The Little Things

I have always loved the little things in life--children's laughter, the smell of lilacs, a good book next to a good fire. But living in Djibouti has given me a whole new set of "little things" to appreciate about life. This week, it feels like the usual stresses have been turned up a notch. It's getting hotter, the power cuts have been longer and more frequent than usual, the final exam frenzy has begun at the university. So I thought it would be good to meditate on the little things I have come to appreciate about Djibouti. For example:

I love coming home at night and seeing the tell-tale signs of electricity--shops are open, street lights are on, and everyone is happy.

When said power is out, I love sitting on the roof and looking up at the stars.

I love the universal boo that erupts through our neighborhood when the power goes off as well as the universal cheer that arises when it comes back on.

I love riding in cars! No one proposes or asks for money. I'm not squished in like on the bus with my bags and sweat dripping everywhere. There are generally goat, water jug, and grocery-free spaces in which to sit and enjoy the air-conditioning. I feel quite awed by the comfort and privacy of cars and look forward to riding in my bosses' car once every week or two.

I love cold, clean water. I used to think of water as something plain and tasteless. Never again.

I don't love sweat, but without it I would die. So in that case, I guess I'm thankful for it.

I love the teacher's room (or "salle des profs" as we say) at the university. It is air-conditioned, has internet access, and is the one place in town that I know is always open. Many a quick nap have I taken on the couch in there.

To that end, I also love the Ethiopian restaurant a few blocks away. It is the only nearby place I know that is open for lunch. Without it, my only recourse for lunch in town is a banana from the fruit sellers.

I love that my Somali is somewhat conversational now. Instead of feeling frustrated and desperate to know what is happening, I now often have some idea of what is going on around me and whether people are offering insults or compliments. Now all the the shop-keepers, vendors, beggar children, and bag ladies from the center of town to the university know who I am, what my job is, where I live, and where I came from. They also know that I don't give money to children, and that I would not like to buy a skirt or exchange American dollars to Djibouti franc, thank you.

I love that it is culturally acceptable to just yell in someone's face if you are angry with them. If you make a good point or have a perceived right to be angry, Somalis won't hold a grudge. They will just think you are a strong person. If you think someone is stupid and crazy, you can just say "Hey, you are stupid and crazy!" and no one looks at you sideways.

Praise God for sunscreen! Without it, my face would redder than a lobster and covered in blisters.

I love that a friend discovered a magical garden with trees and flowers and fresh herbs which can be found behind a garage, down a rocky hill, across a plateau of rocks and on the other side of a dry riverbed.

I love that I can tell my teammates, "I hate Africa today" and they know what I mean and wait to ask me for anything until the next day when I don't hate Africa anymore.

Most of all, I love being with people (foreigners and Djiboutians alike) who are also tired, hot, frustrated, and uncomfortable because we can understand each other, sympathize and then laugh over the fact that we still want some hot coffee and tea!

The Land of Dreams

Do you ever think about dreams? Why we have them? Why their content is sometimes stranger than fiction and other times more mundane than “Leave It to Beaver?” I have noticed that my dreams often feature things or people or events that come up recently or things from the past that I have been mulling over a lot. Sometimes even I am amazed by the apparent randomness and creativity of my own brain. Stories more fantastical than science fiction movies emerge in full color while my body dozes. Since I’ve come to Djibouti though, I haven’t had too many strange or elaborate dreams--probably because I usually hit the sack hard and don’t roll over until the sunlight streams through the window. But the other night I had a pretty wild one precipitated by two ordinary happenings and one rather frustrating event. They were as follows:

1) For one of my classes, I had students prepare debates in partners and present them to the class. Two girls gave opposing views on the value of arranged marriages. My class asked if I would ever consider an arranged marriage. I told them I would never agree to marry someone without first meeting and getting to know them. But I am not opposed to the idea of an older and wiser person introducing me to someone they think would be a good partner and seeing if there is anything there. So that started me thinking about arranged marriage.

2) I just finished reading a book written by an Iranian English literature professor who chronicled her and her students’ ups and downs before, during, and after the Iranian Revolution. It was fascinating and tragic and made me thankful that I teach in Djibouti in 2011 and not in Iran anytime between 1979 and 1999. It also made me so sad to think of how secluded and stifled so many Iranian women were during this time and how thankful I am that there are no official morality police here who can arrest you for the serious crimes of showing a strand of hair, wearing makeup or licking ice cream in public.

3) One of my students proposed to me. He was not joking and not insane; he laid out his feelings and intentions of marriage in a very clear, if somewhat indirect way. I rejected him in an equally clear yet indirect way. After feeling like I had finally figured out how to relate to men here in appropriate ways, I confess his proposal threw me for a complete loop. It was slightly horrifying and I now know how Elizabeth Bennet might have felt when Mr. Collins proposes to her in Pride & Prejudice. But this is another story for another day. Suffice it to say, this unfortunate event has stuck in my mind for the past few months.

So how did that marvelously complex mental machine of mine process through these tidbits of information?

I had a dream in which my parents arranged my marriage to one of my students (ironically not the one who proposed) because they felt I was getting old and should get to know Djibouti better by marrying one of its inhabitants. I tried to protest that the semester wasn’t over yet and that it would be really awkward, not to mention differences of culture, religion, age, nationality, economy, education, etc. But there was to be no arguing. I had to marry him at once. So we went through a betrothal ceremony and then I moved into his house with his family. I suppose legally we were married even though we hadn’t had a proper wedding yet. So I spent my days avoiding him at all costs and pleading with my parents to let me come home while he kept trying to sequester me away from the rest of his family who was also living in the house. (Creepy, I know.) One day, I was hiding in the goat pen when a strange man stormed in and announced that I was a sinful, adulterous woman because I was living with a man I was not properly wedded to. I protested that I was forced to go live with him, that I had done nothing wrong and had rejected all of his advances. “I’m an honorable woman!” I screamed. “No you’re not!” he thundered back. “I know what you’ve done and you must pay for your sins! I am the police. It’s my job to make sure our society is pure and you will not go free until you’ve paid!!” Then he grabbed a flaming torch and lit the shed on fire, quickly escaping and blocking the way out of the small door. I panicked until I saw a small opening between the tin wall and the ground and crawled through it to safety. The man turned his head and saw me escape around the corner, and thus began our chase. I ran to friends’ houses, through the crowded markets, hid in, behind or below anything I could find while he pursued me like a bat out of hell. I had started running in a panicked craze towards the edge of town, beyond the furthest neighborhoods and out to the bush when I was startled awake by a sudden noise.

Sigh, thank goodness it was only a dream.

Umm, Waiter...There's A Cat In My Food

The other day I was eating at a rooftop Ethiopian restaurant with two of my American colleagues. We were having a lovely time discussing books, friends, and the latest news from the university when suddenly a cat looking for food appeared at my feet. It started eating food I had dropped on the floor and moved so close, it looked like it might just jump up on the table and grab the food right off of my plate. First I yelled at it to go away, but it sort of lingered by our table as if it was just waiting for the moment when my back was turned so it could pounce. No filthy, disgusting beggar cat will touch my food, thank you. I jumped up, grabbed the cat by the scruff of the neck and walked towards the door of the restaurant.

Now at this point, I must share some of my recently required revulsion for cats with you, lest I sound like some sort of uncompassionate animal abuser. As a child, I had two pet cats that I enjoyed very much. I would pet them and play with them just like any normal child. In fact, I used to really like cats. But those days are gone now. In Djibouti, most cats live on the street. This means that they beg, claw, meow and scratch for their living. They spread diseases, fleas, and who knows what else. Last year, we had two cats that lived behind our house who would fight each other tooth and nail, screaming and caterwauling in the wee morning hours. This year we have a couple new cats who come by every time they smell fish or chicken. Unfortunately, our door doesn’t go quite all the way down to the ground, so there is a small cat-sized hole at the bottom they can squeeze through. Sometimes when I go into the kitchen, I see one of these rogue felines eating the food out of our trash. Or other times, when I go up to the roof, I see one coming down the stairs after taking a nap in the sun. And occasionally, when I wake up early and go out of my bedroom in the morning, I see a cat shamelessly sitting on our couch, looking up at me from the cushion he has so thoroughly covered with his hair. We have washed every curtain, cushion, and sheet in the house because of the fleas the cats brought. We have thrown out food, disinfected the kitchen, beat our rug, de-haired the couch, and so on because of these scrappy, greedy little disease carriers. Many times, I have wanted to toss them downstairs or off the roof because of their antics, but alas, the feline offenders at our house are too skittish and quick for me and I can never actually catch one.

So as I was walking towards the door cat in hand, I could feel all my stored-up wrath against cats building up. I was thinking of the fleas, the disease, the disturbance, and my failure at punishing the cats who plague our house. The little devil on my shoulder told me, “Yes, Hannah, yes! This is the time. Just take out all your anger on this one cat. Do it! You’ll feel so much better!” So I obeyed this dark voice, walked to the top of the stairs and threw the cat down to the ground floor below. She looked very dazed and sort of stumbled around a bit. Interesting that she didn’t land on her feet. Then the man sitting at a nearby table yelled at me in French, “What did you do that for?! She was pregnant!” Oops. The devil on my shoulder didn’t tell me that.

“Well,” I answered a bit taken aback, “She was eating my food! It’s disgusting to have a cat eating off people’s plates in a restaurant!”

“So what? You didn’t have to throw her!” Now I felt a little guilty. And a little dismayed that I had unknowingly tossed the restaurant’s apparently pregnant pet down one flight of stairs. And even more dismayed that my favorite restaurant even has a pet.

I went back to our table, but my friends said nothing other than that I was brave to touch the cat because they hate cats. The end. I kept wondering about my rash behavior, but I forgot about my guilt once we left. Rachael, my friend and colleague, listened to the angel on her shoulder and got her leftovers put in a bag so she could give them to a beggar outside. She gave the food to a younger woman with a baby. However Rachael’s kindness was foiled by an old woman beggar who saw the offering and started beating the younger beggar with her walking stick. Then the two women got in a fight with baby in tow. We ran away before they could start beating us. Yelling at the restaurant in five languages, tossing pregnant cats off balconies, street fight between an old lady and a young mom—yep, just another typical dining out experience in Djibouti.

I Would Be Remiss

Though it has been a little while, I would be remiss if I did not mention that my mom visited me for Christmas this year! This was actually her second time in Djibouti. She also came last year a couple of months after I arrived. The first time, she visited my classes, saw the town and we did a little sightseeing, taking in an island in the middle of the gulf and swimming in Lac Assal, the lowest and saltiest place on the African continent.

But this time, it was a little different. We only left town once (to go camping at the beach) and instead she put up with me for a week while I flapped around like a crazed chicken trying to finish my classes, finish midterm grades, and give each of my 70 students their oral exams. Then for the second week, she met friend after friend and student after student of mine who had heard about her and who came to meet Hannah's Mom. Many of these friends don't speak English, but we translated and she was a fairly good sport and at least pretended like she understoood what people were saying. She also covered her head, made Christmas dinner for ten or so of our friends, tried eating with her hand and reclining on floor cushions, and learned that life in a developing Francophone African Muslim nation is sometimes a little less exotic and and a lot more difficult than it seems.

She found out that many eastern cultures have huge amounts of social rules and protocol to follow (or as she said, "There seems to be a rule for everything and I don't know any of the rules except the ones I've broken"), but also saw that people have grace on old ladies, especially the mother of a friend. She was tickled that so many of my friends called her "Mommy" or "Mama." (But this is normal--I also call the mothers of those same friends "Mom"). And I think most of all, it was gratifying for her to see that even in a country that none of my friends had ever heard of before I decided to move here, I have people here who care about me and whom I care about, who I can laugh and cry and celebrate and mourn with. Thanks for coming, Mom.

Pictured above: Mom, and I and Rachael, our newest roommate, sitting in our living/dining room.

Lonely, Oh So Lonely!

Do you ever feel lonely? Sad? Depressed? Like no one wants to be your friend? Well, do I have the perfect cure for you...come on over to Djibouti and live with the Somalis! You will never in your life feel lonely again.

I suppose as Americans, it does not feel so unusual to be alone. In fact, as an introvert at heart and as someone who grew up without siblings my own age, I have grown pretty accustomed to being alone. But gone are the days when I used to take long walks by myself or hide in my room and read books for hours on end. Now I am with the Somalis and have found that social rule #1 is that you must be cursed, endangered, socially outcast or just plain weird if you ever have the misfortune of finding yourself alone. To be alone here is to be in the most pitiable of states. Rule #2 is if you ever are accidentally alone, you must remedy this immediately (or if you are a foreigner, someone will come to remedy it for you). Rule #3 states that rule #2 is especially urgent when you are sick.

Cases in Point:

1. The house helper who works for the family below is almost never alone, but on the rare occasions when the whole family is gone, she comes up to our apartment to sit with us because she is too afraid to be by herself. She, like everyone else, obsessively calls out "Who is it?" everytime one of us knocks on the downstairs door and will only answer it when I say the customary "It's me" and she recognizes my voice.

2. When my roommate Rachael was recently sick in bed with a fever and achiness all over, our houseworker and a friend and said friend’s aunt came and fawned over her excessively. They made her drink a lime juice and garlic mixture (which we hate drinking, but it does seem to help with whatever ails you) and then the aunt promptly started babbling away, laughing, talking and generally trying to entertain Rachael in her rapid-fire old lady Somali speech. Cintia, our other roommate, tried to explain in vain that while the attention was very kind, Americans like to be alone when they are really sick, that in fact old ladies telling jokes in a language we struggle to understand while touching and pinching and staring at us is not exactly a comfort during a time of infirmity. The aunt protested “But if I don’t talk to her, then she will get bored and sad and will become even more sick!!” Case closed. Our friends borrowed a neighbor’s wedding video and plopped down on the bed with Rachael to watch it to keep her from getting lonely, and therefore, from getting sicker. When they finally had to leave, they assigned Cintia to the task of keeping Rachael from getting lonely. Though Cintia is not American, she understands us fairly well, and as soon as the others were gone, she promptly left Rachael alone.

3. When I stayed with a Djiboutian family, the only time I was ever alone (besides when I was using the bathroom) was when everyone took their communal after-lunch nap and I stayed awake to read or just have some time to think and relax. Even then there were people sprawled on the floor all around me, but at least I would get a little thought privacy every day.

4. One of the other American teachers at the university is a single man and he lives by himself because he is the only single American man living here who is not associated with the military. Dan doesn’t seem to mind being on his own too much, but when he told his students that he lived in an apartment by himself, they were shocked. “But how can you even live? Who cooks for you? No wife or mother? Aren’t you sad and lonely?” Etc, etc. He assured everyone that he is fine, not lonely, not scared, and gets by quite well with sandwiches and eating out. But that was not good enough. His students were still concerned. One day, two of the guys came to him and said “Teacher, we have been thinking about what you told us and we feel so sorry that you must live alone. We have decided that we will come and live with you so you will not be lonely anymore. I mean, how can we stay in our own homes when our dear teacher is all alone?” Dan thanked them for their kindness but politely refused the offer.

5. Whenever someone drops by the house and sees that I am alone, they are always shocked and mortified and our conversation goes something like this:

“What?! You are here alone? Completely alone? Why? What happened?”
“Well, everyone else went to town for work or errands.”
“Aren’t you so afraid of being alone?”
“Nope, not really. Actually, sometimes I kind of like it.”
“What?! You can’t be serious. I have never heard of such a crazy thing! Ok, don’t worry. I will stay here with you until everyone comes.”
“Oh thank you, but you really don’t need to....”
“Don’t be silly. Of course I can’t leave you alone.”

And so I will continue washing the dishes, ironing, planning my lessons or doing whatever else I was doing and the person will watch and keep me company, true to their word.

I am getting more and more used to community living, but at least fortunately when things get too crazy or twenty neighbors all choose the same night to stop by, I can always go up to our roof and pretend like I’m not home. And though I may never fear loneliness the way Somalis do, at least they are teaching me to open up my house and my time and my life in ways I never used to before.

"Dear Teacher": An Ambigous Offering

A couple of months ago, around the time another American woman was moving in with us, I ran into one of my university students. He stopped while I and a few of my coworkers were moving some furniture into our house. When my student saw me, he delightedly asked what I was doing in his neighborhood. I replied that this was my neighborhood as well and that we were moving some extra furniture into our house because we had a new roommate. Aboulkarim was fairly shocked: "Really? This is amazing, teacher! You are the first white person I have ever seen in our area. (This is fairly true and not an uncommon response when I tell people which neighborhood I live in).

Later, this student called me and asked if I was getting married. No, I replied a bit confused. I then remembered that it is not uncommon for a couple to get new furniture around the time of their marriage and to then have a special ceremony with friends and family to install them happily in the new house. I told him I was still single.

"So...no ceremony? No marriage?" he asked.

"Sorry. Nothing special. We just bought some new furniture. That's all."

"But your brothers and your family were there (referring to my western coworkers)."

"Well, there is another American teacher moving in with us, but she's a girl. No marriage."

I recounted this conversation to Tom, my boss, and he teased me that this student was just checking to see if he still had any prospects with me. I was horrified and told him I wanted to believe that all my students have innocent intentions until proven guilty (however naive this may be).

But then, I received a rather ambiguous visit from my student one day. (I know it may seem strange that my students know where my house is and even drop by to say hello, but as half of them are practically neighbors, it's sometimes hard to figure out where to draw the student/teacher line.) He came to my doorstep and presented me with a brightly-wrapped Christmas present. In fact, the only one I've ever received from a non-westerner. What follows below is the letter that accompanied said present. Keep in mind, my student has received most of his education in Arabic, which has neither punctuation, nor capitalization like English does. I have reproduced his letter exactly as he wrote it.

“Hi Dear Anna,

I am Abdoulkarim mohamed hassan your university student really I am very glad to be your student somtimes I think I am a very lucky student since I am your student and what is more certainly you are nice kind person and I love your personality and that forced me to give some Somali traditional gift as well as our religion tells muslim people have to make friends with other people so that I have here two traditional issa [Somali] things I would like show you how to use these the first one we say in Somalian (wanbeerand) we use it as a decoration on bedroom’s wall also we put some important things in it slight things like passport neck laces and second we say (sharaxad kuuleed) means decorating beeds and we place it in the same place a wanbeer

and I hope it will be a souvenir between you and I further more I wish you will show to your relatives as your fammly and amrican friends there fore I would like to make a good relative ship with you and a good tie since amrican people are friendly people and good personality and nice behavior

good luck in your life”

Actually, the gifts were handmade and quite nice--a traditional and colorful carrying sack made from woven wool and a small beaded wall decoration that hangs from a cord. But I think the word is still out on Abdoulkarim and his intentions. I just wonder...is it is normal for Djiboutians to enclose a picture of themselves when they give a gift? :)

Saved By Her Fat

One of my roommates told me a story recently that is just too crazy and too funny not to share. Decide for yourself if it is Djibouti or Jerry Springer.

We heard a few days ago that my roommate's language helper's sister-in-law had been stabbed three times and was in the hospital. Apparently, the husband of said sister-in-law had taken two wives--neither of which knew about the other. We didn't catch all the details, but it seems that once the two wives found out about each other, one of the women stabbed the other one. We heard that the stabee had two minor wounds in the thigh, but a potentially serious one in the stomach. We had heard of disputes like this breaking out between jealous women before, but this one seemed pretty serious.

After meeting her language helper again today, Rachael told me "Well, I have some more news about our friend's sister-in-law." She cracked a smile and I knew something was up.

"So, what happened? Is she ok?"

"Actually, it was pretty bad. The doctors thought there might be some serious internal bleeding." At this point, Rachael's slight chuckle turned into uproarious laughter.

"Yes," I replied totally confused. "I can see how internal bleeding might seem so hilarious...but what happened?!"

"You don't understand. Nothing. This lady is going to be fine."

I stared at Rachael blankly, with not even half a clue.

"You see, the sister-in-law is really fat. Normally, a knife going into someone's stomach would have caused severe internal bleeding. But this lady was so huge, the knife didn't even reach any of her organs. It just cut part of the cushion of fat which will heal in no time! No bleeding and she'll be fine."

A woman who was preserved by her own fat. We laughed until we cried.