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.