect we're just stalling for
time.

Indeed, finally, the Chief Inspector (lots of stars on his shoulders)
arrives, and, because he speaks good English, is able to help me
figure out what I need: A piece of paper to request the forms
requesting the letter from the police to the Immigration Bureau. I
discover that I can purchase it from the tiny office next to the
police station. I do, and the Inspector helps me to write the letter
(that is, he dictates it to an underling while I sit back and get
confused).

But, alas, the man who does the stamps and the filling-out-of-forms is
still out on lunch break. Wait here, I am told. No, on second thought,
come with me, the Inspector beckons. And that is how I end up having
my second tea/coffee break with the Ethiopian police force, a cup of
tea being forced upon me, quite generously. Another conversation about
what, precisely, it is that I am doing here.

Back to the station, and, unfortunately, still no form/stamp man. I
wait in the office with a few of the cops. We attempt to make small
talk in Amharic; I have long since run out of anything to say, my
vocabulary really being sufficient for about a 15-minute conversation
(we're now on hour 2). They keep asking for my name for various
registers. I tell one of them, and then tell him that my surname means
"tall man." This is just about the funniest thing he has ever heard,
and he brings in three of his buddies and makes me tell it again.

Around 2, the stamp/form man finally arrives, stamps my letter and
tells me to go purchase the forms from the same tiny office. I do, and
some belabored carbon-copy and record-book action (and another 30
minutes or so) later, I am finally able to walk out of the station
with an official letter from the Bahir Dar police requesting a letter
from the Bahir Dar Immigration Bureau.

It doesn't quite end there, though. The hour sitting in the
Immigration office waiting for my letter to be typed was uneventful.
By that time I was numb to the process.

I've never been prouder of acquiring anything in my life, as I was
when I was handed over that majestic letter. And I will never complain
about the DMV again.

A Sad Goodbye, Peaches, Theives, and the Baby Room (Every Day an Adventure...)

Saturday, March 1

I was in the middle of a good sulk, hating just about everything about my life here (more about that in a minute) when I tried my first "kok," a tiny, rock hard, green peach. It was truly the most delightful thing I've encountered in months. Juicy, sweet, and totally not how you would imagine it would taste, looking at the little fuzzy green thing. Thirty cents for a half-kilo—this is decidedly a find.

 

I found the "kok" at the market, which is already one of my least favorite places in Bahir Dar, and became even more so today. It's crowded, overwhelming, hot, smelly in some parts, and populated by far too many aggressive teenage boys who will gladly carry your bags or help you find what you're looking for, for a price. There are also a lot of grabby, pushy kids; the market is definitely the number one site for unprovoked pinches and slaps (and, to be fair, hand-holding and patting).

 

Today, I was almost done with my shopping. I was ninety-nine percent done, in fact, and ready to get on a motorcycle taxi back home. When someone stole my wallet. I didn't even see it happen. One minute it was sitting there at the top of my market bag, and the next, when I turned back around, eggs and lemons purchased (yes, they come from the same vendor; don't ask), it was gone. F… I looked around, asked my egg-and-lemon-lady (who is great and totally trustworthy) if she had seen it. Nothing. Argh. Had to beg a bajaj driver to take me home for free. We established that I was a volunteer here, and he said that, for today, he too would be a volunteer. He brought me all the way to my house, rather than just to the stop on the main road, which was incredibly nice. Got home and had a good cry, then called Peace Corps, who insisted that I should report this to the police.

 

So Levi and I traipsed all over town looking for the right police precinct (they call them "Police Centers") to report the incident, then, in a sloppy mixture of Amharic, English, and charades, filed a report. The demographic data they wanted about me included both the usual--age, citizenship, etc—but also religion, which I found odd. I said I was Christian (it's certainly not trying to explain agnosticism to the Bahir Dar police…). I'm fairly confident that nothing will come of all this. I walked a couple of officers back up to the place where it had disappeared, and they said they'd "ask some questions." I'm supposed to go back to the Police Center on Monday to check whether they've found anything. Unlikely, I think. Thankfully, all I had was the equivalent of about 20 bucks (a lot of money here, but not that much money in the grand scheme) and my Peace Corps ID, Ethiopian residency permit, Washington State driver's license, CPR certification, and REI membership card (ha, enjoy that, thief) in there. No passport, no credit cards. Could have been a lot worse. The driver's license picture was an exceptionally good one, though.

 

This is the kind of petty crime that is nothing but infuriating. Not scary, not really even invasive enough to make me feel vulnerable, not even important in the long-term, but just makes me feel like an idiot. I'm sure that it was just some kid who had seen me stash the wallet at the top of the bag. It's flipping frustrating to have this happen. Just such a hassle.

 

The theft is on top of some of the saddest news I've gotten since coming here: that Beth will be leaving town. She has to go for health reasons, and isn't happy about it. I'm incredibly upset about it; things certainly won't be the same here without her. Peace Corps is really losing a jewel in losing her. I hope that they realize it. The news of her departure has had me wondering the past couple of days if I'm really strong enough to do this on my own. I've relied on her so incredibly much, and will miss her terribly. Oh, adjustment.

 

Meanwhile, it's hot and dusty out, I'm recovering from another bout of the stomach flu, and am incredibly complain-y. I just washed my bed sheets, which is perhaps the worst chore here. There was no cheese at the one farenji grocery store. Whine. Maybe it's time for another peach.

 

 

Monday, March 3

I went today to an orphanage/daycare center that takes care of about 40 kids. It's run by an Australian family, with the goal of national or international adoptions for those kids whose families can't take care of them anymore. About 10 kids live on site, plus several full-time staff, the family (which has four kids of its own, including 18 month old adopted Ethiopian twins), and a volunteer or two at any time.

 

The place was entirely overwhelming, in all of the best ways. There is a room called the "baby room" (those of you who have seen my reaction when I get anywhere near a baby can imagine what I thought of that). In it, there were about 8 babies, ranging from about three months up to 16 months old, in various stages of crawling-ness, and all extraordinarily cute. One had just started smiling, and couldn't stop grinning goofily. One was absolutely terrified of me and scowled reproachingly at me. Cristina, an American volunteer (originally from outside of Denver, no less!), who was showing me around, said "feel free to touch them if you wash your hands." No need to tell me twice! I think I'll be going back approximately all the time to see and cuddle these little things. There was also a nap room, full of little cribs with mosquito nets draped over the top so that they looked like little cages. The "big kid" rooms (ages 2 – 4) were similarly fantastic, though I've never seen so many runny noses in my whole life. It must be absolutely overwhelming to work there—there're always at least a few of them who are sick (most live with their families or relatives and bring back germs to share with the others…), and there are always at least a few of them who are howling over something or another. But, man, are they precious. I might have to designate one set of clothes "kid-clothes" (my white shirt was pretty grimy when I left today) and go hang out with them more often.