My Journey Out of Africa

One week from today I will be leaving Africa, if God wills it.

Saying goodbye to everything and everyone when I feel like I have just begun to get the hang of things is strange. Difficult to describe, this strangeness and paradox of emotions has been my norm. There has been this ironic tension of my emotional state here. A continual happiness to be here, readiness for the comforts of home and awareness of my inadequacies.

I think I will always associate Djibouti with irony, paradox and contrast. My internal tumultuous roller coaster is vividly complemented by the desert dry land contrasting the sunsets over the water; the colorful houses and clothes splashed against a rundown backdrop of dilapidated buildings and corrugated tin.

Comfort is my first thought about America. Plush over-sized armchairs, the aroma of Starbucks and the a/c come to the forefront of my memories of America, but Africa has shown me those things are dispensable. Comfort does not lead to growth. My continual longing for and awareness of the contrast of emotions has lead to growth. Hopefully growth that will last.

But more than general physical surroundings, relationships are where life is truly lived.
Friends will be missed. The gracious hospitality and acceptance they showed me is more than I could have ever asked for. I have been so beautifully blessed.

While I say good bye to these friends, I know I'm returning to a hopeful future with jobs to apply for, family to hug, and friends to reconnect with. Family....I can't wait to see my family.

Goodbye Sweet Sweaty Africa. Hello Again Dear America.

Laxoox on a Rainy Day

There was a thunderstorm last night. The air felt cool this morning. But it made the dirt roads became mud that was nearly impassable.

After carefully trekking around small puddles and large lakes (there was even a large hose pumping water out of an extremely flooded neighborhood), we spent the afternoon at our friend's house making laxoox (its similar to a large sour pancake) and watching various movies that we didn't finish.

Djiboutians eat laxoox everyday. It requires pre-making with intense mixing. When our neighbors make it at night it sounds like someone is beating a drum. Then the yeast is allowed to sour for at least 8 hours and it is cooked like a pancake on a flat grill pan (see the above photo of my lovely roommate)...minus the flipping. It is important that one side have "eyes" or bubbles.


Fun Fun.

Good Night Moon

It's too hot to sleep inside.

So we sleep on the roof.

It is beautiful and you can see the stars.

It requires setting up a tent every night.

I'm not much of a camper...but life in Djibouti has basically been an extended camping trip.
It has all the same amenities of a KOA, minus the paved bike trail, air-conditioned registration office, free swimming pool and miniature golf course.

Fresh Mint Ice Cream

So yesterday I infused condensed milk with fresh mint, which I then used to make homemade ice cream. It didn't taste anything like Breyer's white mint chocolate chip.

I'm telling you this because four unimportant things in my daily life combined for this result.

Firstly, I have been learning to cook in Africa. My teammate is a terrific cook, she can make broccoli cheddar soup from scratch and created a cookbook which is carried in bookstores around the world. This has led me to read far too many food blogs. And to various cooking failures including: a Thanksgiving apple tart that wouldn't come out of the pan, and my inability to re-heat anything without a microwave.

Secondly, I am loosing a battle with heat rash. I desperately want to eat ice cream. But ice cream can't be brought home from a store on a 30 minute bus ride without a/c when it is over 100.

Thirdly, my roommate and teammate found this herb garden! Fresh basil (which led to successful pesto), fresh mint and other unidentified herbs.

Fourthly, the president declared his inauguration day a national holiday. This meant no work, all errands must be postponed and the power will be on all day. After watching two movies, I decided I needed to do something else.

Thus, fresh mint ice cream.

Somali Proverbs

Proverbs share a lot about a culture, so here are a few local proverbs:

"He that is shy will never shine."

"A man who brags about himself is like a goat who suckled himself."

"The man who saw the camel in the sky, threw away the donkey in his yard."

"Your first lie kills your second truth."

"If a man doesn't work, he doesn't drink tea."

"When you come to a village where everyone is blind, pluck out your eye."

"Put your woman in the house or in the grave."

How You Doing?

So every American knows that the cheesiest pick up line is Joey's "How you doing", which actually meant something along the lines of "I'm hot, you're hot, let's get together".

It seems like the French equivalent (Ca Va?) is reduced to a similar form by various groups of people.

For example, beggar children will run down the street or sing together a little chorus of "Ca Va"s, but what they really mean is, "Give me money since you are white and rich".

Also, men will come up to any white woman who is in the market, quite similarly to Joey and say "Ca Va?". But instead of this meaning "let's get together because you're hot", it means "let's get together, because I need an American visa".

Each of these encounters leaves me feeling a variety of different ways. But in the end, I just want to throw a "How you doing?" back in their face.

Sambussa

The other day, my dear friend taught me how to make sambussa, a little fried meat pocket (doesn't that sound appetizing...meat pocket).

Her baby was crying and since I was only on meat-stirring duty, I got to hold all 20 pounds of the beautiful baby, while the fan was off because the fan blows the gas-lit flames away from the pan. So enough complaining.

Let me share my new found sambussa making knowledge.

First step: Mix the dough wrapping.

Second step: Cook the meat with A LOT of onions.

Third step: Roll out the dough into flat circles, toast it, then cut the circles into fourths.


Fourth step: Fold the fourths into small pockets, fill with dough and seal.

Fifth step: Fry, fry, fry.



And there it is a beautifully tasty, fat-filled snack.

My Telephone Booth

Have you ever wondered how Superman felt when we emerged from the telephone booth a "transformed" man. His clever disguise of glasses and business casual no longer covers his red, white and blue uniform that signals he must save another helpless human. Will anyone recognize him? Will they notice that he went in different than he came out?

I think I can empathize.

Teaching English classes at a hotel, presented the opportunity for me to swim in the pool for a workout, since I am already there and it is a Westernized place.

When I teach I cover from head to toe, which requires a remarkable amount of clothing (which I usually steal from my roommate) such as a skirt, under-skirt, shirt, under-shirt, head scarf, loose scarf and of course the normal undergarments. It would be difficult and impractical to swim with these clothes. So after class I walk to the pool deck and go behind the bar to the changing rooms. When I emerge from the changing room, I feel a little self-conscious and naked, so I quickly jump into the jelly bean shaped pool. And at the end of my swim the process repeats itself in reverse.

I enter the changing room a Western slut and exit an acculturated-Djiboutian teacher. My insecurity remains, and unfortunately unlike Superman, everyone knows. (Seriously, do you think that a 5 foot 10 inch white girl can hide under a few layers? Sometimes I wish real life allowed for the "suspension of reality" allowed in television.) The German men drinking beer and all the men at the post-election celebration are a little curious. But I am comforted by the sweet middle-aged man behind the bar who knows, but he seems to accept my strange Western tendencies toward swimsuits, and appreciates that I am trying to infiltrate his culture with my broken Somali and multiple layers, so he has taken to calling me "ma fille". "

"See you Saturday, my girl."

Will You Marry Me?

While I was waiting in line with a friend on Tuesday, a man with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and rotted teeth started chatting with me.

Our conversation went something like this:

"So where are you from? Italy?"

"No, I'm American."

"Oh! American! You dress like a Somali. Are you married?"

"No."

"Will you marry me? I'm chocolate. I have the best skin in the land."

To the Inventor of the Changing Table

So, I'm not a mother. And after today I may never be. (And if you, the reader, aren't, take caution as you precede...).

But...I have changed my fair share of diapers. Working in nursery's and baby sitting can be a delightful experience for a young girl like me, and significant diaper changing experience is usually gained. I've changed diapers with all colors of poop, on squirmy crying boys to sweet girls who actually sit still to little boys who decide they need to go again while you are taking off their diaper.

But never once did I think about the brilliance of the changing table, the wipes or the disposable diaper.

Today, I helped my local friend change her one year old's blow-out. In my mind this could have been quickly taken care of by one person and a changing table (especially since her baby is so well behaved and docile). But that was not the case.
We took her to the bathroom, I held the sweet baby in a standing position over a basin, she removed the diaper, then proceeded to wash her child with soap and water. Basically giving her a shower, all while I was bending over and sweating because the bathroom doesn't have a fan and it is 85 degrees and humid. Then it was necessary to relocate the baby so that she could be laid down and the new diaper put on. And the basin and the bathroom needed to be cleaned.

So...to the inventor of the changing table....you are my hero of today.

A Picture is Worth a Thousand

This morning on the bus, I was the only white person as normal and I was looking out the window watching the colorful tin houses (painted purple, blue, pink, yellow-basically any color that would be on an Easter egg or not on an American house).

When, I saw a little boy, maybe 5 or 6 sitting in the doorway of his house with his legs stretched out, and on his feet he had his father or brother's tennis shoes on the wrong feet. He seemed to be pondering life and what it would be like to fill up those shoes that were as long a his little legs.

At that moment, it would have been really great to have been a tourist with camera ready, but the bus moved on and my camera was still in my bag. However, the little boy who wants to grow up and fill his father's shoes was stuck in my mind...

Bad Timing

It can happen when you're in the shower...

It can happen when using the internet...

It can happen mid-sentence in a discussion about worldview...

Power cuts, to be more exact.

This "solution" to the lack of electricity, produces problems for businesses, universities and me.

It is not my favorite activity to be sopping wet and unable to see. (Thankfully I have a fab roommate who was thoughtful enough to bring me a flashlight).

It is not awesome to have an e-mail written, but before you hit send, the power goes out.

It is even less awesome to be be in the middle of a sentence defining "community assets" in a discussion about worldview. Already, teaching is a challenge for me. Teaching in the dark for twenty minutes was a whole new experience. No faces to see means no one to reprimand for talking, and no hands to call on. Which means free for all.

Despite my difficulties with power cuts, Djiboutians do get things done.

The students in this specific night class are lovely and dedicated. When given the option to leave due to the power outage they decided to stay. It is these students and others like them who succeed in Djibouti. Perseverance and flexibility are imperative for survival with a numerous amount of power cuts with bad timing (along with other inconveniences).

Pick your Poison

Every culture has "culturally acceptable" vices.

For Americans, binge drinking and massive coffee intake are probably at the top of the list.

For the French, smoking and mistresses in a back closet.

For Djiboutians, its khat and cha.

Khat is a narcotic similar to chewing tobacco. But in my personal opinion it takes gross to a whole new level, as the man chewing does not put a small wad in his lip, he puts a HUGE wad in his cheek. If you have ever sat next to a man dipping, you know that the spit is coming, so you anticipate the nastiness. But multiply that nastiness by a factor of 25. A khat chewing man does not require a small coke can, he requires the entire road to contain his spit (or rather to let it be free). Gross.

Here is a picture of one of the khat vendor:


Cha is simply the word for tea. I partake of this beverage each morning which includes black tea with a cup of sugar for 8 cups, milk for tea (aka condensed milk), and spices of your choice (cardamom, cloves, cinnamon or ginger). Quite tasty, however it will probably give you at the least a few extra pounds and at the worst cavities and diabetes. Yet, as with all "vices", I ignore the consequences and drink myself to sweet bliss.

Beware of White Folk

There is a general curiosity about how white people live. So our language helpers are seen as a bridge between two cultures, which causes their relatives to pelt them with questions about how white people live and work and eat and sleep. Our language helpers get a variety of humorous responses from relatives and friends when they tell people they are teaching Somali to a white person.

My teammate is Chinese American, so the city relatives of her language helper tell her to "be careful because she might know kung-fu".

But people from the bush (who don't have education or know anything except for camels and goats), believe even crazier things.

"If you don't preform FGM on your daughters they will grow a penis."

"To eat pasta is to eat hair."

"Going to the bathroom inside is terrifying and smelly."

"Don't be friends with white people, they might eat you and then your children." (not kidding, this was from the cousin of my roommate's language helper)

It would seem that education and interactions with different people really is beneficial, and reduces general feelings of fear.

"The Light of the University"

Tuesday night I (along with 500 other students and teachers) attended an impressive ceremony put on by the English Club.

My roommate and a group of students preserved through two months of difficulties, including the leader of the country canceling the event (not kidding), to bring two hours of English skits, poems and a great cultural clash between American and Djiboutian cultures.

Opened with an inspirational speech by the enthusiastic president of the club about how the English Club "would bring us all from the DARKNESS to the LIGHTNESS, THE BLACKNESS TO THE WHITENESS." And concluded with "modern" (ie...Beyonce) dancing, which involved two scantily clad young women and a crowd of drooling male students with video cameras. It was a pretty great show, despite my thorough confusion as to how the ending was acceptable in a culture where we cover from head to toe.

Lunch on the Town

My lovely roommate and I went out to get Ethiopian food for lunch. It was quite crowded. So the one server was rushing around talking in his four languages (Somali, French, English and Arabic). We were speaking to him in French and broken Somali and he would respond in broken English.

When I asked to take my food to go he said ok, then quickly went to another table. He then returns realizing that we are waiting for him, and he says,

"DOWN SISTER DOWN!"

What?!?! My roommate and I look at each other...does he mean "calm down"? I'm not yelling at him or jumping on him like a dog...

He then takes my plate from in front of me and rushes down the stairs...the register was downstairs! Of course! hahaha

But that was not the most hilarious climax of this outing.

He quickly bags up the food and we pay (at the bottom of the stairs). Then I walk out and give my bag of food to a beggar woman with a baby and children around her. When out of no where this old hunched over beggar women starts hitting the young beggar with her walking stick!! I look around to see if anyone else is seeing this or I am imagining it, and I make eye contact with a gold-toothed man who is laughing.

At a complete loss of what to do, I do the only thing that I can think of...
I run away. (followed by a trail of beggar children...)

In the Midst of Chaos

So, I have this running injury that is flaring up. Thinking it would be bad if I continue to let it get worse, I headed to the doctor. This might not have been the best use of my time.

After paying to see the doctor, I was sent to the waiting room across a dusty parking lot. The secretary in the waiting room seemed to be hiding, but after walking through a windy hallway, I found her. She then gave me a tongue depressor with the doctor's name and a number... depressingly number 28. Then an abrupt man in a Hawaiian print shirt rushes me to a locked room, quizzes me about my age in french and english and then he sends me to wait. Ironically, the doctors have not even arrived, so my number is even more depressing as they are on zero.

The waiting room is full of people who have broken limbs and who are talking in their normal Somali tone (which to most Americans is just above a yell). I sit down to read my book and a student from the university approaches me and asks if I am a friend of Hannah, his teacher. "Why yes, she is my roommate", I respond. He then precedes to sit next to me and tell me that Djiboutians want to marry American wives, so they can live in America.

The doctors finally arrive, all the people storm the doorway hoping to be picked next. Which is hilarious because they each have a number. They are yelling and pushing and there is even a police man there to keep the crowd under control.
It would seem that "patiently waiting one's turn" is not an ingrained cultural motto.

After waiting three hours, I get my turn. I push my way through the crowd that is still there (even though 28 people have already had their turn)and sit in front of a nice doctor. Who I see for five minutes and he sends me off to get an x-ray. I sit in a new waiting room with far less people and then wait for my x-ray.
By the time the x-ray is over, the doctor has already gone home. (I'm pretty sure if I was him I would have tried to escape all the yelling people, too).

So I leave, less 9,000 franc and four hours of my life, without a diagnosis, with two x-rays in hand and the hope to return in a week when the doctor comes back. Needless to say I was a little dejected and all I wanted was to sleep or buy some ear muffs.

Bad Grades? No Problem. Go on Strike.

The students grades from last semester were posted for each department at different times over the last two weeks.

When the students from the Law departments received their grades, a very small portion of them passed. So they went on strike!

Not being at the university when this happened makes it more exciting because Djiboutians are great at spreading information quickly. So the story is all around town and people who have no university involvement are discussing it.

Apparently, somewhere between 180 and 200 students took the exams and between two and ten passed (the numbers are always different). So they either got the high school students to join them in throwing rocks at the university or the high school students joined a peaceful gathering incited rock throwing.

One would think, that a protest over grades would simply be ignored, but students from the other departments stayed away from the university for a few days, with an excuse to skip class.

And the grades are actually being changed of the protesting students!

There was also a rumor that the students knocked out the president of the university, but there is little evidence to verify this fact.

Who Decided?

This country might seem dirty to an American tourist, simply because it is quite dusty and there are quite a few bugs.

However, the people here are extremely clean. They (with the help of a house worker) clean and dust their homes everyday. They wash all their clothes by hand once a week (which can take more than half a day. They wash before they pray (which is five times a day), sometimes they shower and change their clothes three times a day.

A friend noticed that my American roommate and I do not clean the house quite that often. We are organized and clean, but we don't mind a days worth of dust. And we do not feel the need to deep clean the curtains once a month.

She commented on this by saying that her mother instilled in her the ethic that "simply because one is poor, does not mean that one should be messy". She takes pride in caring for her home and guests. With hurt in her eyes, she then said, "We are not 'first world', but we are cleaner than you." What I heard her saying, was "who decided that you are better and can change the rest of the world, just because you where born in a different place with a lot of stuff that you don't take care of."

So...who decided? I think we Americans (at least myself) have a lot to learn from the rest of the world.

You want your package?

Went to the post office yesterday because my wonderful friend sent me a package. I get there and go to the office for packages, but I went to the office for big packages, when I needed the office for little packages. While I was in the big package office, the post man (who I got a package from the the week before and we chatted about my job as a university professor) asked me if I knew a this university professor named Dan. I said yes, we work together. He tells me that Dan's package is being eaten by rats and has been there a long time, so he tells me to take it to Dan. No problem. I get it and head out to find the office for small packages.

After walking in circles for 10 minutes because I received extremely vague directions about the location of the secret window inside the p.o. box room which holds the room of small packages, I finally get to talk to the right guy.

I hand him the note with my name on it that says I have a package. He chats with me in Somali, asks to shake my hand (which is extremely strange for a Somali man), asks me if I'm married, and he chats with me about my boss who he knows.

Then he asks for my id. Which I didn't bring. So I tell him this and then he refuses to give me my package!!!!

So the post office gave me a package that didn't belong to me, that I didn't have a paper for, but it didn't give me MY package, which I had a paper for!

Frustrating. It is always an adventure in Djibouti.

(I successfully got my packages this morning with my id, thanks dear friends!)

Who waits for the cops?

On my usual bus, when it stops to let off some passengers. The man who collects the money and hangs off the side of the door is helping the people who are getting out, when a police officer comes to the driver's window and talks to him. The officer makes him back up to where his bike is a few meters behind. The officer walks from the driver side to the right side of the bus where his bike is located, he appears to be about to give the driver a ticket or something.

When all of a sudden the driver just hits the gas!

He leaves the police officer in the dust! Everyone on the bus is screaming...not because we left the police man (which if I could have communicated that I would have), but because the driver abandoned his money man. The money man is a very important factor in the bus experience as his yelling and money clanking keep it loud. The money man is frantically chasing the bus, he finally catches up and the driver takes off again.

My lack of communication skills probably made this far more entertaining and unbelievable. However, I'm not sure if I had understood what everyone was saying my Western-"obey-the-law" mentality would have allowed me to condone driving away from the police (who never did make any pursuit as far as I could tell).

Every Culture has a Remedy

I have been sick the past two days with a fever and some stomach issues. All I wanted to do yesterday was lay in bed and sleep. Which all my American roommates were happy to let me do, because its normal to want to be alone when you are a sick American.

But in a culture where families have multiple wives, ten to twelve kids is normal and everyone lives in a three room home until they are married (even if they are 40), loneliness is one of their greatest fears. It is a neighborhood duty to visit a sick friend and keep them company.

So yesterday, when I was sleeping and my fever was breaking, our house helper comes in a wakes me up and is trying to touch me. The last thing I want when waking up from a nap is to have someone try to touch me and speak to me in a language I know maybe 20 words in. She went away for a little bit so she could make me various cocktails for healing (a cold drink of lemon and garlic and a whole thermos of hot watered down orange juice), but then her cousin who came to visit her at work took it upon herself to keep me company. She sat with me and talked at me for a while, before commanding my roommate to sit with me before I got any worse.

Our house helper left me in her cousin's care, while she went to our neighbor to get me some entertainment. She comes back with our neighbor's wedding slide show and they all sit together while we watch it. This was not what I thought I needed. But they were convinced that if I was alone I would get worse and laughing was the best medicine (along with my thermos).

At least I know they love me.

White-Out Frenzy

The exam system created by the French is quite complicated. Two to three professors are sent with a heaping pile of papers (an attendance sheet, giant essay sheets, scratch sheets of multiple colors, forms if cheating happens, forms for absences...) to give each exam.

Most of the exams are in essay or long answer form. The students really like to make their exams beautiful, even if they have no knowledge because they didn't study.

This test beautification involves multiple color pens, highlighters and the BLANC-O (or white-out)! It seems to be a universal frenzy for these students to use white-out...but they are not Americans who all bring their own white-out. They are Djiboutians who share the white-out. So, one to five students will bring the blanc-o and as the test nears the end, the students will all throw the blanc-o around the room.

It is like this crazy testing security blanket. Maybe it makes them feel like they can work together and preserve group identity or maybe they feel the need to cover their mistakes or shame with white (which looks no better than a simple line through a word) like Adam and Eve with their leaves. Whatever the reason it is quite hilarious.

Happy New Year! Let the inconveniences begin

So New Year's isn't a big deal here. There are some Arabic tv specials and fireworks in the foreigner's housing areas, but other that and than telling everyone Happy New Year, it is pretty much a normal day.

For our house of four girls, the year started off with a splash (quite literally), despite the lack of festivities.

The day before New Year's Eve our lock broke on our front door (don't worry we are still safe because we have an outside door too). Then a repairman came to fix our leaking sink but he took five hours and didn't do it quite right.

But the most exciting part was our water pump breaking at 4 in the morning.

The city water only runs from 3am to 7am each morning. We open up a tank on our roof and it fills during this time. This is also when we have to do laundry. I got up to do laundry at 3, when I hear a strange sound from our water pump and then the deluge begins. I woke up all the roommates, we couldn't make the flooding stop, so we woke up our neighbors who have the controls. Thankfully it mostly stopped and we don't have carpet. So my brilliant roommate started to shovel the water into buckets. Nothing like a good flood in the morning to get the day started off right.

Thankfully after two nights of floods it is finally fixed.