run Helen run

Danakil Depression: Journey into Uninhabitable Lands

2012-02-08T10:46:00.002-05:00

The Afar region, north-east of Addis Ababa, along the borderwith Eritrea, is a domain of extremes, holding the hottest, driest and lowestplaces and the worse roads on the continent. Camels number more than people, orany other living thing. Moges, our driver, took us farther and farther fromMekele and civilization, out into the desert, with altitude dropping,temperature ever increasing, and greenery becoming more and more scarce. Wewere a group of seven tourists (from the US, Israel, France, Slovakia, Germany,and Mexico), two drivers, and a cook in three kick-ass 4WD vehicles—nine menplus me. The two-day drive to Irta'ale, an active volcano, took us downmountain valleys, across long stretches of desert—flat and lifeless for as faras we could see—and through dust storms in which visibility was less than twofeet. We frequently came upon camel caravans, using the same route to carrysalt from the mines to Mekele. After the first full day of driving, we slept on cots inthe open air. Hot breeze blew over us all night.

camel caravan

coffee (buna) stop

first night

I woke the next morning with a mix of excitement andtrepidation; I was apprehensive to venture into Afar region because of a recentattack on foreign tourists at the rim of the volcano by Eritrean groups. Yet, Iknew that I could not pass up the trip. We drove many hours with the “road”becoming increasingly treacherous, through more dust storms and then over bumpyvolcanic ash as we neared the base of Irta'ale. Soldiers rode on the roof ofour car—I do not know how they avoided falling off! We stopped at a camp,enjoyed tea (shy), dinner (erat), and a restful few hours beforewe began the three-hour hike to the volcano at 6:00pm.

roof-top riders

camels in the dust

hut along the route

rest before hike

dustttttt

We hiked overvolcanic ash and up toward the steamy summit as darkness descended. At the top,we were welcomed by soldiers that were stationed to provided added securityfollowing the terrorist attack a few weeks earlier. The volcano glowed brightorange less than half a kilometer from our new campsite, a cluster of littlehuts upon the mountain.

summit camping

security

We walked to the volcano, accompanied by four soldiers, andas we got closer, we we struck by blasts of hot, sulfurous wind. The volcano itself wasa sputtering, angry pit that bubbled away with unfathomable energy. We returnedto our huts only to wake early in the morning to get another peek of thevolcano.

The next day we hiked down andreturned to our dusty, trusty cars to visit the brilliant sulfuric acidsprings. Wewalked through a forest of sulfur pillars to a valley of glowing yellow, blue,green, orange and red sulfur deposits. Crystal-like sulfur deposits covered theground like a coral bed. It felt as if I was on the sea floor, on the LittleMermaid's home turf. Steam and spouts of acid came through holes in thedeposits and a bubbling came from underfoot; only the deposits stood between usand the acid boiling under our feet.

sulfuric acid

sprouting acid

At 116m below sea level, Dallol marks the lowest andhottest place on earth (year-round average temperature of 94 degrees F).Pillars rose up like monuments from the dusty, red earth.

camels, camels, camels!

Dallol, the lowest point

Not far from the springs, we cameto an oil lake. It, too, was boiling. We drove on through shallow water—afternot seeing naturally-occurring water for days. On the ground, large pentagonsof salt (due to its crystal structure) were drying, the edges curling upwardtoward the hot sun.

drying salt

oil lake

Off in the distance, a assembly of camels, donkeys, andsalt cutters were working away in the shallow, salt-rich waters. Men cut the saltinto clean squares and stacked them to dry further, the camels and donkeyswaiting patiently to be loaded and begin again the long walk back to Mekele.

salty "road"

cutting salt

We returned safely to Mekele onlyto find that flights back to Addis were booked for the next week! I went to theairport, hoping to get on standby and return to Addis to watch the Superbowlthe next day (I found a TV in Addis with a channel that planned to broadcastthe game). No luck. That afternoon, I went to the bus station to get on a busthat was scheduled to arrive in Addis the next day. Twenty-one people loadedinto a thirteen-passenger van, including a deaf woman that appeared to benearing 100 years old, a screaming baby, and a mentally and physically handicappedman accompanied by two women, each with a arm around him, securing his headfrom flailing around, and routinely wiping the drool from his face.

About 40 minutes into our 15-25hour drive, just as I had started to nod off to sleep, wedged with three meninto the very back seat of the van, we were pulled over by the police. Thedriver got out and policeman took the driver's seat and turned the van around,headed back to Mekele. I have learned that “why?” (lemin) is not anappropriate inquiry in Ethiopia. However, I couldn't help myself. From the twoEnglish-speakers in the van, I was given a multitude of reasons: the van wastoo full, the driver did not possess a license, the driver was going too fast,it was not legal for this type of minivan to make a trip of more than 150km. Noone really knew the reason or seemed phased by the incident; Ethiopians live inthe moment, unconcerned about future plans.

negotiations

After 15 minutes of driving, thepoliceman stopped the van at a gas station and everyone got out and unloadedthe luggage. We waited beside the road for 30 minutes, unaware of what we werewaiting for, until two more minivans arrived to take us back to Mekele. Westarted toward Mekele, but then stopped abruptly only to turn around again! Wethen pulled over for another stretch of time. I had ceased asking questions andplayed peek-a-boo with the baby next to me, sitting on its mother's lap.Finally, we backed up to begin the return trip to Mekele. We slammed into apile of jagged rocks behind us. This brought about another period of waiting.Food was exchanged among the passengers, bread, cookies, kollo (barley). Andthen, seemingly unharmed, we finally made our way back to Mekele. I wasrelieved to be back where we had started, only three and a half hours later. Ihad to book a business class flight to return to Addis within the week.

Timket!

2012-01-29T04:21:00.000-05:00

When you travel to Ethiopia, you automatically become sevenyears and some odd days younger! In Ethiopia, the year is 2004, due to thedifference between the Gregorian and Ethiopian calendars. Hence, Ethiopiacelebrated Epiphany on January 20^th. Ethiopians gave little thoughtto Christmas itself, however, Timket (Epiphany) literally stoppedtraffic. The streets were closed and people flocked to every city center. Eachchurch's respective cross was marched in procession, returning it to “his”church, as Gudisa, one of the athletes, explained. Women wore traditional garb, white gauzy fabricdraped over layers of other white fabrics. Hair was extravagantly dyed andbraided for for occasion. Asthe crowd slowly moved down the street, people chanted and danced, theirexuberance uncontainable. Gudisa told me repeatedly, “See, they are very happy.This is our culture.”

Men holding sticks circled up with more chanting, singingand jumping. Two men wore lion's manes on their heads, the fur framing theirfaces as they chanted and banged their sticks along with the rest. The grouptook turns sending two men into the center to “fight,” hopping around andclashing their sticks together as all of the men surrounding them continued tosing and hold their sticks triumphantly, as if they were guarding the unfoldingbattle.

After prayers were blasted over a loudspeaker, the cross wasprocessed onward. The men closest to the cross looked like they themselves wereadorned alters, dressed in heavy, gilded robes. And surrounding them were men dressed like bishops, toomany to count, with peaked hats and incense swinging. Following them, men inT-shirts walked behind, slunched-over, rolling up carpets and passing themforward to be laid on the ground in front of the cross. More men in T-shirtsmanaged the crowd, pushing onlookers (including me) aside to make way for thecross. Everyone stood in the intense mid-day heat for hours, watching andadvancing slowly with the procession.

Though a significant holiday for Ethiopians, Timketmeans additional work for the maids; Tigist, Ababa, and Yevtu have been cookingand cleaning furiously, yet merrily, for over a week! The large carpets thatcover the entirety of the living room floor were removed and scrubbed by hand,then returned, then taken back outside to repeat the cleaning process, as Bazclaimed that they smelled, though my sensitive nose was unaware. The same wasdone with the curtains and tablecloths. It is spring cleaning in overdrive.

Tigist, Ababa & Yevtu working away

The walkway between the house and the maids'quarters in the backyard has become an extended kitchen. One or all of thethree girls is usually squatting there, cutting up sheep stomach, an Ethiopiandelicacy, chopping onions, or cleaning chicken and two large pots areperpetually bubbling away on two new stoves. The fridge overflows with fresh,raw meat. Removing or returning anything to the fridge has become a puzzle, aserious, potentially messy puzzle, with dire consequences of a spilledtupperware of doro wat or a tumble of three dozen eggs that have beencarefully, though precariously, stacked on the door. Considering the exorbitantamount of meat sitting in buckets in the backyard and chilling in the fridge,and the hours of cooking that have gone on, it comes as no surprise that themaids slaughtered no fewer than two goats and eight chickens!

The "Ugly Girl's" Triumph

2012-01-17T07:28:00.002-05:00

“She was a very ugly girl! We Ethiopians see beauty in astraight nose, good hair, and big eyes, a face that is all eyes.” This was Baz's response, with no intentions of leavingout any of the drama of the story, when I asked, simply, “Where we were going?”Baz had requested that I come along to a “small family party” and feeling alittle homesick, I was eager to attend. She also enjoys, in her own words,“showing me off” at her office and friends' houses and I'm happy to oblige her,though a little annoyed at the elevated status and utter fascination with faranji (foreigners, and especiallywhite, American foreigners) that overwhelms me on a daily basis, thoughrelieved that she sees me as a treasured guest and not as a burden. She continuedwith the story about her unfortunate cousin, “Therefore, we were all shocked,but very excited when a handsome man fell in love with her. No, he wasn'thandsome, he was beautiful. And she was ugly, just the plainest girl you couldfind in all of the city, or anywhere.” She sighed, reconsidering thepreposterous pairing. “They met in America, both Ethiopians, and came home toget married. Of course, his family was horrified, remember, she was so ugly!” By this point, I had begun toimagine a frail, hunched-over girl, with a crooked nose and squinted eyes,standing next to a dashing young prince. In the same way that Baz wasbewildered by his love for the “ugly girl,” my mind's eye expressed the magicalspell that must have existed between the two, fittingly so as the women lookedmuch like a witch.

“You have to understand, children are very important toEthiopians.” In a country where people have very little, it seems that a largefamily has come to stand for wealth and provide a source of pride. They arebaffled by the seemingly unambitious, Westernconcept of a family, questioning how anyone could be satisfied with only twochildren. “The husband's family began pestering him, 'when are the babiescoming?' Ethiopian families claim that they don't mettle, but this is not true.Behind the curtain they are always...” Here, Baz held up her hand, the otherstill on the steering wheel, with her chubby fingers all coming together at thefingertips, her eyes squinting and her mouth tight, “nee, nee, nee! Alwaysdoing something to get what they want.” She rotated her hand, back and forth,still with the fingertips pressed together, as if operating a small screwdriverto repair eyeglasses, but with more strength and fury than such a repair wouldrequire. The “ugly girl” had had enough of her in-law's abuse and, in agraceful resignation, told her husband that it was fine to leave her. Bazexplained, “She dove back into school, getting her masters, her second degree.She made herself busy and tried to forget him, and seemed to move on. But—and Idon't know why—he never stopped loving her.” This went on for three years, thehusband pulled between his love for the “ugly girl” and his family's inimicalinterference, until they finally got divorced.

At the same time in Ethiopia, the “ugly girl's” mother,Baz's aunt, was unsettled by her daughter's misfortune. Baz continued, “Myauntie prayed to God, 'I don't care how it happens, but please bless mydaughter with children.' And the daughter married another man, a blackAmerican, and gave birth to two children, first a boy and then a girl. It wasnot her biology that was at fault all along, despite the cousin's in-laws'assumption, but the first husband's infertility. They are all here now, in Addis, visiting from America;she wants the family to meet her new husband.”

We arrived at the house, cars parked in a tetrisconfiguration. Baz, undeterred, weavedthrough the mess to a narrow spot in the far corner of the driveway, tuckednext to the house with the help of three, arm-waving young men. So much for“small dinner party”! I could tell just by the number of cars (and consideringthe numbers that pile into a single car), that this was no modest get-together.We entered the house and were greeted by Baz's family: bows, sets of threekisses, and handshakes with the left hand lightly touching elbow of the rightarm to express respect. Many addressed me in perfect English, with no hint toan Amharic accent,as many of them were visiting from the US. How shattered wasmy perception of the “ugly girl” when we were greeted by the now remarried,victorious, beautiful mother of two. I was thoroughly confused by Baz'sdescription of her ugly cousin, as the “ugly girl” was the most beautiful womanin the room.

In the living room, six heavyset women sat along thewindows, draped in layers of black cloaks, each with a queen's quiet dignity.Among them, I recognized Baz's mother, whose house I visit frequently, stillmentally sharp and physically mobile at ninety-four years. Younger men andwomen sat along the other three walls, with older women outnumbering older menby at least four to one. The TV played Amharic music in the background, peopleon the screen dancing the traditional shoulder dances in modern-meets-traditionalmusic videos. And the strong, sweet scent of tej (a highly alcoholic, Ethiopian honey wine) hung in the air.Children ran in and out of the living room, maids following close behind,looking more aggravated with each high-speed sweep through the living room, thegrandmothers, great-aunts, and great-grandmothers seizing the opportunity toplant trios of kisses on their chubby cheeks, entirely oblivious to the maids'growing annoyance.

The table was overflowing with dishes: a pile of injera, beets and potatoes, heaps ofkale, doro wat (dore=chicken, wat=stew), kaiwat, red meat boiled in a spicy red sauce, a daunting task to gnaw off ofthe bone, deliciously spiced with berbere(a mix of spices containing as many as 16 or more), what looked like alasagna made with overcooked spaghetti (there is no such thing as al dente inEthiopia), and other dishes that I did not recognize. I rolled out a piece of injera to cover my plate, like a good Habesha (Ethiopian), and took anenthusiastic scoop of what looked to be the safest option, at least of thosedirectly in front of me in those first moments, tomato sauce, or what I thoughtto be tomato sauce. Tomato sauce is my favorite food, chunky, vegetable-richsauce, and something that I feel has been lacking in my diet over the past twomonths (I've been in Ethiopia for more than two months now!!), a staple that Ibelieve makes an excellent salad dressing, bread dip, and can even be savoredall by itself. Living in the athlete house during the first two weeks of mystay cultivated in me a distaste for pasta, a food that the athletes cannot getenough of. Here rests my conundrum: tomato sauce is rarely (thoughunfortunately) served alone and time-consuming to make. The one batch that Iwas successful in making at home went bad faster than I could eat it.Therefore, you can imagine my excitement, turning to disappointment and then awave of distress when I realized that the “tomato sauce” that I had justscooped onto my injera seemed alittle too shiny, a little too alive, and with an alarming lack of saucebetween the chunks of “tomatoes.” It hit me like a soon-to-be-dead deer inheadlights: what stared up at me from my plate was not my beloved comfort food,but kitfo (raw meat). With a line ofrelatives behind and a widening gap in front of me, I was under a timepressure. What else was there for me to do but (I'm hoping) subtly return thebright red, nearly alive meat, back to join its comrades? This dish reminds meof a sign near Inman Square in Cambridge that reads “Live Meat, Fresh Killed.”For years, this sign has confused me. Thank you, Ethiopia. I think that I cannow sufficiently grasp its meaning.

After the meal, the line of good-natured,round, matronly rulers turned tej drinkinginto a profession. They drank from over-sized glasses and whenever their glassesapproached half-full, a maid was already there, topping them off. Brewed athome, tej has an alcohol contentcloser to vodka than wine; though I'm not sure of the exact percentage, itcertainly feels that way. I was thoroughly impressed. A younger woman dressedin a traditional, though short, yellow dress, who, Baz informed me, now lives inArizona, turned up the volume of the music to a level beyond comfortable andstarted shoulder dancing. A cousin, a couple of maids, and then two boys noolder than four, hyped up on sugar and meeting relentlessly doting relativesfor the first time, joined in. A slide show of old photographs projected on thewall followed the impromptu dance party.

After the party, on the nearly hour-long ride home from theGreek neighborhood in Stadium back to our home in Ayat—from one affluentneighborhood to another—Baz continued telling me the story that she had begunon the way to the party, though I only understood the relation between the twostories twenty minutes into the ride home. Part two brought the moretraditional, Ethiopian side of the story, though it began with a seeminglyunrelated storyline. Baz began, “My people, the Oromians,are a proud people, even if they are begging on the street. They do everythingwith an air or confidence, maybe too much. She sold kolo (roasted barley) on the streets, barefoot.” I did not knowwhere Baz was going with her story and was confused by her use of vague pronoun, however, I remained a captiveaudience, having become accustomed to refraining from asking questions, as theygenerally only lead to illogical explanations. “She worked all day long foryears, by herself, selling kolo. Sheearned 30,000birr (1500USD) and saved it. Many years later, on her deathbed,she told a girl that a light-skinned woman would come shortly after her deathand would knock on their door. The girl was advised to give all of the30,000birr to this light-skinned woman so that she could build a church inCodo. She explained that two men would arrive shortly after the woman toprovide her with assistance.” I remained lost in Baz's story, thinking that Ihad surely missed something. “Just as the woman predicted, a light-skinnedwoman arrived on their doorstep just following her death. The girl told myaunt, the ugly girl's mother, 'Take this money and build a church in Codo.' Myaunt, the light-skinned woman—do you remember her from the party, she was theresitting in the middle of the room?” I replied that yes, I remember that she hadlighter skin and was considerably younger than her sister, Baz's mother,possibly Ethiopian women just don't age. “Yes, well, my aunt replied, 'I do noteven know where Codo is!' Shortly thereafter, two men arrived at the house withmuch more money to contribute and my aunt knew that she had no choice but tobuild the church. They found out that Codo was 400km from Addis, on rough,poorly-maintained dirt roads.” Although I could identify the main character,the time frame of the story remained a mystery to me. And then the connectionto the first story became clear, “When my aunt prayed for her ugly daughter tobear children, she promised that the family would return to the church in Codofor the christening. A few days ago, the family—my aunt, my ugly cousin, herhusband, his mother, and the two children—all went to Codo for the christeningsof the children. My mother said, 'forget it;' she had no intention of bravingthe 400km of bumpy dirt roads and we decided to have the party instead.” And aparty it was.

Unwelcome adventures

2011-12-19T07:42:00.000-05:00

Bahir Dar & gettinghome

Lake Tana

on an island on Lake Tana visiting monasteries

monastery

monk with his antiques

hippo!

lush Bahir Dar

the first bridge to get to the falls

the second bridge to get to the falls

Blue Nile Falls

(Dec 15-16^th) With itswarmer, wetter climate, mosquitoes, and large, sweeping palm trees,Bahir Dar felt like the tropics, a nice break from a week of coldnights in the mountains. I met a whole crew of characters at thehotel: Doug, a beekeeper; Ann, a lawyer from New York; Lorenz, arocket-topper salesman; and Robert, a surgeon working in Bahir Darand Addis, with whom I visited monasteries and hippos on Lake Tanaand the Blue Nile Falls in Tis Isat.

Doug and I ventured out into Bahir Darto reserve a seat on a bus leaving for Addis the next day (Friday).We finally found the ticket office, however, it was locked. I amperpetually confused by the seemingly illogical ways that businesseswork in Ethiopia. Despite the office being closed, a young man thatclaimed that he worked for Sky Bus was hanging around the lockedoffice. He told us that the Sky Bus was full for the next two days,but that another van would be leaving for Addis the next day. He ledme down a particularly stinky alley to another “office,” acorrugated metal hut that resembled a child's lemonade stand or abackyard chicken coop. I felt unsure about the whole transaction, butanxious to get back to Addis and ready to leave Bahir Dar, thisseemed to be my only option. He assured me that the van would pick meup at my hotel at 4am the next day and bring me to my home in Ayat.He even had me meet the driver and look over the van, excited to sellme on the facts that the van possessed seat belts (!!) and a TV. Iwas still concerned; a feeling of uncertainty was bubbling up from mygut. He made sure to escort me as I completed all of our othererrands—buying bread, changing Doug's flight, visiting the bank.When Doug left, he asked me to marry him, “we'd have macchiatobabies.” I turned him down repeatedly while Dougcontinued to bargain for my hand, jokingly saying that I could be hisfor a few bags of grain and a cow. The fake wedding ring that I don'tdare to remove does nothing to deter these persistent men, hoping tosecure a visa to the states. I see less and less humor in theseproposals after receiving my fourth in the last three days. Wefinally got rid of the ticket salesman and completed our errandswithout him, only to find him back at our hotel when we returned. Hifriend stated that he missed me and asked if I would go to his housefor a coffee ceremony. No thank you.

I went to bed that night and sleptlittle, knowing that I would be waking up in only a few hours, hopingthat the van would indeed show up. At 4am, I sat in the dark at theentrance to the hotel, waiting, the guard next to me dressed in thetypical dirtied fleece, draped from head to foot. Eventually, a carpulled up to the gate, headlights blaring. I looked around thecourtyard of the hotel, knowing that no one else but the guard wasaround, I felt reassured that my ride was finally here. I peeked outof the gate into the dark street and realized that it was not a van,but a Jeep. This was not the van that I had been introduced to theday before, nor was it the driver that I had been expecting. Theguard (who did not speak English) shut the tall, metal gate behind meand I was instantly flooded with fear, alone with this unknown car onthe dark street at 4:15 in the morning. I asked the driver the nameof the passenger that he intended to pick up and he looked at memystified and seemingly annoyed. Then I asked the name of his companyand he responded in broken English that he was not a company, hisanger growing. A man inside the Jeep opened a door, grabbed mybackpack, and threw it behind him. I felt as though I was standing ona divide, that I needed to make a timely decision whether to hop inthe Jeep and pray that Addis was indeed the final destination ordeclare it a lost cost, give up the money that I had already paid,and find myself stuck in Bahir Dar for two more days. I jumped intothe Jeep.

We drove around Bahir Dar for anotherhour, passengers jumping in and out. Two women dressed in traditionalwhite cotton stood beside the road. In the darkness, I could not seethem until we had pulled over to let them in. We picked them up andafter a few more loops around the town, dropped them off to join acrowd of women standing in the dark beside the road. Everyone else inthe car seemed unfazed by this seemingly illogical and time-consuminggame of musical Jeep. I was ready to get started on the eight-plushour (and currently every-increasing) ride to Addis. The driversnapped his fingers at me from the front seat, a signal that it wastime for me to pay up. However, my uneasiness was growing and I wasbecoming less sure that I would indeed make it safely to Addis. Iscrounged up all of the courage that I could muster and refused topay the second half of the fare, explaining that nothing was as I hadexpected it to be and that I would only pay it when I had arrived inAddis. This thoroughly irked the driver. After picking up yet anotherpassenger, he looped by to my hotel, stormed out of the drivers seatand around the back to my door, whipped it open and began furiouslyyelling at me in Amharic. I was terrified. What had I gotten myselfinto? I started to cry, which was my best move yet that day.Immediately, this changed the game. The most recently acquiredpassenger began yelling back at the driver while holding onto myshoulder telling me that everything would be alright. He somehow gotthe driver to close my door and retreat back to the driver's seat. Itried to stop crying and whenever my new friend thought that I wascontinuing, if he caught a glimpse of a tear wipe or a sniffle, heagain tried to reassure me. Despite the early hour (it was now arounda quarter til 5), he called a friend that spoke entirelycomprehensible English to further comfort me, explaining that hewould meet me in Addis and make sure that I was alright (which hedid). Here comes the fifth proposal.

After eleven hours, we finally arrivedin Addis, the driver having not said one word to me nor having lookedin my direction throughout the drive. We stopped only twice along theway, the first for “breakfast,” which consisted of shiro andlentils, and the second, for coffee. After a long Higer ride throughthe city from Mexico to Ayat, picking up kale and injera from streetmarkets for my dinner along the way, I finally arrived at the gate tomy home. I heard the maids running to open it. They immediately gaveme big, warm hugs, and unburdened me of my luggage, their facesbright and excited. One even did a dance for me! All of the knotsthat had developed in my stomach over the past two days immediatelydissipated and I was overjoyed to be safely home.

Trekking in the Simien Mountains

2011-12-19T07:37:00.001-05:00

(Dec 8-14^th) I was able tofind two other English-speakers in Debark with whom to venture intothe Simien Mountains—Shinyi from Canada and Albert from Spain. Theyhad both recently quit their respective jobs, Albert as a cosmeticlaser salesman and Shinyi as an interior design coordinator. They hadboth been traveling for many months with dreams to continue for manymore, hoping never to return to the reality of a paying job andpermanent home. We arranged our trek at the park office, hiring ourcook, two mules, mule men, and scout (who was perpetually clutchinghis gun). We left the next morning, going ahead with the scout whilethe mules were loaded up with our food and gear.

our scout.

I never saw this scout not smiling--he does have 5 wives.

It was luxurious trekking. Carryingonly a day bag, to arrive at camp with my tent already set up by themule men, a table laid out with tea and popcorn made by our cook,Lemlem, with dinner to come shortly, I felt like a mountain queen.The next morning, hot breakfast was prepared for us and our lunchbags were ready by the time that we started hiking. This much be whatmy FOPpers felt like on trips that I led—ha!

We saw baboons everyday and they wereas exciting to see the last day as they were the first. We were alsolucky enough to catch glimpses of ibexes. I was surprised by thenumber of local people that we came across on the trail, mostlytrying to sell us cups, baskets, and other trinkets. The viewsstretched farther than I could comprehend, mountain beyond mountainbeyond mountain.

Ibex

salesmen along our trekking route

One night at the campsite, we enjoyedchicken that was killed on site. The same evening, I watched the mulemen slaughter two goats for a large school group, an impromptuanatomy lesson in the mountains! They seemed shocked that I took suchan interest. To close out the days, we sat around the campfire in thecooking hut. Twelve Ethiopians and I sat, faces aglow (mine more thantheirs due to its blaring whiteness), them speaking in Amharic, metrying to grasp the little that I could understand.

around the fire

goat

dinner.

the butcher and I.

After hiking for five days, Shinyi,Albert and I decided that we would rather get a ride out than walktwo days on the road back to Debark. A guide advised us to pretend tobe sick, as it is illegal for Ethiopians to transport faranji inthe back of trucks, however, they would take pity on a sickforeigner. We were unsuccessful in bargaining with a truck at thecampsite that morning, which demanded 500birr per head to transportus back, and we instead succumbed to walking for at least the firstday. However, about an hour into our walk, as were going up a steepsection of the dirt road, a truck passed us and then stopped at thecurve ahead. Albert declared that our cook, Lemlem, was standing inthe middle of the road! The driver happened to be the same man that Ihad sat next to on the long, bumpy bus ride from Gondar to Debark(and would later ask to marry me and take me to dinner, both of whichI refused). He charged us 100birr per person and we were each boostedup into the back of a truck already heavy-laden with sacks of beans,barley, jugs, and people. We hunkered down into the mass, excited tobe off of our feet. Lemlem gave me a scarf to wear on my head toconceal my faranji-ness. One man sitting behind me did notthink that the scarf was sufficient camouflage; he kept pushing downon my head, like an overzealous smack-a-mole player, much to Lemlem'sdismay, who had my comfort in mind and yelled at him repeatedly. Ifelt like a fugitive slave on the Underground Railroad Aftertwo hours of my bumpiest riding yet in Ethiopia, we slowed and thenapplause sounded from everyone sitting around us in the truck; we hadsuccessfully passed the park offices undiscovered! Lemlem told me tokeep the scarf as a parting gift.

leaving Debark

the great escape!

Shinyi, Albert and I ventured on toGondar together to spend a day visiting the castles in the RoyalEnclosure.

castles!

Shinyi and I in the lion cage--Albert wanted us to stay there

The Simien Girl Runners

2011-12-18T05:02:00.000-05:00

(Debark; Dec 6-7^th) We went totraining at a leisurely 9am to the most beautiful spot that I've seen yet inEthiopia. A large field stretched out, mountain views on all sides.All of the athletes were immediately welcoming. About 500 metershigher than Addis, I could feel the altitude.

Children sat around watching therunners on the dry, hard grass. Sitting quietly, observing, evolvedinto cuddling, arms around the neck of a neighbor, hands on afriend's thigh, which further evolves into wresting and karate chops,to begin all over again.

The athletes and spectators were veryinterested in my camera. The girl runners posed with broad smiles anddramatic poses, one pointing to the Ethiopian flag on her jacket withpride for every shot that she could secure. In contrast, the youngboys made tough-man faces and did handstands, each one trying to tophis friends to gain the attention of my lens.

We gave out the running shoes andshirts that Marco brought and the GGRF T-shirts and Runners Worldmagazines that I brought for the runners. All of the athletes werethankful and excited to receive their loot. That evening, Marcohosted a dinner at or hotel for all seventy (I think) of theathletes! He put on a slide show of photos that he had taken over thelast few days. With every photo that went up, there were giggles orhoots. Photographs are a rare thing in Ethiopia and the athletes wereoverjoyed to see themselves on the screen. I sat with a group of thegirls and they tried to teach me more Amharic, interjected withdemands of “be” (eat) and them insisting on feeding me.

Helen goes back to Kindergarten

2011-12-02T07:00:00.001-05:00

One of the athletes from Team Tesfa led me through thenarrow, bustling aisles of the Merkato, a street market known for its chaos andthreat of pickpocket. Lonely Planet writes, “Some people say that it's thelargest market in Africa, but as its exact boundaries are as shady as itscharacters, this is a little hard to verify.” Overall, I feel very safe inAddis, however, at the Merkato, the locals' calls to me seemed to turn fromfriendly interest to aggressive intent. After the intimidating journey, thekindergarten was immediately inviting. We went through a sheet-metal gate,identical to those that flank nearly every dirt road, except for the red andpurple Teletubbies that were painted on this one. The children, playingin what seemed to be a fragment of a yard, were delighted to see us; onegrabbed my hand and kissed it, another my face to kiss each of my cheeks, andmany more lined up behind them to bestow me with more kisses or just to touchmy hand.

The classroom was impressive, with the days of the week,months of the year, English alphabet, numbers, and hand-prints decorating theroom; compared to a typical Ethiopian public school, these children are leapsahead of their peers. The kindergarten was begun by the Tesfa Foundation andthe hard work of Dana and Menna. The children sang and played (see video) andthen I read a picture book to them in English, with their teacher translating.No set of eyes left me for a second—I'm not sure whether they were indeedfascinated with the story or just rapt in seeing a white person.If it wasn't for the unnerving journey to get tothe kindergarten, I would be there every day!

The GREAT Ethiopian Run

2011-11-29T08:13:00.001-05:00

We arrived at Meskal Square at 6:30amto run the 10 kilometer race, along with 36,000 others, only 300 ofwhich were not Ethiopian. Again, my white skin and straight hair mademe a novelty. The square was a sea of red and purple, the colors ofthis year's official T-shirt, and continued to fill in overwhelmingwaves. Despite there being 36,000 runners, there were only twostarts, the mass and the elite. I made my way into the mass start,trying to push toward the front of the jubilant crowd, which provednext to impossible with everyone standing shoulder-to-shoulder, handsresting on the stranger's back in front of them or clinging onto afriend. I waited in this chanting, clawing, dancing body for a halfan hour, fearing what would transpire when the gun finally went off.Indeed, my worst fears were confirmed. Someone clung onto myshoulders, another the back of my shirt, and a third onto my arm,hoping that these holds would propel them forward. The pack shot off,many stumbling. It was impossible not to, considering that one couldonly see a few inches of pavement in front, if that, carefullyplacing each short step. My goal was to remain a separate entityapart from the pavement.

The scene at Meskal Sq

My mind had to think faster than myfeet and with constant attention, my thinking soon caught up to mypace. At the bottom of a long stretch of slow-rising hill, the sea ofbobbing red bodies went on in front of me for as far as I could see.I soon felt almost comfortable enough to try to weave my way aroundother runners, the many hundred that had jumped into the race infront of me from the sidelines just after the start. As I turned acorner, another man took a dive, and suddenly, other runners stoppedand stood surrounded him, chanting in Amharic to to warn others ofthe fallen man. This warning did not phase me as I started pushing byother runners and walkers. I was intent on not succumbing topassively riding the crowd; it is not uncommon to run the Great Runin upwards of an hour and a half or two hours due to the humanobstacles and party atmosphere. I was starting to enjoy the thrill ofthe congestion and the energy of everyone around me. Along thecourse, there were multiple points where bands were playing. Thesespots were particularly difficult to navigate, as runners would stopabruptly to join the impromptu dance party that stretched across theentire width of the course. There were also sprinklers and cameracrews that caused mass movement toward these attractions, everyrunner eager to run through a cooling stream of water or be capturedby the camera.

Joanna and I after the race

As is typical during my runs inEthiopia, I receive a lot of encouragement from fellow runners. Oneman that had been running beside me (it was impossible to stick withanyone for more than a few minutes due to the dodging, jam-packedpattern of the racers) stated enthusiastically, “We run together.Yah? You and me.” And I responded, somewhat apprehensively, “Ishi(Okay).” He was delighted. As we continued to weave, our separationwas inevitable, leaving me somewhat relieved. However, he was onlythe first of a series of men that were persistent in pacing me. Witheach one that cozied up to me, I had some new, unpredictableinteraction, “I think you German” (It was a statement, not aquestion), “You have running experience, yah?” and “Stay withme” and “Come on!” Proud of their city and charmed that I wastaking part in an important annual event with them, they were eagerto make my experience all the more enjoyable.

Though I started out feeling as if Icould run much faster than the crowds would allow and relieved that Imay finally be adjusting to the altitude (though it may have justbeen the adrenaline of the event), by the last quarter I was feelingtired. I was relieved to see the 9 kilometer marker and pull into thefinal stretch that would return me to festive Meskel Square. Ireceived a purple-ribboned medal (the first 12,000 finishers receivedpurple, the next 12,000 green, and the final 12,000 yellow) thatdeclared proudly, “2011 Commercial Bank of Ethiopia Great EthiopianRun” on one side, and in larger print on the other, “GreatEthiopian Run 2004.” This is no mistake. The Ethiopian calendar is9 days (or 10, changes daily) and 7 years behind the westerncalendar. Confusing, yes!

Walking back to the team van, a mancaught up to our group. He ecstatically told me that he had seen meat the finish and my backside had been his motivation, that he hadbeen intent on catching up to me. Great, he found me again! I'm notsure how many tourists it would take to diminish the fascination withferengi, niche, china (the names for white people that I hearconstantly when I'm in public) among Ethiopians. Although at timesamusing, being the center of attention becomes quickly tiring.Although this race would have never happened in the States, due tosafety concerns, and I enjoyed (almost) every minute of it, I amlooking forward to my first run back in the States where no one seemsme as anything more than another mediocre jogger.

Habasha Thanksgiving

2011-11-29T07:51:00.001-05:00

Eager for a taste of somethingAmerican, Joanna and I planned a Thanksgiving dinner with twoother visiting Americans, a father and daughter pair, Bruce andGrace. Malcolm, a RAB co-founder from Scotland, Meseret, Gudisa, anda man that Bruce met on the street also attended our feast. There isno such thing as turkey in Ethiopia, and chicken, the closestsubstitute, is the most expensive meat here, however, we were notdiscouraged. We decided on a lentil stew with carrots, ginger, garlicand cumin, sort of fall-like. And mango cobbler for dessert. Graceand Bruce contributed mashed potatoes, green beans, and a Californian wine. The meal began with Bruce's very PC explanation ofThanksgiving, much to Grace's embarrassment. And we all left feelinguncomfortably full, just as the holiday requires. Success.

Yaya Village

2011-11-22T08:26:00.001-05:00

Last Friday, I visited Yaya Village and had my mostcomfortable run since arriving in Ethiopia. Though I’m still struggling to adjustto the altitude, this was my first run absent of exhaust fumes and muletraffic! Joseph Kibur, an Ethiopian who lived in Canada from age eleven untilhis early adulthood and then returned to Ethiopia less than ten years ago, isin the process of building an athletic resort, Yaya Village, just outside ofAddis. It is a complete training facility with western comforts, beautifulguest rooms, scenic running routes on paths and in the forest, a well-equippedgym with large windows facing the mountains, steam rooms, volley ball andtennis courts, horseback riding and (hopefully, in the future) a pool! It isnothing like what I have seen in Ethiopia thus far. International teams havealready contacted Joseph, eager to visit and train at Yaya Village.

As Joseph, Joanna and I ran together, he told us that hedislikes running alone and the village will give him plenty of trainingcompanions. Indeed, Joseph’s vision for the village is much larger than merelya source of running buddies. He hopes to host young Ethiopian runners to givethem the gift of a year of intense training that may provide them with theopportunity to become successful athletes. Joseph also plans to partner withGGRF to host young female athletes. He recognizes that success in the form of internationalwins is not possible for the majority of runners and hopes that the villagewill also provide many almost-athletes with a fallback employment option, suchas learning to become massage therapists, cooks and gardeners in the village. Icannot wait to return to the village in a few weeks (or months—things moveterribly slow in Ethiopia) when it is fully up and running! Learn more about Yaya: http://yayavillage.com/

Tesfa girls

2011-11-22T08:25:00.001-05:00

I visited Team Tesfa, another team sponsored by GGRF in thecity center, to begin regular English lessons. Cuddled into the Ethiopia Readsoffice, Joanna and I asked the girls questions about pictures in comics from anAmerican newspaper that we had brought; “How many clouds are in the sky? Whatcolor is the girl’s shirt?...” They giggled and helped each other whenever oneof them struggled. The girls were shy at first, but throughout the hoursession, they gained confidence and were engaged and eager to respond. The atmospherein the room was of excitement, interest and gratitude, a refreshing feelingafter living in the RAB house. The first day that I was in the RAB house, Hana,one of the athletes, informed me, “Learning is burning.” There is a sentimentamong many athletes hoping to be internationally competitive that they do notwant to be anything but athletes. Therefore, they perceive education assomething that exhausts them and only draws away from their training efforts.This is what I think makes Team Tesfa successful, or at the very least, more complete; Dana Roskey has established a programthat successfully pairs education with the girls’ drive to run.

New Home

2011-11-22T08:24:00.001-05:00

I moved into Bazgena’s house on Thurs. We took a tuk-tuk (asmall, three-wheel taxi) from the RAB house, past Ayat circle, to Baz’s house.This will probably be the easiest, most inexpensive move of my life with theprivately-hired tuk-tuk costing only a little more than a dollar. Joanna and Imade a celebratory meal of shiro (crushed chickpeas and spices) with onions andtomatoes and avocado (the avocado costing us 8birr~50cents for a kilo!!) oninjera for dinner.

For the first two nights, I slept on a mattress on the floorin a tight room that I was sharing with Joanna. We were settling in as roomieswhile we waited for Baz to clean out another bedroom, which, like everythingelse here, is done on Ethiopian time. I tossed and turned my first night,feeling as though something was crawling on my skin, trying to ignore thecrunchiness of the mattress. Upon waking and building up my courage, I threwthe sheets back to reveal oodles of little bugs in the morning light! A shiverwhen up my spine. The following night, I slept in my sleeping bag. And thenext, on the couch. The silver lining of a bug-infested mattress: Baz waspushed to clean out the spare bedroom, speeding up Ethiopian time, and I'm muchmore comfortable in my own room now!

Baz is a lady with a mission, on her own time, apart from myor Ethiopia's schedule. Joanna reminds me that all four of Baz's children livein the states—albeit a common pattern among upper middle-class Ethiopians.Although widowed with all of her children abroad, Baz's ninety-four year oldmother lives just down the street. On Sunday, Joanna and I went with Baz to hermother's house, hoping for a ride to meet Baz's great niece and her friends ata restaurant nearby for luch. However, after picking up Baz's mother andsister, all three of the women dressed in many layers of black, we went tovisit a childhood friend of Baz's mother. Joanna was reassured that Baz, unlikemost Ethiopians, does not enjoy the sitting, waiting, socializing thatgenerally occupies the day. In the car, the women chatted away in fast-pacedAmharic, on top of each others words. The friend of Baz's mother greeted useach with four kisses, face clasped, alternating cheeks. The house waswestern-luxurious! A luscious garden, red velvet sofas in a ring in the livingroom, floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the cathedral ceiling hallways, a stonefireplace, large portraits of a younger version of Baz's friend on the wall,along with dozens of framed pictures of family, again, mostly in the States.Time and time again, Ethiopians are shocked that I have only one sibling. Baz'smother and her friend sat next to each other, perched on red velvet armchairs,leaning inward to catch every word of what the other had said. Although I couldnot understand any of the Amharic, it was obvious that the women werereminiscing about the past. Baz explained that the women had been friends forover sixty years.

Upon entering a house, it is impossible to leave withoutbeing fed. Hence, people generally socialize on doorsteps and along the street.Therefore, by not actually entering a home, one avoids becoming a demandingguest, the only type of guest in Ethiopia. After sitting for a while, we movedto the dining room (a western concept) where injera, and meat, meat, and moremeat were waiting for us. Then, barbequed chunks of beef still on the bone werebrought out for us. As a former vegetarian and still a bit apprehensive aboutmeat, especially red meat, I felt overwhelmed. Furthermore, I knew then that itwould be a double-lunch day. Gordon, possibly the son of Baz's friend, dressedin striped cotton pajamas and a matching bathrobe, insisted that we try thehoney wine, an orange, strong, sweet wine, while Baz looked concerned. For somereason, it is acceptable for men to wear lounge-wear, while women, regardlessof age, are garbed in layer up on layer of dresses made of extravagant fabricsand shawls. Gordon, with a chuckle, proudly stated that he had barbequed thebeef himself, explaining that cooking (or any type of household work) isatypical for an Ethiopian man, that his education in the States had worked thisEthiopian concept out of him. We had coffee, a process that takes upward of anhour, and then returned to the living room. Needless to say, we were late forour lunch date with Saba. However, I wasn't missing anything at the pizzeriawith Saba and her friends that I can't enjoy in the states: a meter-long pizza,movie, and pedicure; it was as if a ride across the city, a trip betweengenerations, from the house of Baz's friend to the pizzeria had transported usout of Ethiopia for a short spell.

Training

2011-11-22T07:38:00.001-05:00

Running “with” theelite

On my first day of training (Saturday, Nov12), we woke up at5:30am to meet Mersha, the coach, and Daniel, the driver. The athletes, Joannaand I loaded into the van and rode at least an hour to a popular trainingdestination, Sabata. The paved road was crowded with running teams. We did an“easy” twenty minute warm up and I was already feeling tired. The thin, dry airwith intermittent bursts of truck exhaust made it feel as though someone wassitting on my chest. When we returned from the warm-up, Mersha informed us thatwe would only be running one, 5 kilometer piece. Phewww! But Mersha advised usto run it “faaahhhhsssst.” I told Mersha that I would take it easy and hereplied, “Yes, faaassst. And take care.” Although this stretch of road appearedto be dominated by runners, those on foot knew to defer to trucks, higers, andlivestock, which did not bother to change their course. Amazingly, I have notyet witnessed an automobile accident.

As I ran my 5k, men sitting along the road or hitting theirmules, and children playing, yelled words of encouragement at me, “goodaruther!” and “kep going!” Less encouraging, but still initially amusing, achild yelled “ferengi, ferengi,…” at the top of his lungs for a good four minutes,as long as he could see my whiteness coming toward him and going away from himon this flat, arrow-straight stretch of road. And another group of childrenjoined me on my cool down, all five of them struck with incurable giggles. WhenI (finally) finished my 5k, Mersha informed me that in two weeks, I would winthe Great Ethiopian Run—ha! The Great Ethiopian Run brings 35,000 runners toAddis annually, drawing global attention. It is an important race for Ethiopianathletes hoping to enter international competition. Stay tuned: I will berunning it, however, I can guarantee that I will not win the race.

The forest

My next run the following afternoon felt a little better.Gudisa, Seada, and Hana (athletes at RAB) led me into the forest across thestreet from the RAB house. I followed behind Gudisa, with Seada and Hanatrailing closely behind me as we entered the forest. The temperatureimmediately dropped ten degrees, and overhead, thin eucalyptus trees grewthirty feet into the sky. Gudisa was an attentive guide as we wove through theforest, seemingly aimless, never maintaining a straight line for more thanthree steps, dodging mules, their excrement, skulls, bones, trees, rocks,dugouts, and shrubs. The forest sloped upward from the tree line and we woveback and forth up and down the slope while doing switch backs. With eachtripping hazard, Gudisa lowered a hand (or both), drawing my attention to theobstacle. Despite Gudisa’s excellent guidance, I rolled my ankles at least adozen times. Every time that I stumbled, the athletes circled around me, “ishy,ishy?” (okay?). “Ow, ishy” (Yes, okay).

The best way to describe running at 7500-9000 ft in AddisAbaba is uncomfortable, at least physically. (Not that I’m not enjoying it.)However, the bustle is unparalleled: horse-drawn carts (I was nearly hit by onebacking up yesterday, much to my audience’s amusement), heavy-laden mules,flocks of sheep, exhaust-pumping trucks kicking up dust, thin air, mountainviews in every direction, and plenty of encouragement from onlookers and fellowfriendly runners provide a scene not to be missed!

pics from a workoutin Saluta.

Settling in

2011-11-14T03:38:00.001-05:00

The Running Across Border (RAB) house

After 2 long flights and a lovely layover in London with Jamie, I was met at the airport by the coach, Mersha, and the driver, Dani(Thurs). We left the airport to a bright Ethiopian morning (11pm on the eastcoast of the US).I was exhausted and all that I wanted to do was sleep, which I did after ahaphazard ride through the city, to the rapidly growing Ayat village on theoutskirts. When I woke, Meseret, Gudisa, and Joanna were waiting in thekitchen. I felt bad that they had all been sitting around, waiting for me to getup. As I’ve learned over the past few days, a lot of sitting, doing nothing,occupies the days, possibly because getting anything done in Ethiopia is very slow going, or possibly,getting something accomplished goes against this culture of stoop sitting,something I’m trying to acclimatize to. My concern of keeping others waitingwas entirely unfounded.

the backyard of the RAB house

After more sitting, Gudisa, Joanna and I went to buy injerabread for our lunch of firfir. Injera is like a fermented crepe. It is sour,thin, and has lots of bubbles in it. Firfir consists of ripped apart injera ina sauce on top of an injera that takes up the totality of an oversized plate. Meseretplaced a daunting pile of firfir on the table. Thankfully, it was for Joannaand I to share. They taught me to eat with my right hand, scooping the firfirwith my fingers. I’m sorry to report that we only made a small dent in thepile. I didn’t like the sour taste very much, but Joanna said that it wouldgrow on me. A few days later (Sat), Joanna and I had curry firfir at a restaurantand I enjoyed it. The curry cut the sour a bit.

With each item that I buy, I’m surprised anew by howinexpensive most things are here. A restaurant meal split between two (Joannaand my firfir) is 40birr~$2.35. I was able to buy 1 kilo of beets, ½ kilo ofgarlic, ¼ kilo of ginger root, and a large bunch of kale for only 26birr~$1.50(and garlic and ginger are considered expensive).

Gudisa (translator, guide, RAB athlete) and Meseret (cook)are hospitable and loving hosts. Gudisa’s favorite English word is “crazy,”often calling himself “crazy boy” and me, “crazy ferengi.” He often asks me howmuch ferengi I am and I say, “99%,” and he says, “no, maybe 60% ferengi, 40% Habasha(Ethiopian).” Gudisa calls me “killer” in because he has heard of Helen Keller,but pronounces it “killer” and there is no correcting him. Meseret says that I have“two mommies,” my American mom and my mama Messy, although I am four yearsolder than her. When I wake up or arrive back to the house, she calls to me,“Helen baretu?” (beautiful Helen) and I respond “Messy baretu, ow?” (beautifulMessy, yes?). This is how most of our conversations go, or at least start. Withmuch pantomiming, I told her that my mother teaches piano and she lit up,asking if my mom would teach her if she ever came to America. The dream of living in America iscommon here. Although there is much Ethiopian pride, Gudisa says that most wantto escape to richer nations. This general sentiment is working against him intrying to obtain a visa to compete in international races, where he is sure hecan win. Because Gudisa is an orphan, without any real estate, car, wife,children or internationally competitive race time (though he would deny this),he appears to the American embassy as too risky a visa candidate. All athletesbelieve that if they just had the chance, they would win an international race,although for many, that is not a feasible goal. This is the strength of TeamTesfa, another team that I will soon be working with more that places a greateremphasis upon education than training.

Meseret cooking; Gudisa doing his laundry

Visitors

Wherever I go, I get a lot of attention, even at home. Aneighbor girl heard me speaking English and brought her English homework overfor me to do. (English is part of the curriculum in Ethiopian schools, whichmakes getting around and interacting with everyone easier for me.) Because itwas far too difficult for her, but a good level for Gudisa (who speaks verygood English), Gudisa and I worked on it together.

As I was sitting at the table in the RAB house (on Tues), aneighbor boy, probably about two and a half, came to visit. He was a littleapprehensive about my whiteness, and Gudisa tells him that I am a ferengi. Witha little peek-a-boo and some of my breakfast, he warms up to me quickly. Hegets into the sugar (segwar) and walks around the apartments with two fistfuls.His mother asked him where he got it and he responded, ennat (my mother). Thenthe six years old brother of the first came to join the fun. He wiggled inbeside me, curious about my computer. I gave the boys paper and pens and theolder boy made up math problems and then picked up my English/Ahmaricphrasebook to write while the younger scribbled and threw pens.

On the street, there is no way for me to blend in. I’vestarted wearing a scarf over my head and shoulders, as many women do, to gain asmidgen of anonymity. Trucks honk, children yell “ferengi, ferengi…” andgiggle, and many ask, “ouw arrr yooo?” They are ecstatic when I respond.Ferengi are rare here.

Getting Around

To get to the market, we took a “taxi” from the front of ourbuilding (I usually elect to walk. You’ll see why shortly). It was a tinymobile—not even a car, more like a gas-powered tricycle with a blue shell ofslaughtered metal around it, one small wheel in front and two in the back—andalready had the driver and two passengers in it. We all piled in, now with sixof us in a child-sized clown car; you can always fit one more—or three, ortwenty—in Ethiopia.

This is particularly true on the higers, larger buses thatquickly fill and become sardine cans. Only very wealthy Ethiopians have cars; becauseso many rely upon buses, taxis and higers, public transportation in amazinglyreliable, though you may have someone in your lap or be standing in a verytight mass on the higer, clutching onto others’ arms to balance. Once, when Iwas sitting and another woman was standing, she gave me her purse to hold. Theidea of a personal bubble is an outlandish concept here.

Though a higer may seem already overloaded to my Americaneyes, the man that shuffles people on and off and collects money, bangs on thewindows at each stop to encourage everyone in the aisle to push back more.Sometimes, arguments between passengers and the sardine-can packer whenpassengers feel that no one else can fit and they stubbornly refuse to crowdthemselves further (as if that is possible). Although the higer may be fullyloaded with ticked off passengers, the higer attendant will ride along with historso and head sticking out of the window, advertising the higer’s route. Once,the higer was so full that the attendant rode on the outside of the higer withhis arm coming into the sliding door’s window, clinging to inside roof! Trafficlanes are an abstract concept here. There may be enough room on a given road todrive two abreast in one direction, but only single file in the other. However,if two cars are approaching from the formerly single lane, the other lane mustadjust quickly and merge to become a single lane.

Mom, know that I walk and avoid getting into the line of trafficas much as possible. My preference for walking shocks Gudisa and Meseret.

Home visit

Sunday was a long, fun day! Joanna, Gudisa and I went toGudisa’s family’s house a little ways away. Families here are very large; mostpeople have around ten children. When Meseret learned that I have one brother,she tilted her head, puckered her lips and said “oooo, no sisters?” insympathy. Although Gudisa grew up as an orphan, he has family that lives closeto the RAB house. When we arrived, five children and Gudisa’s uncle weresitting around the TV in their mud house. Socializing here is all about sittingaround together, not necessarily talking or doing anything, especially if a TVis present. We chatted with Gudisa’s uncle a bit and he lit up every time thatI said something in Ahmaric (my go to words: “ishy” (okay), “amaseganarlo”(thank you), and “salamno” (how are you). They were all particularly delightedwhen I counted for them. He said that I was a fast learner and Gudisa told meagain that night that his uncle was impressed with how much I was speaking inonly three days. As I watched the entrance door and the passageway to thekitchen, people came in and out, bustling to prepare out lunch and I was unableto keep track of how many were actually in the house. I told Gudisa that he hasa big family and he said that they were not all relatives of his. It is commonfor people to raise other people’s children. On a similar note, beggers seemwell respected and cared for by most; people are quick to pass a birr throughthe window to a woman begging outside (usually with an infant in her hands).Possibly, because the majority are close to poverty themselves, they help todaybecause that may be them tomorrow. There is a general sense of responsibilityin caring for those around you.

Joanna warned me that because hospitality is highly valued andbecause food is all that many have to offer, when you visit a home, you willundoubtedly become uncomfortably full. We were given sodas and injera to laycross-wise across the plate, covering the entire plate. Gudisa’s aunt came inwith a pot of dorowit with eggs (dorowit is a spicy red stew) and ladled itonto our injera. Next came kikili (lamb in a green sauce) and then thehighlight (as chicken is very expensive) dorowit with chicken. Whenever I tooka break from eating, Gudisa and his uncle encouraged me on, “be, be!” (eat,eat!). I thought that I was gonna pop! QuincySunday brunch, you got nothing on this. I was relieved when Gudisa subtlyhelped me with my serving.

Since we arrived, one of Gudisa’s cousins had been roastingcoffee. Making coffee is a long process and is generally done only on specialoccasions. They roast the beans over a small stove on the floor and always burnincense as it cooks. Gudisa’s cousin brought the smoking beans over to Joannaand I to breath in, which is believed to have medicinal qualities. The coffeewas brought to us in demi cups with lots of sugar. (Excessive amounts of sugarare also added to tea). Although I don’t usually like coffee, this wasdelicious! Instant coffee would be a sin to an Ethiopian. As we drank ourcoffee, sugared popcorn was passed around.

Bez, Joanna’s host mom (my host-mom-to-be in a week!), worksat a government building in Addis Ababa, is well educated, well-off, and well connected.She told Joanna about an exhibition of Ethiopian-made technologies, products,clothing, shoes, and crafts that was taking place in the city yesterday. Wewere lucky to have somewhere to go following the home visit, because otherwisethe feeding could continue for hours! Popular singers and musicians alsoperformed on stage at the exhibition. Two men in costume as oversized robotsdanced to the music. They sang songs in Ahmaric and then American songs inEnglish. We took a series of overcrowded higers back to Ayat village.

It was dark by the time that we returned to Ayat and Gudisaand I walked Joanna back to Bez’s house. Time, as usual, seemed of no concernto Gudisa. We visited Bez’s neighbor to check in on their progress in establishingan orphanage. She said that the children should arrive Wed or Thurs. However,they have been saying that the children will arrive in a few days for months.Joanna and I are anxious to play with and meet the children! As Gudisa and Ifinally made our way home, four dogs followed us. They knew Gudisa from whenthe RAB athletes were living on the same street as Bez. As they followed us,Gudisa shoed them away. When we reached the main road that leads to the currentRAB house, only one was still tailing us and Gudisa changed his mind and begancalling the dog, insistent that the dog become his. We called “butch, butch,butch” to keep him close to us. Gudisa named him “Jacob,” after an Americanvisitor with puffy, blond, matted hair that resembled the dog’s coat. Jacobseemed to know his name and although he cowered every time that a truck droveby, he caught up to us after lagging behind. When we reached the house afterthe forty minute walk, luring Jacob up to the apartment (not to enter, but tosleep outside) proved to be another time intensive task. However, Gudisa wasinsistent and we finally succeeded! This morning (Mon), much to Gudisa’sdismay, the dog was nowhere to be found, but as Meseret prepared breakfast,Jacob must have smelled it in the air and returned to our door.

Gudisa and Jacob

Introduction

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Motivation

I’m fascinated by the physiological, social, political, psychological and health implications of running. There is no place like Eastern Africa to explore the tremendous impact that running can have in changing life trajectories for the better.

Among the most developed countries in Eastern Africa, Kenya touts with agricultural resources, industrial advancement, and tourism, yet, paradoxically, the country ranks near the bottom—at 148th of 177 countries—on United Nations Development Program’s human development index [1]. This arid land, which produces such able bodies, lacks the provisioning of basic needs. Kenya struggles with low literacy and life expectancy rates [2]. Among the effects is the fact that, in neighboring Ethiopia, a girl is more likely to die in childbirth than reach the sixth grade [3]. While most economists who study the developing world focus on Kenya's myriad resources, there is also an, as yet, not fully understood resource in the form of athletic aptitude. Indeed, Ethiopian and Kenyan runners have dominated the Boston marathon for the past two decades; males have secured 23 of the past 25 Boston marathon victories, and females, 13 over the past 15 years [4]. I hope to join efforts that help to promote these alternative solutions that begin by capitalizing upon the region’s strengths.

Girls Gotta Run Foundation: Team Naftech by Sarah Murray
Take a look at what GGRF does, why they do it, and some of the girls they have helped. A profile of Team Naftech, an amateur Ethiopian girls' running team supported by the Girls Gotta Run Foundation.

The 13-year-old Tesdale Mesele, in Ethiopia, describes her motivation, "I run so the boys know I'm strong and don't harass me…I also run because I want to give priority to my schooling. If I'm a good runner, the school will want me to stay and not be home washing laundry.” [5] Tesdale may never break a world record. However, her running is not in vain; the daily engagement provides her with the means to excel in every aspect of her life. East African runners believe in the power of running to lift them out of the oppressive economics of limited opportunity in the developing world.

As a long-distance runner trained in human evolutionary biology, I am fascinated by the motivations that spur great athletes in track and field—from biological aptitude and wellbeing to career pursuits. I am drawn to the East African runners who dominate distance running. Is it the drive, the raw need, the inspiration in the potential to relinquish their whole family—immediate and extended—from poverty? Or do Kenyans really have something biological, physiological, or psychological that most of the rest of us lack? Certainly, the high altitude of the East African highlands aids in East African runners’ success, providing ideal training conditions. These runners’ biomechanics, which is genetically inscribed , also supports their athletic dominance. More importantly, I believe that something else rests at the heart of their athletic achievement, namely the cultural imperative of running.

Running has provided me with more than I could ever give back. I have been granted a Carl and Lily Pforzheimer Public Service Fellowship to travel and serve in Ethiopia and Kenya for six months. I am excited to explore East Africa, running all the way!

Stated Mission

1. To live and immerse myself in a culture of running. To better understand the culture of running in East Africa, its inspiration and its implications, particularly for families, girls, and communities in poverty.

2. To share my love for running with the the young women on the Girls Gotta Run and Running Across Borders teams in and surrounding Addis Ababa, Ethiopia and the children at the Baraka Children's Home in Nyeri, Kenya.

3. To assist the young athletes in learning English, necessary for international competition. And to help the girls become more independent in managing the food budget.

4. To explore the health situation in East Africa through an untraditional lens, that of lifestyle choices and preventative medicine. This travel may provide me with an invaluable and alternative perspective into the dire health situation in East Africa, a region that I am interested in engaging with as public health policy maker or in serving as a doctor in the future.

5. To share with all of you what I've learned about the motivation and atmosphere surrounding running in East Africa. Running as a means out of poverty is under-reported in headlines that blast Kenyan and Ethiopian marathon victories. A medal at a national race isn’t just the victory of an individual, but reaps benefits for an entire family or community and provides a route out of poverty. I hope to raise awareness surrounding the poverty that drives many of these victories, dramatically different from my own drive to run.

[1] “Rural poverty in Kenya.” Rural Poverty Portal. IFAS. 2011. http://www.ruralpovertyportal.org/web/guest/country/home/tags/kenya
[2] “Causes of Poverty in Kenya.” Kenya-Advisor. http://www.kenya-advisor.com/index.html
[3] Wax, Emily. “Facing Servitude, Ethiopian Girls Run for a Better Life.” 29 December, 2005. The Washington Post. https://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2005/12/28/AR2005122801369.html
[4] "Records." Boston Marathon. Boston Athletic Association. 2011. http://www.baa.org/Races/Boston-Marathon.aspx
[5] Wax.