Childhood books

You have a lot of time to think here, and as a result I probably over think everything now, but something that's been on my mind lately is just why am I rereading a bunch of books from my childhood when I have thousands of new ones to read?

I've reread the Chronicles of Prydian by Lloyd Alexander, as well as the Artemis Fowl books by Eoin Colfer. I've been craving to get my hands on copies of Tamora Pieces's Tortall books, Farley's Black Stallion novels, as well as the Dark is Rising series. Recently I got copies of Diane Duane's Young Wizard Series and am in the process of reading Harry Potter for, oh maybe the fourth time (total, not since I've been here!) and am delighting in reading a book and then watching the movie with Dani.

She is totally a Ron Weasley fan, because of the faces he made in the second movie. And while Dani doesn't always understand what's going one (something that's making realize that despite how many movie lines were taken from the books, the books do a lot better as explaining things, and setting them up so you have less surprises) I'm please to say she demands I pause a movie when she has to do something instead of letting it play like she will with other flicks.

But still, why in the world am I revisiting all these childhood worlds?

I wonder if it's cuz I miss home, still, even after having been here pushing 20 months and thinking about how weird sleeping in my childhood room will be when I go home. Back to the States. What did that historical romance about immigrants I just read say – we come expecting to go home, but then here becomes home. It's very similar here. I have friends and family here and as frustrated as three day power outages are, I know I will miss Huruta dearly. It has become as much a home to me as Wellington where I spent a semester. Though, I would much rather move there to live than return to Huruta. It's a rough, though lovable life.

These books though, they're familiar. Maybe that's why I return to them, because as homey as my compound is, I do live in Africa and that's very different than Michigan.

Or maybe because all these books and series, all fantasy (aside from Farley's works), are things that aren't found here. People don't know of dragons or magic or faeries. I know of people who saw an ad for Pixar's Cars and thought that cars actually talked in America.

Pretend, make believe, imagination, creativity are rare here. I asked students to create characters, and a third of the class simply filled out the profile format with their own demographics and self-portrait. There is no magic here, people don't dream or set goals. I love Duane's works because in it words control the world. In Rowling's series, you can see the effect of the individual. Pierce's characters are women fighting against stereotypes, Alexander writes about growing up and shedding childhood selfishness, Cooper about standing up to evil and temptation. Themes that all hard to find here. Maybe I'm seeking out what I miss in these old childhood friends, and turning to them instead of new books because I know they're reliable.

Then again, I'm probably just over thinking again.

English Club

Last semester, for various reasons, despite wanting to have my student English club every week it was only every other.  This semester, I really want to have it every week, but I had no idea it would be such a hassle.

First off, when I arrived at school 90 min before club on Wednesday, I realized there was a student meeting to address student behavior. Kay, no big deal. I just had to find the teacher with the key to the chemistry lab that I use for club.  Only, he wasn't with the Amharic students. Or the Oromic students. Or in the staff room. Or the tea house.

Right, I'll use a different classroom. Or rather, a different room because the conference hall is the only spare space in the school.  Except, yes, there was a district staff meeting going on in there. No can do.

What followed was a search through the school compound for a spare blackboard that I could prop up somewhere so I could teach outside. Failing to find that, I went looking for an exterior wall that I could write on with chalk.

When the student meeting ended, I was standing in the small garden around the staff building wondering what to do.  I sorta hoped that students wouldn't come, but nope, here were two of them on the other side of the fence asking 'where will we be?'. They had no doubt seen me pull uselessly at the chem lab lock and crisscross the grounds several times lugging my supplies.

I made an executive decision and pointed at three blue painted cement blocks in the teacher's garden. “Come sit here.” And so I proceeded to pull out my speaker and other supplies and used a piece of A4 paper with a folder as a brace for a blackboard. It is really hard to write on your own chest.

I have to give my students lots of credit for coming to club. We obviously were in an unusual setting, and had also gotten started late due to the meeting.  And yet, they threw themselves into my story lesson on characters.  Picking them out from books and then creating their own, they all stayed an extra half-hour to work despite noon and lunch being two hours past.

While I am here to improve the country's English skills, it's not a goal my personal thoughts have aligned with. Many people in Huruta will never see another foreigner, or if they do will never have a conversation beyond “Hi! What is your name?” There are more important things to teach them than the English language.

But apparently, I can do that through English.  I can inspire a desire to go above and beyond an assignment.  My club students are learning to enjoy lessons. They are also learning creativity and critical reasoning, something this country is solely lacking. These are cross-subject skills, what I have wanted to inspire in students for ages.  It's nice to see my frantic thoughts of trying to make things work here have benefits.

A Wedding in Amina

On Sunday, I went to a wedding and pulled a Sherlock. By which I mean I left early, not solved a murder.

It started like this. Dani and I were talking about weddings, because I've missed two since I've been here. And apparently, there was one Sunday for Tadeck's cousin. Did I want to go? It was close to the River Boru, so maybe a 30 minute walk.

What else was I going to do? Laundry? Psh.

But I quickly realized that 30 minutes was a underestimated guess. Try closer to 50.

And of course, we were the first ones there.

I don't mind weddings, I've been to a few already here in Ethiopia but they had all been during PST. Nothing in about two years. And all of those insentiences had been brief. Two hours, top. Here it was, noon, and Dani explained the day to me.

We were at the groom's house. A car was coming from Huruta, picking people up to come here, including the groom. Then, we would eat. After that, we'd all pile in the car and head to the bride's house for a second lunch. Then come back for dinner, music and dancing. Dani estimated that we'd be back at 7. That is, 7 international time, not 7 Ethiopian time (aka 1 in the afternoon) like I thought she meant back at the house.

Oh man.

At about one, the bus arrived and in came a flood of people. I'm not entirely sure who they all were. I gathered from the high class suits there were only two groomsmen (and no bridesmaids, they were at the bride's house). I figure some were family, some friends. It didn't matter much. They were all rhythmically clapping their hands, cheering for the groom, and bouncing on their toes as they did so.

We ate lunch, which was quite a spread, and I was beginning to get really uncomfortable. Sure, I had Dani and Tadeck to talk to, but I was surrounded by Amharic in a stuffy tent with a hundred people that kept staring at me. I'm considered a source of entertainment here. Oh my! Look! There's a foreigner here! You'd think I'd be used to it now, and while walking down the street I usually am. It's harder when you're in a crowd.

There's never any after meal conversation in Ethiopia. You eat, you go. Within 30 mins, everyone was finishing their meals and the groom was being escorted out of the compound with more clapping and a three toned honk from the bus waiting to take him to his bride.

Really? Isn't the bride just down the next street in this tiny village? Can't we just parade it?

Nope. I somehow found myself squished into a private car with Dani, one of Tadeck's brothers, a strange man and women, the driver (who actually lived in Addis and was rented for the day), and two random kids (which belonged to none of us). Apparently the bride didn't live in the village. Nor did she live in Huruta. She lived beyond it. And we were all going to get there thanks to two motorcycles, this private car, and a bus meant for 26 people.

Sorry, I love free food, but I can only take so much.

Dani supported my decision to get out of the car in Huruta. It was too hot for me, she could tell by the way I had guzzled qeneito (I think the most appropriate way to describe it would be barleyade). The only problem was, the caravan didn't go through Huruta. They went through the rural areas instead.

So I hopped out at the bridge just before the river, very grateful I had brought my umbrella to keep the sun off me, and watched the rest of the party go on. Dani later said she wished she got out with me.

I walked home, washed my feet, they were filthy, and then watched movies, crocheted some of my shawl, and wrote. Dani and Tadeck didn't come back till 8, well after dark, looking exhausted and a little peeved there hadn't been coffee. Still, the rest of the day had been nice, if nothing new, as faces changed at the different locations. The couple was happy, and now if I didn't mind, they were going straight to bed.

So I went to mail a letter

I recently went to the post office to mail a letter to my grandpa to find the tariff to send it (aka stamps) is up to 8.85. A week ago, it was 6.60. And when I came to country, it was 5.80.

Let's not talk about the tax I have to pay to get a package (went from 5 to 10 to 25).

It's not that these fees are crazy. Actually, yes they are. The price hike is huge. But I can afford it. I don't know what habasha in Huruta can. Two bir can buy a week of carrots. Or most of a pen for school. That's a bit more important than sending letters.

Not that letter writing is common here. Many people can't write at all. To the point that the post office is where you go to pick up your social security money, because it's the only government office with the empty course load that can serve a bunch of people once a month.

Anyway, it's been interesting, and slightly scary for the people I know, watching inflation rise here. Food is more expensive, as is school supplies, fridges, clothes, any sort of appliance, and I wouldn't be surprised if utilities – sparse as they can be – have risen too.

It's awoken a strange desire to study economic in me. But I also blame Sloan for that.

(The Newsroom awakes so many desires, period.)

But as I sit here, watching prices rise and see so many people already struggling, I can't help but wonder if maybe having PCVs in the Education system here isn't the best idea. It's not like my trainings are well attended. And my English club? Let's be honest, most of those kids will never have a need to speak English. But teaching people how to save money and budget, how to eliminate waste, employable skills like computer training or project design. Those are the things that will make a difference.

So, I'm proud to say I have a Women's Day Project in the works, pairing girls who failed the 10^th grade exam and are now essentially stuck in the house until they're married and then stuck in a different house, with successful women in Huruta to help them become self-sufficient. I'll let you know how it goes.