Helen goes back to Kindergarten

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

The classroom was impressive, with the days of the week, months of the year, English alphabet, numbers, and hand-prints decorating the room; compared to a typical Ethiopian public school, these children are leaps ahead of their peers. The kindergarten was begun by the Tesfa Foundation and the hard work of Dana and Menna. The children sang and played (see video) and then 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 indeed fascinated with the story or just rapt in seeing a white person. If it wasn't for the unnerving journey to get to the kindergarten, I would be there every day!

The GREAT Ethiopian Run

We arrived at Meskal Square at 6:30am to run the 10 kilometer race, along with 36,000 others, only 300 of which were not Ethiopian. Again, my white skin and straight hair made me a novelty. The square was a sea of red and purple, the colors of this year's official T-shirt, and continued to fill in overwhelming waves. Despite there being 36,000 runners, there were only two starts, the mass and the elite. I made my way into the mass start, trying to push toward the front of the jubilant crowd, which proved next to impossible with everyone standing shoulder-to-shoulder, hands resting on the stranger's back in front of them or clinging onto a friend. I waited in this chanting, clawing, dancing body for a half an hour, fearing what would transpire when the gun finally went off. Indeed, my worst fears were confirmed. Someone clung onto my shoulders, 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 could only see a few inches of pavement in front, if that, carefully placing each short step. My goal was to remain a separate entity apart from the pavement.

The scene at Meskal Sq

My mind had to think faster than my feet and with constant attention, my thinking soon caught up to my pace. At the bottom of a long stretch of slow-rising hill, the sea of bobbing 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 around other runners, the many hundred that had jumped into the race in front of me from the sidelines just after the start. As I turned a corner, another man took a dive, and suddenly, other runners stopped and stood surrounded him, chanting in Amharic to to warn others of the fallen man. This warning did not phase me as I started pushing by other runners and walkers. I was intent on not succumbing to passively riding the crowd; it is not uncommon to run the Great Run in upwards of an hour and a half or two hours due to the human obstacles and party atmosphere. I was starting to enjoy the thrill of the congestion and the energy of everyone around me. Along the course, there were multiple points where bands were playing. These spots were particularly difficult to navigate, as runners would stop abruptly to join the impromptu dance party that stretched across the entire width of the course. There were also sprinklers and camera crews that caused mass movement toward these attractions, every runner eager to run through a cooling stream of water or be captured by the camera.

Joanna and I after the race

As is typical during my runs in Ethiopia, I receive a lot of encouragement from fellow runners. One man that had been running beside me (it was impossible to stick with anyone for more than a few minutes due to the dodging, jam-packed pattern 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 separation was inevitable, leaving me somewhat relieved. However, he was only the first of a series of men that were persistent in pacing me. With each one that cozied up to me, I had some new, unpredictable interaction, “I think you German” (It was a statement, not a question), “You have running experience, yah?” and “Stay with me” and “Come on!” Proud of their city and charmed that I was taking part in an important annual event with them, they were eager to make my experience all the more enjoyable.

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

Walking back to the team van, a man caught up to our group. He ecstatically told me that he had seen me at the finish and my backside had been his motivation, that he had been intent on catching up to me. Great, he found me again! I'm not sure how many tourists it would take to diminish the fascination with ferengi, niche, china (the names for white people that I hear constantly when I'm in public) among Ethiopians. Although at times amusing, being the center of attention becomes quickly tiring. Although this race would have never happened in the States, due to safety concerns, and I enjoyed (almost) every minute of it, I am looking forward to my first run back in the States where no one seems me as anything more than another mediocre jogger.  

Habasha Thanksgiving

Eager for a taste of something American, Joanna and I planned a Thanksgiving dinner with two other visiting Americans, a father and daughter pair, Bruce and Grace. Malcolm, a RAB co-founder from Scotland, Meseret, Gudisa, and a man that Bruce met on the street also attended our feast. There is no such thing as turkey in Ethiopia, and chicken, the closest substitute, is the most expensive meat here, however, we were not discouraged. We decided on a lentil stew with carrots, ginger, garlic and cumin, sort of fall-like. And mango cobbler for dessert. Grace and Bruce contributed mashed potatoes, green beans, and a Californian wine. The meal began with Bruce's very PC explanation of Thanksgiving, much to Grace's embarrassment. And we all left feeling uncomfortably full, just as the holiday requires. Success.

Yaya Village

Last Friday, I visited Yaya Village and had my most comfortable run since arriving in Ethiopia. Though I’m still struggling to adjust to the altitude, this was my first run absent of exhaust fumes and mule traffic! Joseph Kibur, an Ethiopian who lived in Canada from age eleven until his early adulthood and then returned to Ethiopia less than ten years ago, is in the process of building an athletic resort, Yaya Village, just outside of Addis. It is a complete training facility with western comforts, beautiful guest rooms, scenic running routes on paths and in the forest, a well-equipped gym with large windows facing the mountains, steam rooms, volley ball and tennis courts, horseback riding and (hopefully, in the future) a pool! It is nothing like what I have seen in Ethiopia thus far. International teams have already contacted Joseph, eager to visit and train at Yaya Village. 

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

Tesfa girls

I visited Team Tesfa, another team sponsored by GGRF in the city center, to begin regular English lessons. Cuddled into the Ethiopia Reads office, Joanna and I asked the girls questions about pictures in comics from an American newspaper that we had brought; “How many clouds are in the sky? What color is the girl’s shirt?...” They giggled and helped each other whenever one of them struggled. The girls were shy at first, but throughout the hour session, they gained confidence and were engaged and eager to respond. The atmosphere in the room was of excitement, interest and gratitude, a refreshing feeling after 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 sentiment among many athletes hoping to be internationally competitive that they do not want to be anything but athletes. Therefore, they perceive education as something 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 program that successfully pairs education with the girls’ drive to run.

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.

Training

Running “with” the elite

On my first day of training (Saturday, Nov12), we woke up at 5:30am to meet Mersha, the coach, and Daniel, the driver. The athletes, Joanna and I loaded into the van and rode at least an hour to a popular training destination, 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 air with intermittent bursts of truck exhaust made it feel as though someone was sitting on my chest. When we returned from the warm-up, Mersha informed us that we would only be running one, 5 kilometer piece. Phewww! But Mersha advised us to run it “faaahhhhsssst.” I told Mersha that I would take it easy and he replied, “Yes, faaassst. And take care.” Although this stretch of road appeared to be dominated by runners, those on foot knew to defer to trucks, higers, and livestock, which did not bother to change their course. Amazingly, I have not yet witnessed an automobile accident.

As I ran my 5k, men sitting along the road or hitting their mules, and children playing, yelled words of encouragement at me, “gooda ruther!” and “kep going!” Less encouraging, but still initially amusing, a child 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 him on this flat, arrow-straight stretch of road. And another group of children joined me on my cool down, all five of them struck with incurable giggles. When I (finally) finished my 5k, Mersha informed me that in two weeks, I would win the Great Ethiopian Run—ha! The Great Ethiopian Run brings 35,000 runners to Addis annually, drawing global attention. It is an important race for Ethiopian athletes hoping to enter international competition. Stay tuned: I will be running 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 the street from the RAB house. I followed behind Gudisa, with Seada and Hana trailing closely behind me as we entered the forest. The temperature immediately dropped ten degrees, and overhead, thin eucalyptus trees grew thirty feet into the sky. Gudisa was an attentive guide as we wove through the forest, seemingly aimless, never maintaining a straight line for more than three steps, dodging mules, their excrement, skulls, bones, trees, rocks, dugouts, and shrubs. The forest sloped upward from the tree line and we wove back and forth up and down the slope while doing switch backs. With each tripping hazard, Gudisa lowered a hand (or both), drawing my attention to the obstacle. Despite Gudisa’s excellent guidance, I rolled my ankles at least a dozen 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 Addis Ababa 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 one backing up yesterday, much to my audience’s amusement), heavy-laden mules, flocks of sheep, exhaust-pumping trucks kicking up dust, thin air, mountain views in every direction, and plenty of encouragement from onlookers and fellow friendly runners provide a scene not to be missed!

pics from a workout in Saluta.