Sunday, July 18, 2010
Who Knew a Country Could Run Out of Bananas?
I’m not so great at baking, but the other day I finally set my face towards making some banana bread for a friend who really loves it. Her birthday was coming up soon, so I wanted try my hand (for only the second time in Djibouti) at baking. I found a simple recipe and everything I needed, except the star ingredient—bananas. That morning at the market, I noticed that prices were a little higher than normal and that bananas, the most populous fruit in Djibouti, were strangely missing. Not a single vendor had any. My houseworker and I walked around and asked. Apparently, eastern Ethiopia had some flooding issues, so the train that usually brings us fruit and vegetables from our more bountiful neighbor was delayed—hence the scarcity of bananas. “But they’re so common” I thought to myself. “Even if the train was delayed, surely there must be some bananas somewhere in Djibouti.” I was wrong. I scoured the downtown market where you can always find bananas. There were a few apples, grapes and dates, but not one single banana. The entire country was out. I knew stores and shops and markets could run out of things, but an entire country? Needless to say, my friend had to wait a little while for that banana bread.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
“A Woman Wearing Man’s Clothes?!” – And Other Signs of Cultural Adaptation
During my trip to Ethiopia and another shorter trip to a neighboring country earlier this spring, I realized in seven months how much I have adapted and how much I have grown accustomed to certain facts of life in Djibouti. Things that shocked or at least surprised me at first no longer even make me think twice. For example, some things I once found shocking but have now grown quite accustomed to are:
1. The Macwiis (pronounced “mahwooss”) or Man-Skirt as I used to call it. This is a traditional garment that only men here wear, and to most western eyes it looks like a skirt that falls somewhere between a man’s ankles and knees. But it is not a skirt. It is a macwiis, and from what I am told, quite comfortable in the hotter months. Men also wear pants to work or for more business-type settings, but the macwiis is the preferred attire of comfort. I didn’t realize how accustomed I’d grown to seeing men wear these until I saw a European woman wearing one like a beach sarong. I was so shocked and horrified that this woman was wearing men’s clothing. Later, my co-worker and I remarked to each other “Did you see that woman wearing a macwiis? Is she crazy or what? Doesn’t she know its men’s clothing and she can’t just wear it as a skirt?”
2. Khat—it is a green, leafy plant that comes from Ethiopia and helps keep the Djiboutian economy afloat. Actually, it is a drug. Men chew on the leaves to get a stimulant effect. Bus and taxi drivers like to use it to keep themselves awake all night so they can drive longer and make money. It was a little concerning at first to know that most of my taxi and bus drivers are on drugs, but I can’t walk everywhere, so now I just try not to think about it too much. Khat is widely hated by most women here as it steals their money and their husbands. If you ask a woman “What do you think of khat?” she might roll her eyes or go off on a rampage about what an evil it is. I sometimes ask men what they think about khat. Some are against it, but many love it. One man told me “Khat—it’s what makes a man a man!”
3. Comments on weight gain or loss. Friends freely comment on how big/small/tall/etc I am. I met a fellow professor at the university right after I arrived and then didn’t see her again until a few months later. I guess I lost some weight this spring because a lot of people kept telling me I was getting thinner. I don’t even know how people can tell this because I wear so many loose layers of clothing. But anyway, this friend told me that I must have lost some weight. I told her I didn’t think so, but she said “No, no. I’m sure. Because when you first got here, you were kind of fat, but now you’re ok.” “Umm, thanks.” Now I must be gaining again because the other day another friend I hadn’t seen in a while took one look at me and said “Oh my goodness! You’ve really gotten fat since the last time I saw you! You must have a boyfriend. (This is what people say to tease you when you gain weight. Sometimes it’s true for local women. Sometimes not. For me, it’s not.) If this were the US, these comments would probably hurt. But here, “fat” is more of a description than an insult and it’s actually kind of a good thing to be a little fat. A little roundness is more beautiful. And just for the record, I don’t think I’ve gained or lost more than about five pounds. People just seem to like commenting about these things whether they’re true or not.
4. The unwritten “No Touching” Rule between sexes. I rarely touch men here. Even shaking hands with a man is something I have to contemplate. I don’t extend my hand or initiate any touch, and if a man touches me (unless it’s accidental or we’re squished in next to each other on the bus), I let him know that it is not ok. But many men go out of their way not to touch me. The money-takers on the bus gingerly drop change into my hand or carefully take it so they don’t even accidentally brush their hand against mine. When I walk up and down the aisles in class to check on students’ work, I slither and slide between desks to avoid brushing against any of my male students. I don’t even tap them when I want their attention. I just walk over and put my hand on their desk. I make a conscious effort to never tap or touch my boss in public (actually I even try not to smile at him or laugh at his jokes in public) as I do not want people who see us at the university together to think there is something going on.
I didn’t realize how much these little checks had become routine until I went to Ethiopia where it is not taboo for men and women to touch each other. While at a conference there, I was talking to an Ethiopian man and when we started laughing about something, he slapped me on the back and held my hand as we were laughing! You might think this is ridiculous, but can you imagine how scandalized I felt after months of almost no touch whatsoever? I silently freaked out until other Ethiopians explained that touching like this between men and women is pretty normal amongst the younger generation in their country. It didn’t mean anything—just that we were friends who enjoyed each other’s company. In Djibouti, I would have slapped a man without hesitation if had done this to me. And everyone who saw would have approved of my modesty and respectability for doing so.
5. Power Outages, Water Pump Breakages, and Frequent Household Repairs. Yep, it’s Africa so the power goes off, things break, and we don’t always have running water. Even though we do have a mostly working toilet and shower in the apartment, it doesn’t seem weird at all to shower with a bucket of water or to squat over a hole in the floor to go to the bathroom. Actually, there have been times I used a bucket or poured water down the toilet to flush because I just assumed the shower or toilet wouldn’t work. Only later did I find out that the water actually worked. I used to jump or throw my hands up when the power went off. Now I don’t even flinch.
6. Being in a continually dirty/sweaty/smelly state and yet still men tell me how beautiful I am! I suppose this has more to do with my unusual height, pale skin, big nose (they actually like big noses here!) and local dress more than how I look on any particular day. But still I get a kick out of sweating through my clothes, tripping over my dress and some random stranger still telling me that I look beautiful. Maybe this one I’m still getting used to.
7. Multinational and multilingual social gatherings. Earlier this spring, I went away to island for a women’s only weekend and there were 28 of us there from 14 different countries. I think I heard at least 6 or 7 languages spoken at the dinner table. But for some reason, it didn’t seem that strange. For such a small country, Djibouti is quite multilingual and multicultural. It seems rare to sit down with a group of people who are all from the same country or who all have the same native language. There is usually some translating going on because in a group of 8 or 10, there might not be a common language. Some people feel most comfortable in Somali, French or Arabic but maybe they want to practice their English too or maybe they picked up a little Spanish or Japanese or Hindi or whatever and want to teach everyone. So we communicate in whatever bits of whatever languages we know—French, Somali and English all mixed together with some Arabic phrases thrown in. More and more, it feels rare to hear a sentence that uses only one language.
8. The Yelling. When I first arrived, I thought everyone was always mad at me. Djiboutians tend to yell a lot. Especially on the street. I equated yelling to anger, but that’s not the case. I think it’s just part of the Somali way. One of my students told me that whoever yells the loudest in a disagreement is considered the strongest, which would explain why I hear so much yelling in the streets. People aren’t necessarily mad, they just want to win the argument. Some of my other students told me that if I didn’t yell at least a little, they couldn’t respect me. “How can we respect a teacher who is quiet and nice? You have to yell or you don’t have any authority.” I have noticed that some students need more yelling than others. :)
In fact, even when people are trying to be helpful, they still kind of yell. A while ago, I was walking up and down a street to find a hardware store. Finally, one exasperated man came out of his shop and started yelling at me “HEY, GIRL! WHO ARE YOU? WHAT DO YOU WANT? ARE YOU LOST? I SEE YOU WALKING UP AND DOWN THIS STREET. UP AND DOWN, UP AND DOWN! AND STILL NOTHING! WHAT DO YOU NEED?”
“I’M LOOKING FOR A HARDWARE STORE!! CAN YOU HELP ME?” I yelled back.
“Ok, sure. I’ll get my brother and he will take you.” The man’s demeanor softened a bit. He went and found said brother who then kindly led me to the nearest hardware store. Mission accomplished. So sometimes people yell because they want to help you, or want your attention, or want to make sure you know where you are going, or won’t fall out of the bus, or want to tell you that they like how you dress or want to play “Guess My Nationality” or want to prove they are strong and authoritative. Now that my language is improving, I see that it is not always anger. People just like being heard. :)
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Visual Accompaniment for Previous Post
So these are some pictures from the trip: me with some fellow Ethiopian and Kenyan teachers, our preferred method of transportation while in the countryside in Ethiopia, and me with my infamous purchase (see post below for details)
Something They Forget to Mention in the Travel Guide
I just returned from a two-week long trip to Ethiopia for a seminar on language learning. It was a wonderful trip! We got to see the beauty and experience the cool weather of the green Ethiopian countryside, meet fellow teachers and language learning advisors and gain new tools and vision for helping others learn languages. About 60 of us attended the conference in a camp an hour outside the capital. It was beautiful! The camp is in a sort of garden with mountains, lakes, flowers, and fields of green grass surrounding it. We were also close to a small village that some of us went to visit during the free weekend. And hence one of the most unusual and embarrassing and funny stories of my career in Africa thus far!
One day, I along with two other teachers from our group went into the village by horse cart (see picture above), had lunch there and did a little shopping. I had noticed a couple shops selling these really fancy embroidered umbrellas. As soon as I saw them, I thought they would make a wonderful sun shade to carry around in Djibouti. Just as we were leaving, I ran into a shop to buy one. I took the umbrella up to the counter and handed it to the woman. She gave me sort of a puzzled glance and then asked "Are you a Christian?" I nodded but thought "What in the world does that have to do with buying an umbrella?" The only thing I could think of was that since we were in a mostly Muslim village, perhaps this umbrella had something to do with local Islamic practices, so I asked "Are you a Muslim?" Then she gave me an even stranger look. Perhaps then I should have realized this was not just any ordinary umbrella, but I ignored that nagging little voice and bought it anyway. I opened it up in the shop and showed the two guys I was with. The both exclaimed over its loveliness and I must admit, I was quite pleased with my little purchase. As it was a sunny day, I was eager to try it out, so I kept the umbrella open and walked under it as we strolled through the market looking for our cart driver. I noticed that more people than usual seemed to be eyeing us, making comments, laughing, staring, etc. In the last five months, I've gotten pretty used to these things as I am often the only white face in a crowd of people, but that day all the attention seemed a little more intense than usual. "Oh well," I rationalized. "It's a small village and the people here probably don't see too many foreigners. Nothing too unusual." Truth be told, I was too delighted with my new sun shade to be that concerned. As we were walking I kept twirling and spinning the umbrella, practically skipping along. It was so huge that when I accidentally tripped, I almost knocked a couple of villagers over with it. Oops! Eventually we made our way back to the camp and I showed off my new purchase to Suzanne, a fellow American and conference attendee who lives in Ethiopia. Our conversation went something like this:
"Hey Suzanne! What do you think of this umbrella I bought? Do you like it?"
[Suzanne stares at said umbrella with concern and doubt] "So are you planning to donate that as a gift to the Ethiopian Orthodox Church?"
"Umm, no. Why would I donate my new favorite sun shade to the Orthodox Church?"
"Because it's not a sun shade. It's a sacred ornament designated for use only by an Ethiopian Orthodox priest." [insert hilarious bursts of laughter from my companions here]
"Wait! What do you mean? What is this umbrella normally used for?"
"Well [fighting back laughter], the priest stands under it during the service to read scripture or pray. He only ever walks outside under it once or twice a year on the holiest festival days. Oh Hannah! Well, at least you didn't have it open it public."
"Umm, actually...."
"You didn't..."
"Yes I did. [Feeling a bit sheepish now] Not only did I have it open, but I paraded around the whole village while walking under it."
[At this point, Suzanne throws up her hands and starts cackling with laughter] "I swear I didn't know!! I wondered why everyone was staring and laughing at us so much...I just thought it was because I almost knocked a couple people over with it when I tripped." [Suzanne tries to get some more words out but can't because she is breathless and trembling with fits of laughter by this point].
A bit disappointed, I sheepishly hid the umbrella in my room only to find that half of the camp had heard about my little cultural misadventure by dinner time and wanted me to retell the story. Suzanne found a coffee table book about the Orthodox Church that had a picture of the exact umbrella I had bought and we learned some other purposes for it. Not only is it a sacred object of worship that only the priest stands under for prayer and reading scripture, but it also shields the churches' replica of the Ark of the Covenant when it goes out in public for special feast days. The priest himself only walks under it once a year on the church's holiest day. If a priest carries it upside down outside the church, it means he is collecting money offerings. It can also be used as a sort of thank-you gift to the church if a priest prays for you and the prayer is answered. That's why the woman at the shop asked if I was a Christian. Ethiopian friends at the conference said what she really meant by that question was "Are you a member of the Orthodox church and are you going to give this as a gift to a priest?" Ah hah...I wonder if the thought occurred to her to stop me when she saw me open the umbrella and walk out of the shop twirling and spinning it!
Within a short time, this story was told all around the camp and I'm sure you can imagine all the priest and umbrella jokes that ensued. All the Americans and Europeans thought it was pretty funny. The westerners who lived in Ethiopia thought it was really funny. But the Ethiopians themselves thought it was downright hilarious. I told them the story when they got back for the second week of the conference after visiting their families in the capital. They all cracked up as soon as I said "I saw these beautiful umbrellas hanging in one of the shops" because they knew exactly where this story was going. After dinner, they all wanted to see this infamous umbrella with their own eyes, so we went down to my cabin. As soon as I brought it out, they immediately started rolling with laughter and exclaimed "Oh Hannah! We've never even touched one of these before!" They each fell into fits of hysterical laughter as one by one, they touched and examined my holy umbrella. One of the women asked "We must see how you were walking down this street with this." So I opened it and demonstrated how I had happily and quite ignorantly twirled and spun it around. More hysterical laughter ensued. Then one of the women opened it up herself, looked at the inside fabric and stopped short: "Hannah! Do you see that? Did you see that writing there when you bought it?" I had seen some writing in Amharic when I bought it, but of course couldn't read it, so my friend obliged: "This says property of such-and-such a church. Not for sale. This umbrella is stolen!"
The plot thickened. We speculated that perhaps either an orthodox priest needed some money and had too many sacramental umbrellas, so he sold one or else someone broke into a church and has been fueling a black market trade in sacred orthodox priestly umbrellas. None of the Ethiopian teachers at this conference were Orthodox, but some of the cooks at the camp were. I contemplated giving the stolen umbrella to them to return to its rightful church, but then we noticed that it was a bit worn. And after touching and opening and closing it so much, the handle finally broke off. On top of that it was too big to fit in my suitcase. So, you may ask, what does one do with a broken, stolen, too-big-for-the-suitcase, priestly orthodox umbrella that is unusable and offensive anywhere there might be Ethiopian Orthodox Christians (including Djibouti)? I left it with my Ethiopian friends to use at their school as a lesson in "cultural sensitivity". In other words, what not to do. :)
In some ways, I feel fortunate that this little episode happened to me. There were many other westerners at the camp who had also seen these umbrellas and thought of buying one, but I was the first (and only) person to follow through with it. For about $8 USD, I purchased a very memorable little story that provided a lot of laughter, endeared me to our Ethiopian friends and has made me think of writing the travel guide people. There should be some kind of footnote in the guide book for Ethiopia that says "Dear traveler, should you go to the village in Ethiopia, make sure you stay away from the fancy umbrellas, as they are really not umbrellas at all, but sacremental ornaments in the Orthodox Church fit for use only by a priest on the holiest of days..."
One day, I along with two other teachers from our group went into the village by horse cart (see picture above), had lunch there and did a little shopping. I had noticed a couple shops selling these really fancy embroidered umbrellas. As soon as I saw them, I thought they would make a wonderful sun shade to carry around in Djibouti. Just as we were leaving, I ran into a shop to buy one. I took the umbrella up to the counter and handed it to the woman. She gave me sort of a puzzled glance and then asked "Are you a Christian?" I nodded but thought "What in the world does that have to do with buying an umbrella?" The only thing I could think of was that since we were in a mostly Muslim village, perhaps this umbrella had something to do with local Islamic practices, so I asked "Are you a Muslim?" Then she gave me an even stranger look. Perhaps then I should have realized this was not just any ordinary umbrella, but I ignored that nagging little voice and bought it anyway. I opened it up in the shop and showed the two guys I was with. The both exclaimed over its loveliness and I must admit, I was quite pleased with my little purchase. As it was a sunny day, I was eager to try it out, so I kept the umbrella open and walked under it as we strolled through the market looking for our cart driver. I noticed that more people than usual seemed to be eyeing us, making comments, laughing, staring, etc. In the last five months, I've gotten pretty used to these things as I am often the only white face in a crowd of people, but that day all the attention seemed a little more intense than usual. "Oh well," I rationalized. "It's a small village and the people here probably don't see too many foreigners. Nothing too unusual." Truth be told, I was too delighted with my new sun shade to be that concerned. As we were walking I kept twirling and spinning the umbrella, practically skipping along. It was so huge that when I accidentally tripped, I almost knocked a couple of villagers over with it. Oops! Eventually we made our way back to the camp and I showed off my new purchase to Suzanne, a fellow American and conference attendee who lives in Ethiopia. Our conversation went something like this:
"Hey Suzanne! What do you think of this umbrella I bought? Do you like it?"
[Suzanne stares at said umbrella with concern and doubt] "So are you planning to donate that as a gift to the Ethiopian Orthodox Church?"
"Umm, no. Why would I donate my new favorite sun shade to the Orthodox Church?"
"Because it's not a sun shade. It's a sacred ornament designated for use only by an Ethiopian Orthodox priest." [insert hilarious bursts of laughter from my companions here]
"Wait! What do you mean? What is this umbrella normally used for?"
"Well [fighting back laughter], the priest stands under it during the service to read scripture or pray. He only ever walks outside under it once or twice a year on the holiest festival days. Oh Hannah! Well, at least you didn't have it open it public."
"Umm, actually...."
"You didn't..."
"Yes I did. [Feeling a bit sheepish now] Not only did I have it open, but I paraded around the whole village while walking under it."
[At this point, Suzanne throws up her hands and starts cackling with laughter] "I swear I didn't know!! I wondered why everyone was staring and laughing at us so much...I just thought it was because I almost knocked a couple people over with it when I tripped." [Suzanne tries to get some more words out but can't because she is breathless and trembling with fits of laughter by this point].
A bit disappointed, I sheepishly hid the umbrella in my room only to find that half of the camp had heard about my little cultural misadventure by dinner time and wanted me to retell the story. Suzanne found a coffee table book about the Orthodox Church that had a picture of the exact umbrella I had bought and we learned some other purposes for it. Not only is it a sacred object of worship that only the priest stands under for prayer and reading scripture, but it also shields the churches' replica of the Ark of the Covenant when it goes out in public for special feast days. The priest himself only walks under it once a year on the church's holiest day. If a priest carries it upside down outside the church, it means he is collecting money offerings. It can also be used as a sort of thank-you gift to the church if a priest prays for you and the prayer is answered. That's why the woman at the shop asked if I was a Christian. Ethiopian friends at the conference said what she really meant by that question was "Are you a member of the Orthodox church and are you going to give this as a gift to a priest?" Ah hah...I wonder if the thought occurred to her to stop me when she saw me open the umbrella and walk out of the shop twirling and spinning it!
Within a short time, this story was told all around the camp and I'm sure you can imagine all the priest and umbrella jokes that ensued. All the Americans and Europeans thought it was pretty funny. The westerners who lived in Ethiopia thought it was really funny. But the Ethiopians themselves thought it was downright hilarious. I told them the story when they got back for the second week of the conference after visiting their families in the capital. They all cracked up as soon as I said "I saw these beautiful umbrellas hanging in one of the shops" because they knew exactly where this story was going. After dinner, they all wanted to see this infamous umbrella with their own eyes, so we went down to my cabin. As soon as I brought it out, they immediately started rolling with laughter and exclaimed "Oh Hannah! We've never even touched one of these before!" They each fell into fits of hysterical laughter as one by one, they touched and examined my holy umbrella. One of the women asked "We must see how you were walking down this street with this." So I opened it and demonstrated how I had happily and quite ignorantly twirled and spun it around. More hysterical laughter ensued. Then one of the women opened it up herself, looked at the inside fabric and stopped short: "Hannah! Do you see that? Did you see that writing there when you bought it?" I had seen some writing in Amharic when I bought it, but of course couldn't read it, so my friend obliged: "This says property of such-and-such a church. Not for sale. This umbrella is stolen!"
The plot thickened. We speculated that perhaps either an orthodox priest needed some money and had too many sacramental umbrellas, so he sold one or else someone broke into a church and has been fueling a black market trade in sacred orthodox priestly umbrellas. None of the Ethiopian teachers at this conference were Orthodox, but some of the cooks at the camp were. I contemplated giving the stolen umbrella to them to return to its rightful church, but then we noticed that it was a bit worn. And after touching and opening and closing it so much, the handle finally broke off. On top of that it was too big to fit in my suitcase. So, you may ask, what does one do with a broken, stolen, too-big-for-the-suitcase, priestly orthodox umbrella that is unusable and offensive anywhere there might be Ethiopian Orthodox Christians (including Djibouti)? I left it with my Ethiopian friends to use at their school as a lesson in "cultural sensitivity". In other words, what not to do. :)
In some ways, I feel fortunate that this little episode happened to me. There were many other westerners at the camp who had also seen these umbrellas and thought of buying one, but I was the first (and only) person to follow through with it. For about $8 USD, I purchased a very memorable little story that provided a lot of laughter, endeared me to our Ethiopian friends and has made me think of writing the travel guide people. There should be some kind of footnote in the guide book for Ethiopia that says "Dear traveler, should you go to the village in Ethiopia, make sure you stay away from the fancy umbrellas, as they are really not umbrellas at all, but sacremental ornaments in the Orthodox Church fit for use only by a priest on the holiest of days..."
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Forbidden Fruit Always Tastes the Sweetest
What do you get when you mix a conservative Muslim culture that views alcohol as sinful and untouchable with a former colonial power that has a homeland flowing with wine and champagne? Djibouti! Ironically, there is a ton of alcohol available here even though it is considered by every good Muslim to be 'haram' or forbidden. I think this oddity is mostly due to the large French population here. In fact, we live just down the street from the biggest alcohol store in town. (Thus far, I have only bought juice and pop there, if you are curious.) Usually, the subject of alcohol rarely comes up and if it does, people just say "Oh yes. We don't drink any of that stuff. We are Muslims." Fair enough. There's no need to drink, especially if your culture forbids it.
But this week in my university classes, we have been doing a unit on food and drink, so naturally a topic like this has come up. Our textbook from Europe had several pictures of different foods and beverages, so we spent a class period discussing which food each picture represented. These students are all math and science majors and English is just a required course they have to get through. A few take it seriously, but mostly I am just learning how to teach whoever shows up and how to have fun with them. So when we came to the picture of beer, they all instantly knew what it was. I asked, "So how many of you have tried beer?" They laughed at my joke (because obviously none of them have tried beer and even if they had, surely none of them would fess up to it in front of the entire class) and everyone vigorously shook their heads no. All except for one boy. He was just sitting in the corner watching me with this discreet and self-satisfied smile on his face. I knew instantly what it meant. "So Ibrahim...how about you? Have you ever tried beer?" He tried to feign innocence. "Me, teacher? No, I haven't tried it." But he was grinning like a cheshire cat and I just couldn't resist the opportunity to tease a student. "Yes you have!" I cornered him. "Admit it! I've seen that smile before. I know you've tried beer!" He laughed and finally relented: "Ok, teacher. You are right. But you know...I was in Addis Ababa for holiday...and it was only one time." "I see, so being away from your friends and family, you thought you would just try it out?" "Yes."
Frankly, even though I cornered him, I was quite surprised that this guy was willing to admit to something I'm sure many other Djiboutians have probably done and denied. Of course I had to ask the all-important question: "And what did you think of beer? Did you find it good or bad?" I pretty much expected that he would say something like "Oh it wasn't that great. It's not such a big deal after all." (This was my reaction to my first beer.) Instead, he leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and smiled as if he were thinking about a beautiful woman. He closed his eyes and said with great conviction "Oh, teacher. It was soooo good." In vain I struggled to hold back an eruption of laughter. Like I said, forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest.
But this week in my university classes, we have been doing a unit on food and drink, so naturally a topic like this has come up. Our textbook from Europe had several pictures of different foods and beverages, so we spent a class period discussing which food each picture represented. These students are all math and science majors and English is just a required course they have to get through. A few take it seriously, but mostly I am just learning how to teach whoever shows up and how to have fun with them. So when we came to the picture of beer, they all instantly knew what it was. I asked, "So how many of you have tried beer?" They laughed at my joke (because obviously none of them have tried beer and even if they had, surely none of them would fess up to it in front of the entire class) and everyone vigorously shook their heads no. All except for one boy. He was just sitting in the corner watching me with this discreet and self-satisfied smile on his face. I knew instantly what it meant. "So Ibrahim...how about you? Have you ever tried beer?" He tried to feign innocence. "Me, teacher? No, I haven't tried it." But he was grinning like a cheshire cat and I just couldn't resist the opportunity to tease a student. "Yes you have!" I cornered him. "Admit it! I've seen that smile before. I know you've tried beer!" He laughed and finally relented: "Ok, teacher. You are right. But you know...I was in Addis Ababa for holiday...and it was only one time." "I see, so being away from your friends and family, you thought you would just try it out?" "Yes."
Frankly, even though I cornered him, I was quite surprised that this guy was willing to admit to something I'm sure many other Djiboutians have probably done and denied. Of course I had to ask the all-important question: "And what did you think of beer? Did you find it good or bad?" I pretty much expected that he would say something like "Oh it wasn't that great. It's not such a big deal after all." (This was my reaction to my first beer.) Instead, he leaned back in his chair, put his hands behind his head and smiled as if he were thinking about a beautiful woman. He closed his eyes and said with great conviction "Oh, teacher. It was soooo good." In vain I struggled to hold back an eruption of laughter. Like I said, forbidden fruit always tastes the sweetest.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Do you know anyone crazy enough to drive from South Africa to China? I do.
Today, while I was trying to get a visa at the Ethiopian embassy for an upcoming trip, I met an older, soft-spoken South African man. When I casually asked where he was coming from, he answered "Nepal". "So you flew?" "No, actually my friend and I drove." I couldn't believe it, but it turns out that wasn't even half the story. As we chatted, I learned that they were on their way home--both men had driven all the way to Nepal (they had aimed for China, but couldn't get in) from South Africa and were now on their way home. They left in the summer of 2008 and are slated to return to South Africa this June, just in time for the World Cup and to promote some sort of peace initiative with Nelson Mandela. "So what would possess a person to drive from South Africa to Nepal and back again? Were you just bored and looking for something to do?" He laughed and smiled. "Something like that...and people said it couldn't be done." "So you set out to prove them wrong?" "Exactly." At first, I thought this might be some crazy person just pulling my leg, but then when he got out his three passports (because one was not enough to hold all the entry and exit stamps) and explained to the official, "Well look, here you see the stamps for Tanzania, Malawi, Kenya, Sudan, Egypt, etc. And here is Jordan, Syria, Iran, Pakistan, India, etc" I knew that perhaps these two guys were for real. After my meeting with the visa official, I went back to the waiting room to wish them well on the rest of their journey. One of the men gave me his name and told me that if I looked on google, perhaps I might see something about their trip. Here is a link I found:
http://www.thenational.ae/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20091128/MOTORING/711279940/1196/rss
What a wild ride they seem to have had...amazing the people you meet at embassies and airports.
http://www.thenational.ae/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20091128/MOTORING/711279940/1196/rss
What a wild ride they seem to have had...amazing the people you meet at embassies and airports.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
On Beggars
One of the constant questions on my mind is "How do I interact with the beggars here?" Everytime I leave the house and walk down the street, beggars follow me and ask for food, money or whatever I have. They come in many shapes and sizes, from old men with canes, people in wheelchairs or with other handicaps, women with babies, and children from about two to twelve years old. Many people have told me not to give out money, especially to children, because they often give it to an adult who functions as their "pimp" and takes most of the money the child collects. I've also heard that some younger boys will use money they get from begging to buy khat (a legal drug that is widely used by men here) because they want to be like the older men. Begging is such a part of the culture. Even children who clearly are well-dressed and well-fed will leave their parents when they see me coming, run up to my side and hold out their hand asking for money. It's hard to resist a white lady, I guess!
At times, I've seen adults berate little children because they know they should not be begging. The other day, a little boy and girl merely said "Bonjour" as I passed, so I smiled and greeted them back. Then out of nowhere this old man flew into a rage, started yelling and swinging a huge stick around. At first, I thought he was coming for me (and had some of his blows been an inch or two closer, he probably would have broken my nose), but he soon ran past me to chase the kids and rain down blows on them. I still can't figure out why--perhaps it was his begging territory and the children were encroaching or maybe he thought they shouldn't be asking me for anything. Still, I couldn't imagine that that would warrant beating them with a stick. Another time, a little boy approached me to ask for food, but when he opened his mouth and said "Baksheesh", crumbs and chunks of food fell out! I laughed and told him "Look at you, little one. You've got so much baksheesh, it's coming out of your mouth!" I then pointed at the food he had in his hand and he sheepishly tried to hide it from me, but it was too late. He knew the jig was up.
It's hard to give to every single person who asks (if I did, I would come out of the grocery store with sacks full of food and be empty-handed by the time I got home). It's also hard to give to people who just expect something, try to manipulate me or who are ungrateful when I do give. It seems easier to me to give to someone who is clearly in need but doesn't ask than to someone else who puts on a fake sad face and then gives me this look like "Yeah, that's right. I deserve this and you don't because you're rich and I'm poor." This reaction can certainly test whether or not you are truly a 'cheerful giver'!
At times, when I refuse a child they will walk with me and then their friends or whoever else will join in too until I have a little chorus of voices calling me Mama and Auntie and asking for 10 franc or putting their hands to their mouths to ask for food. Some of them laugh and smile and enjoy themselves as they beg while others look like the most pathetic little street urchins you've ever seen. Sometimes I feel like the Pied Piper of Little Beggar Children and I'm not sure if it's better to laugh or cry about it.
So what to do about all these people when I have so much and they have so little? Whether begging is their job or their only means of survival, I still have much to lose before I am ever going to have to go without food. There are many people in genuine need and I want to help, but in a way that is actually meaningful and not just massaging my conscience. So I started carrying around a water bottle to give people a drink out of and little bits of food here and there. The test for me if someone really needs help is if they will take a drink of water first. If so then they probably need some food too. If not, then they just want money for something that isn't food or drink.
I finally felt I was getting to a place where I had a little system going and I knew how to react when the masses of women and children come looking for something, but today I saw a sight that almost undid me. It was during the afternoon rest break, so the streets were mostly empty. I saw a little boy up ahead, but his expression was different. He didn't put on his sad little beggar face like most children do. He looked panicked and truly desperate for someone, anyone to help. He was standing over another little boy the same age who was lying on the sidewalk. As I approached, I could see the boy on the sidewalk twitching and shaking uncontrollably and foaming at the mouth. He looked like he had a severe disease or had been badly tramuatized or injured. I had never seen anyone, much less a child of 7 or 8 years old, in such a state. My first thought was "Oh my gosh! What do I do? Call 911! No wait! This is Djibouti! There is no 911!!!" This little boy looked like he was at death's door and his friend was hysterical. I looked around and saw one of my students passing by. I called him over and asked him to talk to the boys and see what was wrong. After a few seconds he said, "The boy is just hungry. He needs something to eat." I was shocked. I knew you could die from hunger eventually, but had never seen hunger like that with my own eyes before, not as a statistic but in the face of a young boy just a few years older than my nephew. There was no parent or guardian or anyone older than eight that I could see.
So Omar, my student, gave the friend a couple hundred franc (a little over a dollar) to buy some food. We tried to make sure he knew to use the money for food and not for anything else. To my surprise, when I pulled out my water bottle, the little boy was able to sit (with his friend supporting him) and drink a little. I urged him to take more, but he could only handle one little sip. It broke my heart to walk away, but what else could I do? As much as I wanted to give him a piggyback ride and take him home, I was supposed to teach a class. As I walked to the university I scanned the road, but every cafe and restaurant was closed. Most of the street vendors had gone home and the only ones who were left were just selling candy and pop--not much nutrition for a little boy who needs a bowl of rice much more than a Coke. I tried to find them after class, but their spot on the sidewalk was empty. A dollar and a sip of water hardly seems even close to adequate. I've had other kids turn up their noses at me when I offered a banana or a drink of water, but this kid was literally dying for one.
At times, I've seen adults berate little children because they know they should not be begging. The other day, a little boy and girl merely said "Bonjour" as I passed, so I smiled and greeted them back. Then out of nowhere this old man flew into a rage, started yelling and swinging a huge stick around. At first, I thought he was coming for me (and had some of his blows been an inch or two closer, he probably would have broken my nose), but he soon ran past me to chase the kids and rain down blows on them. I still can't figure out why--perhaps it was his begging territory and the children were encroaching or maybe he thought they shouldn't be asking me for anything. Still, I couldn't imagine that that would warrant beating them with a stick. Another time, a little boy approached me to ask for food, but when he opened his mouth and said "Baksheesh", crumbs and chunks of food fell out! I laughed and told him "Look at you, little one. You've got so much baksheesh, it's coming out of your mouth!" I then pointed at the food he had in his hand and he sheepishly tried to hide it from me, but it was too late. He knew the jig was up.
It's hard to give to every single person who asks (if I did, I would come out of the grocery store with sacks full of food and be empty-handed by the time I got home). It's also hard to give to people who just expect something, try to manipulate me or who are ungrateful when I do give. It seems easier to me to give to someone who is clearly in need but doesn't ask than to someone else who puts on a fake sad face and then gives me this look like "Yeah, that's right. I deserve this and you don't because you're rich and I'm poor." This reaction can certainly test whether or not you are truly a 'cheerful giver'!
At times, when I refuse a child they will walk with me and then their friends or whoever else will join in too until I have a little chorus of voices calling me Mama and Auntie and asking for 10 franc or putting their hands to their mouths to ask for food. Some of them laugh and smile and enjoy themselves as they beg while others look like the most pathetic little street urchins you've ever seen. Sometimes I feel like the Pied Piper of Little Beggar Children and I'm not sure if it's better to laugh or cry about it.
So what to do about all these people when I have so much and they have so little? Whether begging is their job or their only means of survival, I still have much to lose before I am ever going to have to go without food. There are many people in genuine need and I want to help, but in a way that is actually meaningful and not just massaging my conscience. So I started carrying around a water bottle to give people a drink out of and little bits of food here and there. The test for me if someone really needs help is if they will take a drink of water first. If so then they probably need some food too. If not, then they just want money for something that isn't food or drink.
I finally felt I was getting to a place where I had a little system going and I knew how to react when the masses of women and children come looking for something, but today I saw a sight that almost undid me. It was during the afternoon rest break, so the streets were mostly empty. I saw a little boy up ahead, but his expression was different. He didn't put on his sad little beggar face like most children do. He looked panicked and truly desperate for someone, anyone to help. He was standing over another little boy the same age who was lying on the sidewalk. As I approached, I could see the boy on the sidewalk twitching and shaking uncontrollably and foaming at the mouth. He looked like he had a severe disease or had been badly tramuatized or injured. I had never seen anyone, much less a child of 7 or 8 years old, in such a state. My first thought was "Oh my gosh! What do I do? Call 911! No wait! This is Djibouti! There is no 911!!!" This little boy looked like he was at death's door and his friend was hysterical. I looked around and saw one of my students passing by. I called him over and asked him to talk to the boys and see what was wrong. After a few seconds he said, "The boy is just hungry. He needs something to eat." I was shocked. I knew you could die from hunger eventually, but had never seen hunger like that with my own eyes before, not as a statistic but in the face of a young boy just a few years older than my nephew. There was no parent or guardian or anyone older than eight that I could see.
So Omar, my student, gave the friend a couple hundred franc (a little over a dollar) to buy some food. We tried to make sure he knew to use the money for food and not for anything else. To my surprise, when I pulled out my water bottle, the little boy was able to sit (with his friend supporting him) and drink a little. I urged him to take more, but he could only handle one little sip. It broke my heart to walk away, but what else could I do? As much as I wanted to give him a piggyback ride and take him home, I was supposed to teach a class. As I walked to the university I scanned the road, but every cafe and restaurant was closed. Most of the street vendors had gone home and the only ones who were left were just selling candy and pop--not much nutrition for a little boy who needs a bowl of rice much more than a Coke. I tried to find them after class, but their spot on the sidewalk was empty. A dollar and a sip of water hardly seems even close to adequate. I've had other kids turn up their noses at me when I offered a banana or a drink of water, but this kid was literally dying for one.
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