you’ll never guess what followed me from Iowa
Well so I have been here two weeks, exactly. I know this because I mark it in my diary. Not a journal.
So much has happened. Oddly, we were making a point of dwelling on the Lord this Saturday, actually having a real Sabbath, which is something that I am not the best at practicing, when the good Phillip Harder runs into to my room and tells me that it is flooding.
Let me explain this as best I can. There is an extremely small pondish thing off the side of the street dividing our compound–that is where the rain goes. It would take a season of killer rain to make that thing flood. So I what somewhat shocked when I heard Phillip. Turns out, there is a little levy that runs alongside the compound. I promise, I’ve never seen the river, but apparently the levy had a break, and soon much of the compound grounds were flooded.
I couldn’t help much. I wanted to, but the water is hazardous for my supple Americanness, and so I did the best I could. Obeyed and evacuated. For three days we slept on lopsided cots and swapped manly stories, because now I didn’t just have one roommate, but instead 12. A slight change, you know how it is.
So the now the water has receded (I honestly don’t know where it went) and we have returned to the closest thing I have to home, and I love it. I can barely tell the water was here.
Other things: the work I am doing here is not always very effective. I have learned to be content, although this is sometimes…okay most of the time, difficult. But I’m learning. Anyhow, we travel one hour to the site. We may work for an hour and a half. Then we leave. Mainly we talk to people that once lived on the streets, and whereas this is good, it doesn’t feel like much is happening. So please pray that God would guide our group into effectiveness. Even as I type that, I know it is a strange prayer.
Also, I have had a coffee ceremony, which was SWEET. It is cultural, and I will explain it some other time. Also, I still haven’t gotten sick. Many dear friends have fallen to strange bowels, and that is explicit as I will get. But know still fly high above all that murkiness.
God has shown me so much here. I saw some kids playing soccer in the middle of a construction site with a half-deflated ball. But they didn’t mind.
Another time, a woman crossed the road with shoes on her hand because her foot is deformed.
I got to explain the civil rights movement to a bunch of seminary students. And they thanked me like I had given them a hundred dollars. For simply explaining American history. I don’t deserve moments like that.
I have also played in a two man band called BCF (Big Courageous Fernjis). Our song Dry Mouth, Dry Heart was a smash hit. You should hear it on the American airwaves soon. Also noteworthy, I heard a Shakira song on the radio, Hips don’t lie, except there was an African verse thrown in the mix. Weird.
My Ethiopian friends are so helpful. They look out for us Americans all the time. Hey, they even help us across the street. I can’t how many times I have had a guiding hand on my back. Sweet I know, but it does get frustrating sometimes. So now us Americans sometimes joke with each other and guide each other across the street as well. That is how we party.
My roommate and I shared a couple arguments as of now, but they have been minor and strange, and too personal to share here, as much as they make me laugh. But for the most part we are good buds, and we laugh often, and then I tickle him, and then he gets annoyed, and then we go to Bible Study together, and he reads the Bible differently than me, which lets me debate, and if you know me then you know this is a gravy train for me. Also, he is going to take me to his house sometime, which I am stoked about.
Once again, I don’t know how I sound in this blitz of a blog. I won’t check it over, so ignore the mistakes, or else you are just hurting my feelings, and we don’t want that.
like i knew anything
I cannot really tell you anything about Africa. Or Ethiopia. But I will try.
Right out of the airport, some men helped us put our bags into the cars…and ignorant we let them. Turns out they live like this, waiting for travelers, forcefully helping, and then demanding pay. But what struck me most were two men on crutches standing on the side. I now know that they were waiting to make eye contact with me because they are beggars, and that is what they do, but I didn’t know it then. And even now that I do, I cannot help but make eye contact with beggars. But in this particular instance, I shook hands with the first one, not knowing what I was doing, and then he held out his hand–the universal sign for begging…and then the other beggar hobbled over and did the same…
and I still don’t know what to do in that situation. I weep, I can tell you that much. Even now, when I ride back from this internet cafe, I will see things that will hurt to see, and that pain will hopefully leave a scar. I want these scars. This part of the world deserves them from me, because that means that I have truly lived in someone else’s experience. It also means that I will never forget, because the scars will always be with me. I think about scars a lot.
All is not woe, I promise. There is such beauty here, in eyes. In the Ethiopian skin, in their song, in their love for God. The food is exquisite, and I eat so much here (I think my ravenous hunger would honestly baffle those who know me.) I found an exotic orchid, alongside a wall, and it may have been the most beautiful flower I have ever seen. I won’t injustice it by describing it to you.
I went outside last night, near where we do our laundry (which is an adventure that I don’t have time to describe) and I was singing. A girl named Selam (peace) was doing her laundry. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Singing to the moon,” I replied.
“It is so beautiful.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “We live in such a blessed and cursed world.”
“What do you mean?” she said, somewhat confused.
“Look at that moon. It is so wonderful as it shines on us. But even as it shines, the light falls on the homeless street people, some of whom will die tonight.”
That is what I think of this place. I am so privileged to be here. Every moment is undesrved. I wrote in my journal that I will never leave Africa. I may return to America, but I will never leave Africa. You cannot leave things that are in your heart.
I realize I haven’t really told you much about Ethiopia, just my thoughts. I am working with street people during the week, but we have only been planning, so I can’t tell you too much. My Ethiopian roommate is named Sami, and he is so patient with me, an ignorant ferenji (foreigner.) Sometimes I struggle emotionally, and not in the noble way you might expect. I am very selfish and cannot always see how God is working. I expected this trip to look a certain way, and it doesn’t, to be honest, which is good. But in the process of my expectations dying, I can just be a negative nancy. I need prayer for patience and grace in this area. I haven’t gotten sick yet, so please pray that I don’t, because that isn’t fun–we can be honest about that.
The gross part of me wants to tell you about the squattie potties, but I don’t expect that would be taken very well, especially by some of you that I value the most.
I went to a school the other day for children whose mother’s have HIV. I was only there for a short time, and they had such dirty hands, but they all wanted to shake yours, and touch my hat and curly hair…but I have never been happier to have dirty hands.
I walked past a beggar without eyes. Another without an arm. Another nursing a child. Another beggar was a child. No child should know how to beg. Another girl, named Lem Lem, sells us gum at the bus stop. She is glorious, but she should not be selling gum. Her smile alone is worth the 4000 dollars this trip cost. Another beggar had an extremely bloated foot. Another’s face was literally falling off. It is hard to look at, but I force myself to. I have looked away for far too long.
I don’t know what I can do here. My hands are only so big, and terribly unskilled. But my God is bigger than me. Without Him, this trip would amount to nothing more than a cultural experience, and that is a disgusting waste.
I heard that some prostitutes sell themselves for only 1 Birr. That is the equivalent of 10 cents. This may be a rare exception. But still.
I have so much to tell you. Really, I’m bursting…but I have already been here too long. Please, remember me in your prayers. Also don’t judge me for the sloppiness of this post. I am rushing to give you as much as I can.
P.S. there is nothing in this ps.
blogging stinks when you don’t have anything to say
Welcome. Likely you are here because you heard about my Ethiopia trip. Basically, this will replace email updates while I am on trip. So you can check this weekly, or daily I suppose, hoping that I’ve included tidbits of my life in Ethiopia. Expect things like amazing stories from Ethiopia, poems inspired by the experience, and prayer requests. As it looks now, we may have internet access weekly or bi-weekly, and I’ll update this blog whenever possible. Hopefully, by then, the blog will have acquired a better title. Currently, I’ve called it “Something More Creative Later”–which I don’t think is a bad title, but I think I can do better. Then again, you may be reading from “Something More Creative Later” right now, in which case, I didn’t come up with anything more creative. Life keeps going.
Please ignore my poor writing. I anticipate that you will find extra words, missing words, misspelled words, incomplete sentences, awkward sentences, out-of-place commas…and all sorts of no-no’s for an Writing major such as myself. I don’t have a good excuse for my mistakes, but I can almost guarantee that you will encounter some if you survive through more than one blog post.
I suppose that I should say more things, but right now I’ve overdosed on blogging, and if I keep going at this rate, I shall have to go the hospital for blog detox, and if that happens, I think that customs will keep me in the country, and then the whole point of this silly trifle of a blog will be lost, all my efforts will have been in vain, and heartbroken, I will never blog again, which I think we can both agree would be the greatest tragedy to humanity since the death of Bonaparte.
