New Home

I moved into Bazgena’s house on Thurs. We took a tuk-tuk (a small, 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 the privately-hired tuk-tuk costing only a little more than a dollar. Joanna and I made a celebratory meal of shiro (crushed chickpeas and spices) with onions and tomatoes and avocado (the avocado costing us 8birr~50cents for a kilo!!) on injera for dinner.

For the first two nights, I slept on a mattress on the floor in a tight room that I was sharing with Joanna. We were settling in as roomies while we waited for Baz to clean out another bedroom, which, like everything else 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 the crunchiness of the mattress. Upon waking and building up my courage, I threw the sheets back to reveal oodles of little bugs in the morning light! A shiver when up my spine. The following night, I slept in my sleeping bag. And the next, on the couch. The silver lining of a bug-infested mattress: Baz was pushed to clean out the spare bedroom, speeding up Ethiopian time, and I'm much more comfortable in my own room now!

Baz is a lady with a mission, on her own time, apart from my or Ethiopia's schedule. Joanna reminds me that all four of Baz's children live in the states—albeit a common pattern among upper middle-class Ethiopians. Although widowed with all of her children abroad, Baz's ninety-four year old mother lives just down the street. On Sunday, Joanna and I went with Baz to her mother's house, hoping for a ride to meet Baz's great niece and her friends at a restaurant nearby for luch. However, after picking up Baz's mother and sister, all three of the women dressed in many layers of black, we went to visit a childhood friend of Baz's mother. Joanna was reassured that Baz, unlike most Ethiopians, does not enjoy the sitting, waiting, socializing that generally occupies the day. In the car, the women chatted away in fast-paced Amharic, on top of each others words. The friend of Baz's mother greeted us each with four kisses, face clasped, alternating cheeks. The house was western-luxurious! A luscious garden, red velvet sofas in a ring in the living room, floor-to-ceiling mirrors in the cathedral ceiling hallways, a stone fireplace, 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's mother 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 could not understand any of the Amharic, it was obvious that the women were reminiscing about the past. Baz explained that the women had been friends for over sixty years.

Upon entering a house, it is impossible to leave without being fed. Hence, people generally socialize on doorsteps and along the street. Therefore, by not actually entering a home, one avoids becoming a demanding guest, the only type of guest in Ethiopia. After sitting for a while, we moved to the dining room (a western concept) where injera, and meat, meat, and more meat were waiting for us. Then, barbequed chunks of beef still on the bone were brought out for us. As a former vegetarian and still a bit apprehensive about meat, especially red meat, I felt overwhelmed. Furthermore, I knew then that it would be a double-lunch day. Gordon, possibly the son of Baz's friend, dressed in striped cotton pajamas and a matching bathrobe, insisted that we try the honey wine, an orange, strong, sweet wine, while Baz looked concerned. For some reason, it is acceptable for men to wear lounge-wear, while women, regardless of age, are garbed in layer up on layer of dresses made of extravagant fabrics and shawls. Gordon, with a chuckle, proudly stated that he had barbequed the beef himself, explaining that cooking (or any type of household work) is atypical for an Ethiopian man, that his education in the States had worked this Ethiopian concept out of him. We had coffee, a process that takes upward of an hour, and then returned to the living room. Needless to say, we were late for our lunch date with Saba. However, I wasn't missing anything at the pizzeria with 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 between generations, from the house of Baz's friend to the pizzeria had transported us out of Ethiopia for a short spell.