Hosed.

Guest contributor J. originally composed this entry as an e-mail message to family and friends. If it sounds familiar to you, let me know, and I’ll tell you what your e-mail address was in 1995.

We had a strange experience yesterday morning (Saturday, August 6, 1995) when a gentleman from the neighborhood association stopped by our apartment. (Note: neighborhood association is a pleasant interpretation of what used to be called Kebele or Peasant Association, the lowest level of civic government in Ethiopia). He did not wait for me to invite him in, but walked right in and made himself comfortable on our couch. I was a bit apprehensive because Sara was in the shower at the time, and the living room lies between the bathroom and the bedroom. He introduced himself as the financial director of the Kebele, and its security chairman, and went on to explain about the Kebele’s sports program and its need for contributions to send a team to competition. He showed me a list of names of those who has already contributed and fully expected me to follow their example. (He took a break from his discourse to greet my discomfited wife as she made a beeline for the bedroom, wearing her green bathrobe and with a purple towel on her head). I caved. I contributed 50 birr and immediately he said, “Make that 70 birr.” We left it at fifty.

Our visitor was preparing to leave when he spotted some highly coveted M&Ms packets. Unashamedly, he mentioned that he had a little boy, and could he have some candy? I was startled. Most of the Ethiopians we’ve met are very reserved but this man was just the opposite. He was not unfriendly or rude, he just took me by surprise. I wondered if he treated all of the apartment tenants this way, or if we foreigners are just considered so rich that we certainly wouldn’t miss 70 birr (Editor's note: about US $11.65 at the time) or some M&Ms. Either way, it is good to be an ambassador for the Mars company.

After our visitor departed I intended to go to the office in order to catch up on some work and write some overdue e-mail. On the way there (it is only a couple of miles) the car blew its radiator hose. I heard a loud bang that sounded as if it came from under the car, so I stopped the car and looked around, but could find nothing wrong. I climbed back into the car to start it up and drive off when some boys – teenagers – who had been observing me cautioned me not to do something foolish. They pointed to the hood and I opened it, and the culprit was plainly visible.

I was less than half a mile from the office and I was in a quandary. I was tempted just to start up the car and drive off anyway, but prudence got the better of me. It didn’t matter, because my indecision lasted long enough for the boys to remove the burst hose. By that time, more than a dozen other boys had gathered – most of them around the front of the car – but one was intensely looking me over; he was so close I felt embarrassed about my long nose hairs.

Not far from the stalled car was a little shop that sold black electrical tape, and I was prompted by two of my companions to buy some. After ten minutes of work, the hose was taped back into place and the radiator was replenished with water. Now what? I hopped into the car, which was quickly surrounded by a dozen boys expecting some sort of payment. The one who had carried out most of the work looked at me and said “Chigger yellem” and walked off. If anyone had deserved payment it was him, but he had just told me, “No problem.” I felt a bit awkward. The voices around me reminded me, “I have not had breakfast!” “I carried the water!” “Pay me!” The unlocked doors of the car were being opened and closed all around me.

In a country where the people are so poor it is difficult not to feel filthy rich in comparison, yet I don’t like being taken for a fool. (Being a fool and being taken for one are two completely different things). I decided to give money to one of the helpful boys and told him to share, then I hastily started the car and it sputtered the rest of the way to the office. I discovered later that the helpful, happy boys had absconded with my brand new hammer while I was not paying attention. Cuisine is a bit different here, but scrambled hammer on toast seems like an awful breakfast to me.

A co-worker met me at our office gate. She smiled and asked if I would need the electricity to do my work – she hoped not, because it was out. Needless to say, I did not write this e-mail at the office. The positive part of the story is that we are driving a Toyota Land Cruiser for the weekend, until our little red Renault is fixed.

We ended the day by taking advantage of an unusual hiatus in the constant rain by playing some tennis with friends. We enjoyed whacking the ball around and getting some exercise. All of the tennis courts come fully equipped with a ball boy, which was a good thing since several balls sailed over or through the fence. Luxury exists in Ethiopia, and it has found us for this weekend.

Back To Work.

Before we finish up with language school, I want to share an anecdote from our friend Wendy, who was in the senior class while we were starting out. Wendy had come to Ethiopia a couple of years earlier to teach at Bingham Academy, the SIM mission school in Addis. She was learning Amharic to prepare for her new role as Bingham’s homeschool coordinator, traveling to remote towns and villages to help missionary families educate their kids at home instead of sending them to boarding school. 

Wendy was living at the Press Compound that summer, so a group of us would often gather for lunch at her little apartment. One Monday, she told us that she had gone with one of the language tutors, Solomon, to an Ethiopian church the previous day, where she tried desperately to follow the preacher’s enthusiastic sermon in Amharic. She was able to recognize a few of our basic vocabulary words, including the repeated phrase “siga menged.” We knew “siga” from our meals at the office, where on Tuesdays and Thursdays we had “siga wot” – stew with meat in it. And we knew “menged” (pronounced men’-ged, with a hard g) from driving directions – it means “road”. Siga menged, the preacher said, and Wendy could not for the life of her figure out what he meant by “Meat Road.” After the service, she asked Solomon, who explained that the preacher was denouncing “the way of the flesh.” Foreign languages make literalists of us all, I guess. 

Spoiler alert: Wendy married Solomon a few years later. 

As we prepared to return to the office full time, there were some changes taking place at FH/Ethiopia. J’s boss, one of the most senior Ethiopians on the staff, had been arrested that summer, accused of participating in the Red Terror in the late 1970s. In his absence, the organizational structure was adjusted and some new staff members came on board. The new guy in charge of administration – and J.’s new boss – was Tesfaye Habtiyimer, a local guy who was trained as an accountant, and who quickly won our respect. The new guy in charge of the program(me) side was Andy Barnes, an American expatriate with a background in forestry, who had been teaching at an agricultural college in Ethiopia. (Ten years later Andy became the Country Director of FH/E, and he still works for the organization. We have, alas, lost track of Tesfaye). 

Also, at the beginning of August, I had boldy told the big boss P. that I was not very happy in my role at FH/E. Part of my dissatisfaction was professional, insofar as it didn’t seem like there was enough work to keep both Joy and myself occupied on a full-time basis. Part of it was inter-personal, as by this time it had become clear that my supervisor E. and I were not, shall we say, simpatico. You may recall that the big boss P. was married to my supervisor E., which complicated the matter. As I wrote to my sister at the time, “talking with P. really cheered me up, not because he was extremely helpful, but because I needed to be clear about my frustrations and get it off my chest.” 

So what happened was, I became a teacher.