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Back to Blogging, 2014 style

On several occasions this year, the following phrase has run through my head: “My 16-year-old self would be so mad at my current self right about now.” In junior high and high school, I was an idealistic tree-hugger. I loved all things furry, and would probably have been vegetarian if I had a little more knowledge of how more of the world outside northside Chicago lived and was courageous enough to announce to my parents that we needed to save the animals and not eat meat. (Note: my present-day parents would probably be ok with that, because, like me, they are now aware of how harmful the American meat-based diet is to climate and the environment).

My family celebrates Christmas Eve in the traditional Italian manner, with a seafood feast culminating in lobster. As a child, I would accompany my father that morning to buy live lobsters, they would sit in the fridge until dinner-time, and then he would drop them in the pot of boiling water. Try as he might make me, the thought of killing a lobster myself by dropping it into the boiling water was too much for me, and I always refused.

Sheep market
Christmas sheep market

Now flash forward 16 years, and 12 trips to Africa later, and my 32-year-old went to the sheep market and “participated” in the purchase of three live sheep and one goat for Christmas dinners. This is the tradition here. All families who can afford it buy a sheep for Christmas; very rich families may buy cows and poorer only chickens, but the norm is the sheep. My friend Mesfin asked me if I wanted to come with him this year to buy the family sheep, and naturally, I jumped at the opportunity, after first asking whether my presence would raise the price for him and his friends. After his assurance it would not, it was settled. Hence, this afternoon I found myself on the side of the road leading to Gondar traipsing amidst herds of sheep, a good distance behind the Ethiopians so as to minimize the risk of price inflation, and being pestered by the shepherds to buy a sheep. Seriously, buddies, as much as I love eating sheep, I really do not have the means to slaughter, store, and cook an entire sheep at my guesthouse! But, business was slow while we were there, so I suppose it was worth a shot.

After much haggling, Mesfin and his friend got their desired animals (from 2500 birr down to 1100-1350 birr, depending on size), which then had their legs tied and then were rather unceremoniously tied to the roof of the jeep. Last, we drove around Addis delivering the two sheep and the goat, one of which was quite feisty and kept trying to propel itself to freedom, only to thump back onto the rack to which it was tied, and dropped the last off at Mesfin’s. My 16-year-old self would be horrified by the day’s endeavors. My current self can’t wait for Christmas dinner on Tuesday!

3 sheep and 1 goat get loaded onto our roof
3 sheep and 1 goat get loaded onto our roof

Coca Cola Road Race

As the Hash is a drinking group with a running problem, we get informed about various running events going on around town. This morning was the first of three 7K races through Addis sponsored by Coca-Cola. It’s a cool idea for getting people out and exercising: you run the same course once a month for three months, you have a timing chip for an official time, and the goal is to improve over the course of the three months. Obviously, there are the serious Ethiopian runners, and their goal is to win, but everyone gets an achievable and personal goal, and one that will hopefully encourage them to exercise more than previously in between the runs. Sadly, I am not here for the other 2, so I will never know if I’ll improve, and I won’t get my medal.

pre-race festivities
pre-race festivities

 

Back-up at the starting line
Back-up at the starting line
Threee professional runners carried this while running the course. And they were still about 3x as fast as me.
Threee professional runners carried this while running the course. And they were still about 3x as fast as me.

I thought we would be walking, since Berhanu has a bad leg. Well, I ended up with a fabulous Hasher named Charlotte, a nutritionist aide worker based in Malawi but here in Addis for 6 months, and we did about half walking (uphill) and half running (downhill). I’m pretty sure Charlotte’s daughter Ellen is about my age, but that didn’t stop her from totally kicking my ass and making me go faster than I would otherwise have gone. I obviously jinxed myself in the last post, since the day after I wrote it, I woke up with a sore throat that developed into a nasty cold. I blame Mike, who also had a cold last week. Had I known we were going to run, I’d probably have gone back to bed. Anyway, I am incredibly proud of my official time of 66:20 for 7K with said cold, at 8200ft, and with photo stops. We also ran past Charlotte’s office so popped in so I could have a peak. So, clearly take off 5 minutes for the photo stops, 6 minutes for the head cold, and 5 minutes for being well above the altitude at which I was born. Then, it only took me 2x as long as the female champ.

After the race, the awards ceremony was presided over by none other than the man, the myth, the legend of Ethiopian running: Haile Gebreselassie (black warmups holding mic. The other two are also professional runners, and if I understood correctly, one won the Boston Marathon this year?). This man is the Michael Jordan of Ethiopia, and is truly and justifiably a national hero because 1) he has chosen to stay in Ethiopia rather than move to the US or Europe as many have, and 2) he has invested a ton of money in the Ethiopian economy – he owns apartment buildings, hotels, businesses, etc.

marathoners

Charlotte and I ran into a white guy who had been on stage during the ceremony as we were leaving, and we didn’t know why he was onstage so asked him. He said he was the CEO of Coca-Cola (I’m guessing for Africa), and so Charlotte started giving him a hard time about a soda company sponsoring healthy living events. He took it well, we invited him to Hash, and he might even show up (not holding my breath, though). I had been horrified that Coke was the only choice at the beverage stops, which forced me to pop over to a roadside kiosk to buy a small water, also adding a minute to our time…

So, two more activities checked off the Ethiopia life list: participate in the national sport (running) and see up close and personal the most famous athlete. Maybe I will be ready to return Stateside in just over two weeks. Although I very much doubt it! But, I am looking forward to pants that stay up without some serious belt action. Is it that it’s been months since they’ve seen the shrinking power of the dryer, or because the GI problems and change in diet (for the better? – no processed food, although far more carbs) have caught up with me. I am also very much looking forward to a proper towel!

Adventures with Antibiotics

My American friends know that I am almost never sick. I’m pretty sure my Ethiopian friends think I am sick all the time, which is fair since I’ve had my share of health issues this trip. The antibiotics have been getting a workout on this trip. I have now tried four of them. Cipro is God’s gift to humankind travelling in the third world. It’s a tossup whether amoxicillin or erythromycin is God’s punishment for a lifetime worth of sins.

The first two antibiotic adventures were the typical ones you get here in Ethiopia. You eat something that doesn’t agree with you, and there goes the GI system for a few days. The first wasn’t so bad – I wouldn’t even have taken anything but Holyad made me take Metronidazole (actually, I’m not sure if that’s an antibiotic – will have to WebMD it one day). The second round was my classic, GI system really empties, I’m confined to bed for a day, and then minimal eating and 10lb weight loss over the next week. Cipro to the rescue!

On to the latest two-part adventure! Last Saturday, I woke up with a sore lymph node in my neck. I was worried that half my face would swell up again like it did in December, making it impossible to talk or eat. I made it through Hash and a Bahai prayer ceremony and dinner, and then came home to bed. When I woke up Sunday morning, swelling was in full swing. Holyad first took me to a clinic near my house. For 50 birr (about the same as a plate of pasta), I had a “doctor” take one look at me, declare that I had mumps, and joke about how you can catch viral infections anywhere here and that my US mumps immunization was meaningless here.

I was sure it was bacterial, not viral, so we went to the hospital next. There, for about 300 birr, I got a full examination including blood workup (mostly useless tests), and despite my telling the doctor I was allergic to penicillin, he prescribed me amoxicillin. I was too miserable, plus had no Internet access at home, to investigate the drug and learn that it is penicillin-based. So I started taking it. On the bright side, the swelling in my face disappeared the next day. An unfortunate side effect was that Monday night, my hands started tingling; Tuesday morning, I awoke to find my fingers replaced by giant, bump-covered sausages. Fingers are not meant to be as swollen as mine were, and it hurt like crazy. I couldn’t hold a pen, much less an airscribe, so it was a rather unproductive day at work. At that point, Holyad took matters into his own hands and got me erythromycin. He’s an epidemiologist and has a special ID that lets him get whatever drugs he asks for at a pharmacy without a prescription. Wednesday was fine, but Thursday I was so nauseous that I spent the day curled in a pile of foam padding at the museum watching about the entire first season of Nashville. Despite starring the incomparable Connie Britton, it’s no Friday Night Lights. That night, I decided I had suffered enough and would take my chances by stopping early (sorry Emily, I know you don’t approve).

Six days later I am still alive. But, three weeks until I head home. What will the next medical adventure be???

On On!

Our sponsor for the timing of this post is: drumroll, please: antibiotics! I love how on WebMD, they remind you that your doctor had a reason for prescribing antibiotics, so you should suck it up and deal with the side effects. So, take that nausea. You may make me too miserable to work, but writing seems like a doable activity. Plus, much as I love Connie Britton, three episodes of Nashville in a row is three too many, so…

My advice to anyone living abroad who likes the outdoors and/or beer (preferably both): join the local Hash group. To the uninitiated, like me before I moved here, I promise this is not what it sounds – there’s no hookah involved, it’s perfectly legal, and is a really great way to meet some really interesting people, both locals and foreigners. Thanks to the Addis Ababa Hash House Harriers, I’ve seen a lot of the beautiful countryside around Addis, gotten my lungs accustomed to running at altitude, and most importantly, made friends.

As someone who does not have a car, I’m especially grateful for the opportunity, for only 20 birr per week plus your beer/water/pop tab, to get taken up into the mountains. I love Addis, I really do, but it is a congested and dirty city. Too many consecutive days in city limits is suffocating. And so Saturday is the best day of the week because it means clean air, beautiful views, and freedom. Last week, the trail was up in Entoto, and included winding your way downhill at top speed through the eucalyptus forest –magical if you can forget what a destructive invasive plant eucalyptus is. On the flip side, the last time we were on Entoto, I hashed with an Aussie, who said it made him feel right at home.

hash view

So what is hash? “A drinking group with a running problem.” A trail run with beer and merriment awaiting at the end (and sometimes in the middle). The day or morning before the hash, the hares set the trail. They make the hash circle at the starting and ending point (see picture), and then leave a trail of shredded white paper to mark the course. Now, one of the keys is that this trail shouldn’t be too obvious or straightforward; there should also be lots of uphill and a beautiful view (sample photo above). Part of the fun is working as a team to find the trail, and, of course, short cutting when you realize you went in completely the wrong direction. At some points, the hares leave small circles of shreddies, and then the runners have to spread out and find where the appropriate path is. Some trails end in X’s. One is correct.

hash circle

After everyone makes it back again, the hash circle takes place. The GM (General Mismanager) leads, choir provides rousing and generally unruly songs, hares are critiqued, and the virgins, returners, and leavers are welcomed/bidden farewell. Then, the spiritual advisor takes over to address “sins” that occurred during the hash. Sample sins include new shoes, egregious short cutting, talking on the phone… And I should note that, like in all exclusive societies, members get irreverent, through hopefully not irrelevant, nicknames. So, my Hash friends include Short Cutting Bastard, Hand Cream, and Tennis Ball, to name a few.

hareschoir

The Addis Hash group is a really terrific set of people. A fun mix of old and young. Expat and Habesha. And by expat, I don’t just mean white people – we have folks from Bangladesh, Indonesia, and more. Diplomats, marines, tour guides, UN folk, aid workers, teachers, architects, you name it. No other paleontologists, which is a good thing, because I’ve gotten a chance to see how some of the other 99.999% lives. And, let me tell you, many of them have really cool lives and a lot of amazing stories!

haring

This week, Tesfay, Mike, Holyad, and I set the trail up on Gojem Road, which is far, but well worth it for the isolation, beautiful scenery, and hyena sightings. The benefit (?) of setting the trail is you get to do it twice in one day. So Saturday was a glorious 15.2km of walking and running in the woods. And, in the circle post hash, we had a short ceremony where I finally received my Hash name. Sorry, I can only reveal it to you in the circle: rules are rules.

Being Duchess Catherine

This extremely long delay between blog posts has been brought to you by: the NSF Earth Life Transitions program, the University of Wyoming, my father (visit to be covered in later blogs), the Addis Ababa Hash House Harriers (also to be covered in another blog), and the Paleontological Society Short Course. All good things, but all took a lot of time, and after sitting at my computer working on grants, PowerPoints, and manuscripts for the better part of the day, I really had no interest in using my free time to blog. This post has been in the works for a while, so, without further ado:

After three and a half months in Addis, I think I can relate to how Duchess Catherine must feel whenever she goes out. The instant recognition, appraising glances, stares, lack of anonymity, greetings from absolute strangers, random people telling her how beautiful she is. Well, actually, I could get used to the random people telling me I’m beautiful. This never, ever happens in America, and I’m ok with that because there are so many things I’d rather do than spend time on hair, clothes, makeup, and shoes. But my white skin and unaccompanied status make me incredibly desirable here, and I have no shortage of admirers. It’s a bad day if at least 3 perfect strangers don’t use beautiful, gorgeous, or synonyms of these in reference to me. I think one guy struck it on the head, when he said to me, “You are beautiful but ugly at the same time.” I interpret this as, “You’re white so you’re pretty, but you need to primp more.” On the other hand, it might just be that his English wasn’t good enough to actually understand what he was saying.

However, I would wager that strangers are not nearly as forward with Duchess Catherine as they are with me here. Here is my favorite experience, although it was frightening at the time:

One day on my walk home, I got joined by a rather annoying man. I thought it would be the usual, guy starts talking, walks with you for a couple hundred feet, and then with a lack of encouragement goes his own way. Well, despite my not making eye contact with him and essentially grunting responses to his bizarre questions (are you a simple girl or a complicated one? are you a cat lover or a dog lover? please, I just want to learn about you.), he stayed with me for the entire walk. Now I didn’t want him to know where I live, so I bluntly said goodbye to go into a small convenience store to lose him. He had spent a good 5 minutes convincing me that everything happens for a reason, and we were meant to meet randomly like that. Well, gosh darn it, he was right, because that convenience store had a whole shelf full of oatmeal! My favorite breakfast food, which I had been missing tremendously! And oatmeal with fresh papaya is ambrosia.

Everyone here wants to know what my name is. That is, of course, a difference between the duchess and me. Except in the case of little kids, I find this an invasion of privacy and hesitate to give out my real name. Most days, I am able to restrain myself, and I am Elizabeth (pronounced here, Elzbet) from Great Britain or Lina from Sweden (yes, I borrow from people I know in real life) or Hilda from Germany (sadly, no, I do not actually know a Hilda from Germany).

One day, though, I may crack and try out the following, bonus points to anyone who can identify all the references:

– My name is for my friends.

– I am Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight and friend to Captain Solo.

– Bond, James Bond.

– Sons of Ethiopia, I am William Wallace.

– I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to Illendil.

– They call me the Fridge, and I’m the rookie. I may be large but I’m no dumb cookie.

– I am Arthur, king of the Britains.

CAPTAIN Jack Sparrow.

Brewster – Take off the B and what do you get? Rooster. And what does a rooster do? It crows. And where do you like to go hunting? On the Velt. Crowsvelt, Crowsvelt.[Well, this one may not work so well, but having happy memories of watching this movie as a kid with my mama.]

– You can call me Al.

– And, last, but certainly not least: Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.

PS – I occasionally have fantasies of what my life would be like if it were a musical or, even better, a Bollywood movie. My trip to and from work every day: I’m walking along down the street, minding my own business. Random men approach me and break into: “Hey, I just met you, and this is crazy, but here’s my number, so call me maybe.” And then we could have a dance number. One that involves me dancing in a circle by myself without anyone getting close enough to touch me.

PSS – As long as we’re talking about walking around Addis and the random thoughts that go through my head, Addis is a city of smells. And many of them are atrocious. So, at least once a day, I channel my best Harrison Ford sarcasm and think, “What an incredible smell you’ve discovered.”

The Africa Cup: In which I join the rest of the world in going football crazy

What I should be doing tonight: writing yet another recommendation letter, working on a big grant proposal, revising a manuscript, outlining an invited paper, putting together a new professional talk. I fondly long for my first trip to Africa, when computers and the internet were extremely difficult to access, it was ok to be out of contact for months at a time, and you had no responsibilities other than staying alive and eventually returning to the US…

What I am going to do tonight: watch football.

Those of you who know me well will be surprised to that it is not American football I am watching (although I’m still optimistic about finding someplace to watch the Super Bowl). I’ve finally joined the rest of the world in appreciating the sport of football that is actually played with the feet (i.e. soccer, to the American audience). In this case, it’s the Africa Cup, the yearly tournament of 16 nations. Four nations per group, with two teams advancing to the next round, then single elimination to the final. This year, the tournament is in South Africa, and Ethiopia is participating for the first time in over 30 years!

It’s undeniable that having a vested interest in a team makes watching a sport much more interesting. There’s a parallel between my feelings about the Africa Cup and March Madness – you fill out your bracket, and all of a sudden you go from never having heard of Butler to cheering for them like your life depends on it, or at least two points and an upset bonus in your pool. I don’t have any money riding on these games, and my own national pride is not at stake, but living here and watching how excited this football-crazed nation is, it’s impossible not to be anxious before and during the games and put all your energy into cheering for the Waliyas (name of the men’s national team, meaning “Ibex.” On a side note, it should be a delight to paleo-aficionados everywhere that the women’s national team is named “Lucy”).

Although Ethiopia is a football-crazy country, the national team has been atrocious for as long as most people can remember. My contemporaries were not even born the last time Ethiopia played in the Africa Cup. Before the start of the second game, Gelachew explained to me how nervous he was. I could relate; his words echoed those I would have spoken in the build up to the 2007 Super Bowl, the first time my beloved Bears made it since I was four years old. Unlike my sister, I do not have vivid memories from such a young age, so I could just as well not have been born the last time da Bears were in the Game. And this is one of the things I love so much about sports – it brings people together, allows those of very different backgrounds to feel the same emotions, and reminds us that despite our differences, we humans are all fundamentally the same.

During the first game, versus last year’s champ Zambia, an older man sitting next to me said that this was the first goal they’d scored since he was in 4th grade. And, wow, did the crowd at the bar I was in, and in Addis in general, go crazy after that first goal! That game ended in a 1-1 draw, which was especially spectacular since the Ethiopian goalie was sent off and the Waliyas had to play a man down for more than half the game. Mesfin and I were watching in Bole, the hip part of town, and the streets were crazy afterwards – cars gridlocked and honking, people running around the cars whistling, yelling, and singing, huge crowds around Edna Mall watching replays on the big outdoor screen. Sadly, game two did not end as well – when the Burkina Faso goalie got sent off early in the second half with Ethiopia down 1-0, and the crowd went wild, but in the half hour that followed, Ethiopia gave up three more goals for an embarrassing 4-0 defeat. Not to make excuses or anything, but Ethiopia did lose their best player to injury early in the game. Tonight is the last match of pool play, and Ethiopia needs to beat Nigeria and have Zambia lose to Burkina Faso to advance. Tall order, but Roze and I will be in the crowd, hoping for the best!

And, since you’re not a real fan unless you’re wearing your allegiance, my friend Mesfin surprised me with a jersey before the second game. I shrieked in delight, and changed as soon as we got to the walled off parking lot where there was a modicum of privacy. On a humorous note, it is size XXXL, but I’m sure that’s because it’s actually a children’s jersey. I’m not that fat, even by Ethiopian standards, right? Proudly wearing it again today and looking forward to the game tonight!!!

Football

Timkat: A Wild Ride through a Sea of Ethiopians

Timkat crowd outside the Green Valley
Timkat crowd outside the Green Valley
One of these things is not like the other one...
One of these things is not like the other one…

While Christmas involves church services and family gatherings, Timkat (Epiphany, “baptism” in Amharic) is all about spectacle: parades, music, dancing, and most of all enormous crowds of people pouring down the street following the Arks. In the late afternoon on Timkat Eve (January 19th), the Tabot, the model of the Ark of the Covenant found on every Ethiopian altar, is carried from the church to an open field for the people to see and pay their respects. The priests carrying the Tabot are dressed in lavish robes and sheltered by ornate umbrellas.

Priests carrying the Tabot
Priests carrying the Tabot
Another Tabot-toting priest
Another Tabot-toting priest

Once the Tabot reaches the field, there is plenty of time for praying, singing, dancing, ululating, and a joyous releasing of birds (ideally doves, but I’m pretty sure some were just pigeons). Services continue for the entire evening. On Timkat day, there is a ritual reenactment of baptism in remembrance of Jesus’s baptism in the Jordan River. In some places, like Lalibela and Gondar, people fully immerse in water – more usually, though, the priests bless and “sprinkle” water on the congregation. Catholic priests sprinkle; Ethiopian priests douse, based on my one observation of the ceremony in the soccer field across from the Green Valley hotel. After the baptism, it’s time for the Arks to return to the churches, and the second parade begins.

The National Museum, where I work, is less than a block from St. Mary’s Church and the Pope’s House, which means that it is an excellent, albeit crowded, choice of Timkat parade. (Ethiopia’s patriarch died around the same time as the prime minister last year, and a new one has not yet been appointed. Tekie told me that there is a dispute between the Church in Ethiopia and the Diaspora, and it is uncertain when things will be resolved.) Friday afternoon, we anxiously awaited the start of the parade. Without doubt, my favorite part of the parade is the running around of the men with the red carpets (see photo). Bonnie and I have decided that it must be part of the tradition that they don’t know exactly what to do and end up putting the carpet down in the wrong place, rerolling it, hurrying off to another wrong place, unrolling, rerolling, and etc. I don’t envy them the job of hauling around those heavy rolls!!

carpets

Once the carpet is in place, the parade can continue.  There are musicians, groups of holy men and women in white or brightly colored robes, priests with processional crosses, and finally the priests with the Tabot, sheltered by umbrellas. As the Tabot got close to us, we were swept up in a sea of people, following the procession. And then it was impossible to do anything except follow along upstream, gradually pushing our way to the edge of the crowd. Forget personal space. Once we reached the safety of the museum, I convinced the boys that we actually hadn’t seen enough and should take a back way up to Sidist Kilo to see more of the parade. They agreed, and we did, and encountered a different parade. Then, it was time to head home, where there was yet another parade, which we watched from the Green Valley balcony.

instruments boys with sticksamist kilo timkat

Multiple parades converge at Sidist Kilo
Multiple parades converge at Sidist Kilo

Since apparently that still wasn’t enough for me, I took Rahel and Konjit up on their offer to go to the St. Michael’s day festivities on Sunday. Konjit loaned me a nitella, the lightweight shawl that women wear, and I was so grateful for the sun protection it provided, as we spent the best part of the day out in full sun. Similar processions to Timkat, but there are only four St. Michael’s churches in Addis, so the entire city pours out to just those locations. What a crowd! I have never, ever been surrounded by so many people and so pushed and prodded. Getting through the gate to St. Michael’s grounds was particularly terrifying. The crowd compressed, I had people pushing me from every direction, and I was convinced that if I lost my balance, there would be no getting up again… I do want to add, though, that it was also a very excited and respectful crowd, and I felt far less stared at than I do on a normal day walking around Addis.

St. Michael's Church on the east side of Addis
St. Michael’s Church on the east side of Addis

Before I sign off, one other fun note: We took a break from the sun and the crowd to have lunch with Rahel’s family. Her uncle is a huge sports fan and had lived in Chicago, so we discussed Chicago Bears teams past. I very rarely get culture shock anymore, but going from the giant parade to talking about the greatness of Gale Sayers was nearly too much for me.

Christmas, Round Two, Addis Ababa Style

It’s nearly Timkat – Epiphany – and I’m just now sitting down to write about Christmas. At this rate, I am going to be one of those bloggers who set up the blog, write a couple entries at the beginning, and then leave it to wither for months on end. Peer pressure requested to make sure this doesn’t happen!

Santa Although the date is different, January 7 vs December 25, Ethiopian Christmas traditions are very similar to American traditions. The morning is spent at church, and the afternoon and evening eating and drinking copious amounts with family and friends. Houses, restaurants, and other businesses have colorfully decorated trees, generally fake (although see picture) since Eucalyptus quite frankly doesn’t say Christmas to anyone. Until Christmas day, brightly wrapped presents await under the tree. Santa Claus decorations abound. Incidentally, I now live next to the SantaClaus school – wonder how many days it will take until I run out of bad Jay Cutler jokes as I walk by…

In my part-Italian family, we do the (almost) seven seafood dinner. This involves calling around to local groceries to find the cheapest yet freshest lobster. In Ethiopia, the days before Christmas and Timkat are marked by an influx of live chickens and sheep, plus a few cows and goats, into the city. For several years now, our colleague Mulugeta has bought his family’s sheep at our field site and carried it back to Addis either in the back or on the roof of one of the vehicles. Those who are not lucky enough to buy fresh sheep in the countryside and do not own cars carry their sheep on the local taxis (what Ethiopians call the minivans that are the staple of public transportation; equivalent to the Tanzania dalla dalla or the Kenyan matatu). One year, Aaron and I got a full Christmas Eve afternoon’s worth of enjoyment siting in an outdoor café watching the people and sheep pour out of the local taxis.

The chickens and their eggs become doro wat, literally chicken sauce, the most traditional of Ethiopian foods. The sheep becomes tibs (delicious roasted meat chunks), kitfo (very fresh, predominantly raw, spiced ground meat), and a cooked, spiced, ground meat dish for which I don’t know the name but am quite fond. We were invited to Christmas dinner with Tekie, Bonnie’s PhD student, and his family and got to sample all of these dishes, and more! Below are pictures of the full spread, and my delicious plate. Beverages, from bottom are pineapple araki (liquor), tej (Ethiopian honey wine), and tella, and you can see the preparation for the coffee ceremony in the background. The coffee ceremony will get its own post, at some point. On my plate, you can see the food up close: injera underneath everything, the egg and chicken of the doro wat, a pile of kitfo, some cheese, the yummy spinach dish, and Christmas bread. While Ethiopian restaurant food will never be my favorite, home cooked meals are fast becoming so! And, I admit it, I genuinely like kitfo. Hopefully, this will not be my downfall.

Christmas dinner 2 Christmas dinner 1

So, after a delicious meal, lots of araki, and 3 cups of coffee, it was time for Tekie’s nieces to sing and dance for us. They are 6 and 3, and as you can see in the group picture (taken by Jordan Noret), absolutely adorable! Plus, terrific dancers already – as I’ve hypothesized for years, Ethiopians are born knowing how to dance.

Christmas group shot

Then, it was on to the next party, at our friend Mesfin’s, for dessert, Scotch, and more dancing. Americans dance far too little, in my opinion. From now on, I hope all my parties will turn into dance parties by their close!

Phew, done just in time for Timkat!

Ringing in 2013 Debre Birhan style

Ellen’s Rule to Live by #1: Always include some easily accomplished items on your list of life goals. And make them as silly as possible.

First ride in the Bajej "clown car"

It takes a lot of time, dedication, sacrifice, and pain to get your work in National Geographic (check), complete a Tough Mudder (check – thanks, Harmony), climb Kilimanjaro (later this year?!?), or get those other big, important items off the bucket list. But the feeling of accomplishmentafter knocking off some of those small, silly items provides a temporary, yet not to be underestimated, high. Especially if you’re an adrenaline junkie like me. That’s why I aspire to be a mascot (check – U of C’s Phoenix) and ride a camel (one day, one day…). After several trips to rural parts of Ethiopia, I decided that I need to ride in a Bajej (pictured above, courtesy of Jordan Noret) before I die. I do not want to forever regret not taking advantage of the abundance of Bajejes (is that how you make it plural? Am I even spelling it right?) and lack of anything else to do during my Gambela “vacation.” Luckily, though, the Bajej industry has taken off in Debre Birhan, the town ~150 km northeast of Addis where we based for our fieldwork this year. My nickname for the Bajej is a clown car, for obvious reasons (on our way to the araki bar, we had four people plus the driver). Ethiopians call them “Al Qaeda” because of their tendency to blow up.

New Year’s Day afternoon, Jordan and I found ourselves with no work to do, so we hit the streets of Debre Birhan for adventure. First off, we visited the local prison for a little shopping. In the US, inmates make license plates; in Ethiopia, they make cloth, beaded goods, and other handicrafts. Then, we meandered the main street, stopping in every store to look for cheese (fail), and caught a bit of a soccer game. After traversing the length of town, we obviously had to catch a clown car back to our hotel. I easily talked the driver down to half price, and excitedly climbed in. To my surprise, although in retrospect it makes perfect sense, the Bajej is a converted motorcycle.

So 1st dayof the 2013 and one item off the bucket list. Full success! Next life goal: learn how to drive a Bajej! Next post: Ethiopian Christmas, which is tomorrow, and we have two invitations!

 

The closing of the airplane door

This is one of my favorite moments in any trip. It’s an immense feeling of relief, that after the stress of packing up and saying goodbye, you are finally underway. What’s done is done, and what’s not done frankly isn’t going to get done. If you don’t have it, either you didn’t actually need it or you can buy it there (as long as it’s not contact solution).

Eleven years ago, I took my first trip to Africa for a semester-long study abroad program in Tanzania. I think I spent six months getting ready for that trip: making sure I had all my shots and medical supplies, buying the camping gear for my first, long field experience, picking out precisely the right clothes to get me through 5 months of university and fieldwork, and calculating exactly how much disposables I’d need until I was back to the States again. Preparation for this trip could not have been more different. It’s my 12th trip to Africa, albeit the longest since that first trip to Tanzania. I now know that I can buy shampoo, toothpaste, deodorant, etc. in Africa, so I only packed enough to get me there. Did spend some time on the med kit – I’ve taken too many chances recently in malarial regions, and now that I’m certified in wilderness first aid, I know exactly how unprepared I’ve been on previous trips. Not entirely sure what clothes I ended up with; Mom and I picked some things out yesterday, and I crammed them into half a checked bag and a carryon. Shoes, though, I know: hiking boots, running shoes, black dress shoes, and chacos.

Why this seeming unpreparedness? Age, no doubt about it. Somehow, I own a house, and I had to pack that up for the semester. Somehow, I became a professor, and there were grades to calculate, manuscript revisions to complete, recommendation letters to write, and 6 students under me needing just the right materials for their research next semester. Most importantly, the older you get, the closer your family and friends become and the longer it takes to say goodbye. And, knowing what to expect, there’s not quite the same nervous excitement spurring you to pack and plan.

But finally, the plane door closes, all electronic devices must be turned off, and it’s time. Twenty-four hours to mentally prepare for 4.5 months of (mis)adventures in Ethiopia. What trouble will I get myself into, and out of (please, please, please), this trip? Only time will tell.