Unchangeable Ethiopia

Today I’m mad at Ethiopia.  I’m frustrated that citizens care so little about the future of their country.  People say they want change, they want Ethiopia to be like America, they want a better future for their children, but they refuse to correct even the simplest of bad habits.

A few days ago, Tesfy, a student and close friend of mine called to tell me he was on his way to my house to tell me a story.  As we sat outside my house enjoying the nice weather, we chatted about school, his family and plans for university.  As a leader at school Tesfy dreamed up something called PCV Club, a spin off of our summer camp, where students practice English, discuss subjects like gender equality and HIV/AIDS and enjoy the company of friends.  I asked how the club was going and he said, “Katrin, it has caused me so many problems in school and life.”  I thought he was being his usual dramatic self so I asked him to explain.

He told me that a guard at the school had been causing him trouble, refusing to let him use the classrooms, lying about having the keys and generally being rude and disorderly.  Having had trouble with this same guard, I knew his pain.  The man is a drunk and instead of doing his job, he sexually harasses the girls at the school, berates students who participate in extracurricular or after school activities and leaves his post, despite having the keys to all the classrooms.  I’ve complained about this man to the woreda education office and to the high school administrators, but to no avail.  Tesfy had also involved teachers and administrators in an effort to stop the man from causing so many problems for students of the PCV club.  Nothing.

Tesfy went on to tell me that several weeks ago this guard, a man employed by the school, came to Tesfy’s house with a gun, pointed it at his chest and told him to leave him alone and stop making trouble.  He was angry that Tesfy had told the school about the problems the guard was causing.  Before leaving his house, the guard stole Tesfy’s textbooks and notebooks, leaving him without his important school materials.  Upon hearing this story, I asked Tesfy what he wanted me to do to help.  “Nothing,” he said, “I told the police and the school.”

“So the guard is finished, then?” I asked, sure that the situation must have been resolved.  Tesfy shook his head. Sure enough, I visited the school the next day, and guess who was standing at the gate, greedily eyeing young girls as they passed?  The very same guard who threatened a student’s life with a deadly weapon and slaps the butts of the females that pass through his gate.

Ethiopia, Atsbi, how can you let this happen?  How can students be expected to learn in an environment where they do not feel safe?  Why is this problem, which could easily be addressed by adults in the community, looked at as unsolvable? The man should be in jail, but instead, he continues to preside drunkenly over the gates of what should be the safest place in the community, the school.  Tesfy is a good kid and I’m heartbroken that he must endure so much just because he wants to be a leader.

Today Ethiopia?  Today I hate you.  Today I see the dusty, barren hillsides and instead of potential, I see nothing but an eternity of suffering, and it’s your own damn fault.

A Girls Getaway in Paradise

As our near-empty plane descended over the mesmerizing, azure waters of the Indian Ocean, we stared out the cabin windows, awe-struck.  Then, below us, an emerald green expanse appeared, surrounded by a silky, white setting of the softest looking sand.  Zanzibar has it all, mile-long beaches and iconic African culture, dense jungles and rich history, brilliantly teeming coral reefs and a flawless vacation atmosphere.  It really is paradise, and the perfect place for a week-long girl’s getaway.

Stone Town, the largest city on the island, is a maze of twisting, turning alleyways and market stalls exploding with every spice, fruit, and vegetable imaginable.  The Portuguese and Arab influenced architecture immediately capture one’s imagination and whisks them away to long-ago times ruled by sultans, colonial powers and a booming slave trade.  Today, though, this city is a tourist’s dream; it is both the jumping off point for an incredible array of day trips and the island’s historical, culinary, shopping and nightlife hub.

Bridget, Hayley and I spent three full days exploring the nooks and crannies of the ancient city.  Mornings were spent on excursions out of town, afternoons spent shopping and lounging on rooftop terraces that overlooked sparkling blue waters and evenings spent eating our way through piles of seafood and naan and sipping ginger-lime sugarcane juice on the peer.  One of our favorite outings was a boat ride to Prison Island, a tiny, picturesque key that is home to dozens of giant tortoises who love to have their necks scratched by obliging visitors.  Some of the beasts are upwards of 150 years old!  There are also tiny baby tortoises, but sadly, they’re kept locked up or else there would be one crawling around my bedroom right now.

Though we had an entire week on the island, we thought better of running ourselves ragged and only visited Stone Town and Nungwi, a small village on the northern-most tip of the island.  The two-hour daladala ride to the opposite end of paradise was no more painful than the Ethiopian equivalent, and waiting for us at the end were miles of pristine beaches and the promise of world-class coral reefs just below the water’s shimmering surface.  In Nungwi, one can begin to appreciate the island life for all it’s worth.  Every morning as the tide rolls out, the fisherman coast in on their wooden dhows, boats laden with the day’s fresh catch.  No matter the time of day, the already-delicious meals are improved upon with a breathtaking view and toes curled comfortably in the sand.  The harsh sun seems to move across sky at its own pace, and with cell phones and watches tucked away in suitcases, all indicators of time are lost.  “Hakuna matata,” they say.

Our four days in Nungwi brought on such a relaxed state of mind that the three of us found it difficult to do anything but stare out at the subdued surf, eyes glazed over and smiles plastered across our sun kissed faces.  While Hayley and Bridget perfected their beach-bumming skills, I spent mornings scuba diving some of the most incredible reefs I’ve ever experienced.  Lazy green turtles, sketchy octopuses, fluttering stingrays, graceful dolphins and schools and schools of hundreds of varieties of fish graced every minute of my underwater adventures.  In the afternoons, as the tide would roll back in, we would leave our sandy towels and swim in waters unimaginably clear and warm until the sun sank below the watery horizon.

To say that leaving Zanzibar was difficult is an understatement of great proportions.  The three of us laughed over cocktails on our last night as we discussed ways to stay on the island forever.  So what if our uncontrollable frizz-ball hair never went back to normal; to wake up in paradise each day would be worth it.  Who needs a job? Perhaps we could make our Peace Corps readjustment allowance stretch for years.  Is being responsible all it’s cracked up to be?  Our answer was a resounding “no,” but alas, the real world stretched out its nimble, dependable hand and dragged us right onto that Ethiopian Airline’s flight and back into our normal states of mind.  Just as the sun rose in Zanzibar, we landed in Addis Ababa.

To the Newest Members of PC/ET:

Hello Group 9!  If you’ve accepted an invitation to serve in Ethiopia starting in July, this post is for you.  First off, we are all so looking forward to your arrival.  Getting new PCVs is always fun, and I think one of you might even be joining me in Atsbi.  It should be a coveted site…our primary school is legit and I’ve been getting them excited for an EDU PCV.

You’re all lucky to have three plus months to plan.  Go ahead and freak out; we all did the same thing.  And when you’re finished, start writing your lists.  Here’s my version.  And if you haven’t already, join this Facebook group.  You’ll be able to stalk your future best friends to your heart’s desire.  Then get ready for the conference call with Greg, your soon to be boss.  Don’t be nervous – he’s awesome, and a former ambassador to boot.

Expectations can be a tricky thing to navigate, but my one piece of advice is just that: limit your expectations.  You’re right, getting that big blue envelope in the mail and reading through your assignment description can paint vivid pictures of grandeur in your head.  And it doesn’t help that people assume you’re jetting off to save the world and keep using words like “brave” and “courageous.”  I don’t know about you, but I was nothing but scared.  The truth is, I’ve been in Ethiopia for eighteen months and I’m just now hitting my stride.  I love, love, love my life here, but it wasn’t always like that.  Integration is challenging and work is hard.  So hard.  It still is.  Peace Corps will do their ever-loving best to make you understand that you might not get anything done in the first year of your service, and they’re right.  A lot of PCVs don’t.  Shoot, you might not get anything done in your second year, either.

But that doesn’t mean that the next two years won’t be the most incredible of your life.  You’ll make friends that will change you forever, have adventures that you’ll tell your grandkids about, gain a deeper appreciation for life, and accomplish things you never thought were possible.  You’ll see the world in a different light and be a part of an organization that is doing amazing things all over the planet.  And you can sleep ten hours a night, which is the real reason I’m crazy about my job.

Look at me, telling you to limit your expectations and then writing a whole paragraph about what you can expect.  But that’s it!  After reading this, no more.  I just want you all to know that you’re about to embark on an unbelievable journey and I’m excited for each and every one of you.  You made the right choice.  Ethiopia is ready for you.  We’ll see you in three months!

All is Fair in Ethiopian Transportation

When the bus left the station there was one person in each seat.  The isle was tidy and free of debris.  “Traffic cops are out today,” the curly-haired bus boy said.  That meant that instead of stuffing the tin can in town, the driver arranged a pickup for thirty extra people a stone’s throw past the city limit sign.  To gather the sixty cent fare from the sweaty hands of each passenger the bus boy had to crowd surf over the seat backs, giving everyone lucky enough to have a seat a face full of rear end, or worse.  Securely shut windows made sure everyone was safe from tuberculosis…and fresh air.  Scabies infested children draped themselves across the laps of unsuspecting travelers.

So when the bus passed through Habus and faint whispers of traffic cops spread quickly through the crowd, two happy smiles appeared across the faces of the only white people aboard the hellish-smelling bus.  Sure enough, the driver halted the makina, booted off the extras and made a wide arc with his arm, gesturing to the next prearranged pickup locale.  They set off jogging the outskirts of the village in their brightly colored jelly shoes.

As the driver rounded the next bend, there was the Ethiopian man in uniform.  He stepped onto a bus with one person in each seat.  The isle was tidy and free of debris.  He nodded his head at the bus boy and turned to go.  And then, from the back, came a quick explanation in shaky Tigrinia.  “Many, many more people are coming,” said one of the ferenjis.  The cop tilted his head and squinted in confusion.  Slowly, to the horror of the driver, others began to explain.  He pulled out a wadded up ticket book and the smile reappeared on the faces of the tattle-tale foreigners. Before pulling away, the driver shook his fist and mumbled profanities at the passengers who dared to nark.

A few kilometers down the dusty path, the thirty extras rejoined the party on wheels.  Only a few in the crowd noticed a private vehicle speed past, leaving a cloud of dust and making good time en route to Atsbi.  Even then, who would have guessed that bus drivers could ever be outsmarted?  Pulling away again, the original passengers told their tale in excited voices.  Before long, around another twist in the road, the driver pumped the brakes and skidded to a stop.  There, on the side of the road, stood the very same traffic cop.  He boarded the bus with a smile and his ticket book in hand.  In the back, the Americans looked at one another and laughed, because all is fair in Ethiopian transportation.

The Desta Project

Dear Friends and Family,

I hope this message finds all of you doing well.  The first few months of 2013 have been an exciting and busy time of my Peace Corps service in Ethiopia.  I continue to be challenged by the situations that surround me, but uplifted by the gracious and hard-working people I serve.

Over the past six month I have been working with Atsbi Primary School, the largest elementary school in my town, to implement a project that will provide school supplies and materials for all enrolled orphans.  Several staff members approached me about the project in late October, and since then the entire town has come together to make Desta Dairy & Egg Farm a reality.  They assured me that if I could find funding for one dairy cow and 100 laying chickens, they would cover the rest of the necessary costs.

The time has come for me to keep my end of the deal.  With the help of several community members, I applied for a Peace Corps Partnership grant, which allows you and anyone else with Internet access to contribute to our cause.  This project is truly near and dear to my heart and I would not reach out to my loved ones for help unless I was sure it would benefit my Ethiopian community on all levels.  I’ve attached our full project proposal that gives an in-depth description of Desta Dairy & Egg Farm, a detailed budget and a summary of how the income earned from our cow and chickens will be used.  Please also watch the short video below to see some pictures of the direct beneficiaries and of members of the community working together to prepare for the livestock.

You can easily donate any amount to Desta Dairy & Egg Farm by clicking here or by visiting www.peacecorps.gov/donate and searching with our project number, 13-663-007.  Any contribution you make is tax deductible and will directly benefit students at Atsbi Primary School.  Your support means so much to me and everyone else in Atsbi.

If you have any questions at all, please do not hesitate to ask.

 

Thank you,

Katheryn Hoerster

 

Itiopiawi Migbi

 

 

As I lay here, so full of Ethiopian fasting food that I can barely breathe, it occurs to me that I get almost as many questions about Ethiopian food as I do about Jazzy the chicken.  There was a time when Ethiopian food made me cringe.  Classic enjera firfir incited a riot in my gut before I could even attempt to eat it.  Shiro resembled something other than food.  The bones in kayawat just confused me.  But the days of disliking Ethiopian food are over and gone.  They’ve been replaced by holidays spent stuffing my face with homemade dorowat, tibsi, and alicha, quick lunches of bayanetu and friendly weekend breakfasts of nashef and fool. 

 

Ethiopian food can be divided into two categories: fasting and non-fasting.  How can food be classified as “fasting,” you ask?  Fasting periods don’t actually require followers of Ethiopian Orthodoxy to avoid all food, just animal products. Long fasting seasons are the traditional prologue to all major holidays. But no matter the time of year, Ethiopian food is spicy, flavorful, and rich.

 

The base of most dishes is enjera, which is essentially a big, sour, cold sponge that serves as a platter for family-style meals.  Sounds appetizing, right?  Early each morning the comforting smell of fermented batter wafts from doorways as women prepare pancakes to last their family a few days.  With proper timing and an interested look, a passerby might be handed a piece of still-warm enjera just off the stove.

 

Wat, the main stew-like portion of each meal is ladled onto a folded enjera and eaten with the right hand only. When I first moved to Ethiopia my host family always laughed because I only used two fingers in an attempt to keep my hands clean, but my technique has improved drastically.  An experienced Ethiopian eater uses all five fingers and the enjera and kind of smooshes each gigantic bite into a ball before ingesting it.  When my parents visited I laughed because they looked so silly eating with just two fingers!  Ha!

 

Most Ethiopian main dishes include berbere, a spicy red pepper blend, and various other spices that can be purchased at any market.  The wat can be made with potatoes (dinichwat), lentils (mesirwat), carrots, ground chickpeas (shiro/tagabino), tomatoes (silsi), or any number of combinations.  Non-fasting food has sheep, goat, chicken, beef, or boiled eggs in a berbere base.  For really special occasions dulet, the chopped up intestines of sheep or goat, is served.  Each woman has her own blend of spices that makes each dish tantalizing in its own way.  Some are spicy, others might be mild, but all of them are delicious and satisfying.

 

I could go on and on about Ethiopian food but the best way to share this aspect of the culture is to encourage you to try some for yourself.  I’ve never actually been to an Ethiopian restaurant in the US, but I hear they aren’t bad.  I would suggest trying a bayanetu (a fasting sampler) or dorowat (chicken in berbere sauce).  Or you could always attempt to make an Ethiopian meal on your own.  Here’s a link to dorowat that seems pretty legit.  Good luck with the enjera!  Before long you might think of Ethiopian food as comfort food just like I do!

What to Expect from an Ethiopian Wedding

Horns honk, bajajs beep and excited people shout as a parade of pink and white slowly passes.  Visitors to Ethiopia might wonder what the fuss is about, but those familiar with the customs of this strange land know: It’s another wedding procession.  Nuptials in Ethiopia can be a true riot.  The best way to describe one of these all-out celebrations is a mix of the traditional and modern, the rural and the urban, the classy and the tacky.

Chris and I had the pleasure of attending a friend’s wedding last week and the festivities did not disappoint.  Upon arriving, we were ushered into a large white tent adorned with palm fronds and armed guards.  Gotta keep those crashers out.  Inside was an explosion of more pink and white, rows and rows of squat wooden benches, yellow and white shredded paper covering every inch of the dusty ground, and two huge, white, throne-like chairs on a stage at the front of the room. Before finding a seat, we were pushed into the food line.  The first round of chow included enjera, kayawat (a spicy stew-like meat dish) and big chunks of raw beef.  We piled our plates high, grabbed a few cups of tej and found an open spot on one of the benches.

As we ate, our friend Atkilte regaled us with tales of traditions at Ethiopian weddings.  Before the party really gets going, the groom emerges from the house to go and fetch the bride, who is cooped up in her own home.  They return to the celebration together where loud, traditional music blares, people hoot and holler and the dancing begins.  The bride, who these days wears a western-style white gown, doesn’t smile. Instead, she keeps a stern look on her face to show her sadness at leaving her family.  “In the old days,” he told us, “the groom paid a dowry of gifts to the bride’s family before the marriage could take place.”

As Danny, the groom, returned with his blushing bride we all stood up while they paraded towards the front of the tent.  After some initial dancing, more food was served and the booze cups refilled.  The party continued with toasts, thanking honored guests (they mentioned us!) and a special dance for all mothers and one for all fathers.  During the dances, friends put (smacked, rather) birr notes to the foreheads of important people where it remained until the music subsided.  Amidst the wild Tigrinia shoulder shaking dances, a festively decorated horse was ridden into the tent to join the choreographed chaos.  Long red and gold tassels were draped from his halter and saddle and his rider was clad in traditional white garb.

All afternoon the friends and family of the couple ate, drank, danced and partied hard.  The date of this wedding happened to coincide with the end of a non-fasting period, as do many other celebrations throughout Ethiopia.  The next day guests would start the long fasting season before Easter, which means no animal products for sixty days.  When Chris and I caught a bajaj back to the hotel the party was still raging, and I imagined it continued late into the night.

Arriving at the reception

The mother’s dance

Bucket of meat, anyone?