Are You Sure You're American?

Walking around town, the question I get most often is "where are you from?" Many of the westerners here are either French or American. But people rarely guess that I am American. In fact, they usually guess everything but American. From students, taxi drivers and in the marketplace I have had guesses of French, British, Canadian, Scottish, Irish, Swiss, Swedish, German, Belgian, Dutch, Norwegian, Caribbean (haha!), and Arab. Maybe it's the way I dress or the fact that I speak French, but most people just don't believe I'm American. One girl insisted I must be Arab, if even just a little, half-Arab perhaps. An old woman at the market looked me up and down, made her guesses and then refused to believe me when I finally told her I was from the US. "No, no! Not American! Not possible!" I tried to argue that "I was born in the US and my parents are both American, so I'm pretty sure that makes me American too." But this old woman wouldn't have it. "Not American--Somali!" I also get this a lot. Particularly when I have my head covered and am wearing a long skirt, people on the street will smile and call out to me, "Hey Somali!" or they will say "Salaam Alaikum" (a traditional Muslim greeting). It makes me feel good that people see me as someone who fits in here, but Somalis' lack of ability in determining where us white folks are from is hilarious at times. Kristie (who has light blond hair) once had a girl ask her if she was Chinese. When Rachel (whose hair is only a couple shades darker than Kristie's) wears Pakistani clothes to weddings, people ask if she is Algerian or North African. Once a man in the market argued with her that she must be a Somali because there is no other way a white woman could speak Somali so well. Although Rachel is very obviously not Somali, he insisted that at least her father must be Somali. Perhaps he was one of those rare albino Somalis!

One thing most of the locals all seem to agree on here: the Americans are much nicer than the French. I have asked many different people who they think is nicer and the Americans have it! Perhaps it's because we don't have a colonial history with the Djiboutians, make an effort to fit in, and don't generally walk around in tank tops and miniskirts.

I'm So Cold!?!?

Every once in a while, the American Embassy opens their private pool for any Americans who are here to come and swim. It was the weekend and I had never been swimming outside in November before, so I (and many others) decided to take advantage of the offer. The pool is in the embassy compound which is very well shaded by trees and other lovely greenery. It was great fun at first, but as the sun started going down, it just kept getting colder and colder until I was shivering uncontrollably and even my teeth were chattering. We started talking about warm soup and hot chocolate and all the other comforting things of winter. As Rachel was driving Kristie and I home, my one resounding thought was "I AM SO COLD!!!" When we got home, I quickly dried off and put on some of my warmest clothes and curled up on our sofa while waiting for this terrible chill to dissipate. I had a terrific laugh at myself when I checked the weather and found out that the temperature outside was a freezing 87 degrees! Haha! I guess I must be starting to adapt to the Djiboutian way. After all, they all say that we are in the "cold" season now. I talked to one girl who said she has to use four covers at night just to stay warm. I laughed hyserically and told her that I myself sleep under a fan with no covers in shorts and a tank top. She was amazed at my tolerance for "cold" weather. (Usually the coldest it gets at night is the mid-70's.) Perhpas my tolerance is not so great after all. :)

How Do You Know What Food Is When You Only Eat Trash?

There are a few goats who live in our little neighborhood, and in an effort of goodwill toward them, I started saving food scraps so they could have something to graze on instead of the usual trash and dirt that they're used to. A few nights ago, I decided the time was right to set out some scraps for our little friends. I went outside our gate and dumped some orange peels and chicken bones for the goats to pick up. But this caused a huge and completely unintended scene. Several men saw me dumping something out and ran over in a highly distressed manner shouting "Oh no! No! No! No, no, no!" I tried to innocently explain "Oh, mais ca va, ca va. C'est de la nourriture pour les chevres." ("It's ok. It's only food for the goats.") They were not having it. Not on their street. Our guard ran out and saw the commotion. He was absolutely horrified. He ran back inside to get the trash bucket and started sweeping the food back into the bucket. I tried to explain again, but to no avail. He took the bucket back inside, set it down, made me throw my plastic bags into it, pointed at the trash and said "Halas!" (Meaning "enough" or "finished"--his way of saying, "hey lady, don't dump trash outside anymore because we have a bucket for that stuff"). I went back inside determined to try again later.

Yesterday, another opportunity presented itself. I heard a goat outside and ran out to greet it with my orange peels. He was winding his way through the little market stalls on our street and by the time I caught up, he was chomping away at a dirty plastic bag. I gleefully threw down my orange peels, content to have found a recipient of my benevolence, when what did I see? Monsieur Le Chevre (Mr. Goat) sniffed my fresh and delicious peelings with indifference at best, then snubbed them and turned back to his plastic bag! As a Djiboutian goat, he has most likely been grazing on trash, dirt and filth for most of his life and couldn't even comprehend the feast I had set down before him. He was like a child "who goes on making mud pies in the slums because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at sea." (C.S. Lewis) I suspect this is true of the wider adult culture here as well. Sometimes people get so set in their ways, even if they are doing something that is clearly not working, they will keep on doing it that way because change is too hard or too frightening or it makes the future too unknown. Even the simplest of animals have something to teach here!

English Club

Recently, Kristie took me to my first meeting of the university’s English club. It is a completely student-run group and each Thursday, university students gather to have a debate and practice their English. This week, the three topics were “How do you see (what do you think of) the youth of this country?” “What are the good and bad aspects of modern society?” and “What is the importance of learning English?” It was very culturally instructive and quite hilarious at times. Students would take turns going up to the front of the room and giving their opinion on one of the questions then the other students would raise their hands and either ask questions for further explanation or challenge student #1 on a point they had made. Question #3 (what is the importance of learning English?) was by far the most popular one. And there were many opinions ranging from one guy who thought that English was the best and easiest of all languages to learn (I couldn’t fathom this—I’m a native speaker and I don’t even think that) to another girl who thought that we should all focus on our mother tongues and not sacrifice culture for language. The first guy got many questions and challenges. When people agreed with a point very well made, they would burst into clapping, cheering and even laughing. I have noticed that while Somalis can be harsh in their criticism and quite aggressive, they can also be very friendly and warm in their approval and laughter. I think at least part of it depends on whether you are an insider or an outsider in the community. But anyway, then the students egged us white folks on and asked for one of us to stand up and talk. I got up and let them choose the question for me. They agreed on #2, so I gave my opinion on the effects of modern society and then introduced myself and told them I would be one of their English professors next semester. They peppered me with questions and asked for my advice about learning English. Many of them seemed quite excited and although many of the students had been chatting while others were up front, they were almost all silent for me. After an hour or so, there was a break because it was prayer time, so many of the students went to the mosque next door, but a few of the women stayed behind. I chatted with a very sweet girl whose family was originally from Yemen. After the break, the students played some American rap songs which kind of baffled me. I couldn’t even understand the lyrics, so I’m sure they didn’t get much either. But considering what most rap songs are about, that was probably a good thing! Afterwards, I met some of the student leaders (most of which were young women) and they crowded around me asking lots of questions. One girl wanted to know if I was Arab. I told her no, that I was purely American. “Really? But you must be at least half-Arab. Your coloring and features look right, even though you are a little light. The way you dress and cover your head, the phrases you use—you must be!” I told her I was very sorry to disappoint, but I was not even half-Arab. Another girl asked if I spoke French as well as English. When I said yes, she seemed very pleased. When I told her I wanted to learn Somali also, well...that did it. Soon there was a group of girls chorusing around me “Oh! We will teach you! We will teach you!” One girl said she had a grammar book and would teach me the Somali alphabet. They were already making plans before I could even really accept their offer. I was planning on waiting a few months before starting on Somali, but I’m not sure these girls will let me wait. :)

One Hot Tamale

As you may imagine, life as a single white woman is very different here in Djibouti than it is in the US. I have been abroad before—spent a summer in Europe, summer in Malawi (southern Africa), even traveled to Djibouti previously, so through the course of various travels, I’ve gotten used to male attention and unusual encounters with foreign men. Or at least, I thought I had until I moved here. But nothing could have prepared me for the way the men here react to me. In a week and a half, my encounters with them have ranged from hilarious to borderline obscene. From the first day, it seemed that every time my roommate and I stepped out the door, all male eyes were on us. Men routinely call things out to us as we pass by. Some of my favorites are “Hey! I really like you!” “Oui, oui, Madame!” “I like the way you dress. It is very good here.” “You are so beautiful!” “Hey, tall girl! Tall girl!” and “Yay for Obama!” (This last one doesn’t have as much to do with how we look. I just think it’s funny that people shout Obama as we walk past. Africans really love him.) The two of us together are an unusual combination. Kristie has light blond hair and I am pale and tall (taller than almost all the women and many of the men). But even when I’m out by myself, men still react to me. It is so weird to see a group of men chatting with each other, and then stop cold and stare at me as I quietly walk by. Their eyes light up as if I were some exotic, beautiful gift from heaven! I rarely smile or talk to men on the street, but even when I have my head down and am draped in lots of clothes, I can still feel them staring at me. It is so strange to go for a walk through our neighborhood and to see men slowing down or even stopping their cars and craning their necks just get a look at me.

I had already been dressing conservatively, but I thought a solution to all this gratuitous attention might be to dress even more modestly and always have my head covered. Yet ironically, I realized, this only makes me more attractive to the men here! A friend pointed out that because I have dark hair, dressing ultra-conservatively might make me seem like a Muslim who just happens to be lighter and therefore, more “beautiful” than their women. So instead of looking at me like an unavailable foreign woman, they see me as one of their own. If you think I am exaggerating, a few days ago I went with Rachel to the market and to tour downtown. She and Tom have lived in Djibouti for six years, and in that time Rachel has gotten her fair share of both comical and inappropriate attention from men. Yet she said that she had never gotten so many cat-calls and comments and so much attention as that morning that we walked through the downtown together. I am used to being treated as a normal person in the US, so it is extremely strange to be the “hot chick” here! But just so you don’t worry, I want to make it clear that this city is quite safe even for a single white woman. Kristie said that in her experience, once people in the community get used to you being there, they become very protective and will shoo away anyone who looks like trouble. Rachel said that when she has been out alone and a man bothered her, she told the people around her and they immediately came to her rescue. Aside from being an object of desire, I have never felt truly threatened in any way and there are many other women out on the streets, so it’s not as if I were putting myself out in society in ways other women aren’t. I am very careful about who I talk to or smile at and have not been (and probably will not be) alone with a local man. Additionally, Tom has helped Kristie and I deal with a man who we felt was a bit suspicious. Tom is well-respected in the community and calls both of us his ‘sisters’, so people know he is our protector. I’ve also asked him to spread the word that I am not available. :)

Poor Mohammed--Somebody's Always Yelling At Him

One thing I’ve noticed about Somali culture is that people are not afraid to be aggressive, argue and even yell at each other to get what they want. In fact, many times they yell not because they are angry, but just because that’s their way of being heard. Last week, my roommate and I were trying to set up a phone line and internet in our apartment (and we’re still working on it), so we made several trips to the telecommunications center. It was then that I noticed people kept yelling the same word over and over to each other. It sounded like “MAHMED!” Again and again, it was Mahmed-this, Mahmed-that. What could this word mean? I heard it on the bus, in our landlord’s office, in stores, at the market. Somebody was always shouting it somewhere. Finally, I realized it wasn’t “Mahmed” everyone was shouting, it was “Mohammed!” Because this is a Muslim country and people want to honor Islam’s prophet by naming their children after him (or they’re not that creative), it seems like every third man is named Mohammed. Poor Mohammed—he is the errand boy, the backroom stocker, the scapegoat, the assistant, the money collector. And he is always getting yelled at.

My First Venture Out Alone

I arrived in Djibouti late Tuesday night (Nov 3) and spent most of my first full day trailing behind Kristie, my new roommate and visiting with the man who heads up REI (the non-governmental organization our team works for). He was here with his wife just visiting for the day on the way back to the US from the Middle East. On my second full day, Tom and Rachel (our team leaders) invited us over to their house for the evening. Kristie wasn’t feeling well, so I decided to venture out by myself. Tom and Rachel’s house is on the opposite side of town from our apartment, but Kristie told me which buses to take, so I thought it wouldn’t be too much of a problem to get there. I caught the first bus into downtown just fine. The conductor asked me where I was going, and I said to the market. But I think something got lost in translation. I wasn’t exactly sure where to get off, so I just kept riding until finally the bus stopped and everyone got off. “This must be my stop!” I thought to myself. It wasn’t. When I looked around, I realized I was in the middle of a very poor area and not close to the market at all. I started walking and tried to ask some women for directions, but they laughed and looked at me like I was the first white woman they’d ever seen in their neighborhood. Maybe I was. The sun was setting fast, so rather than try to experiment with taking different buses and asking for directions I decided to cop out and take a taxi. I soon found one and fortunately I knew of a landmark near Tom and Rachel’s home, so I could tell the driver where to go. (People do not navigate by street names here—they go by landmarks, businesses, neighborhood areas and wall colors. I sometimes see street names, but nobody really knows them. I can’t even remember what street Kristie and I live on, but we always manage to get home just fine.) On the way, the cab driver started asking me where I was from. Our conversation went something like this: “Are you French?” “No.” “But you speak French very well.” “Thank you, but I’m not French.” “You must be Canadian then.” “No, I’m not Canadian either.” “Really? What about British?” “Nope. I’m American.” “American! I should have guessed. But why do you speak French?” “I studied it at university.” “Ah, so you are an ‘instructed’ American.” “Ha! I suppose so.” Then he paused and said something very encouraging. “You know, many of us here in Djibouti think of America as a big, mean country. But I can say from the Americans I’ve met here, that Americans are very nice people.” “Oh, I am so happy to hear that! Would you say that we are nicer than the French?” “Oh yes, much nicer than the French.” That made my day. I made it to Tom and Rachel’s just fine and would say the first venture out alone was a success.