Gindo Town, Ethiopia, October 26-29

Waliso

We pulled into the narrow back alley behind the Waliso Hotel. From our vantage point, we could see straight into the homes of the locals, who were sitting on the floor, eating injera and w'et.  This hotel was new, by Ethiopian standards, only built a couple of years ago. We clambered off the bus to the familiar chant, "Ferenge, ferenge, ferenge."

When we entered our room, a beetle crawled across the floor in a manner of greeting. I stepped forward without hesitation, responding to his unwelcome greeting with the bottom of my runner. Beetles are normal at this time of year, we were told, because the rainy season has just ended. Lucky for us, I thought, that we weren't visiting during the rainy season! The sun was already setting, and the room was cast in a gloomy green glow. 

The west end of the room had a smell not un-like an outhouse; a door was propped open that led to the bathroom. As the door swung in, I could see the toilet, with no seat or lid, and a drain in the floor.  There was a shower head poking through the reconstructed, mudded and seeping wall. The ceiling over the closet was not finished, and was open to the rafters. Later, we would hear the scurrying sound of... what??

By 8 pm, Lauren had broken out in a rash. By midnight, Ward was visiting the seat-less toilet with increased frequency. 

Gindo Town

Gindo is a rural area of Ethiopia that is gravely affected by lack of water, food, and education, and has a high incidence of disease, such as malaria, tuberculosis, and HIV/AIDS. One could say that they were desperate for a leg up. In May of 2012, six middle-aged, energetic, compassionate individuals began a bike ride across Canada, in a ride called, "Chain Reaction". Along their way, they raised awareness for Canadian Humanitarian, and raised the funds to build an education centre in Gindo. The inspiration for the "Chain Reaction" ride came from Vern Hyde. Vern is volunteering on this expedition, along with us. He was about to see the centre that he and his wife and friends had ridden uncountable miles for. He was steeped with emotion.

The fifty children that are part of the CH program here, were quietly waiting for us to come off the bus and into the gate. We arrived sporting Ray Ban's, Maui Jim's, Nike, Merrel, and Columbia. They sat with missing buttons, tangled hair, white shirts dusted with red earth, plastic shoes, and an odour that could curl the fine hairs of one's nostrils. There was an air of excitement at the Gindo Education Centre as preparations were being made for the official opening ceremony. Indeed, yesterday there was a noisy, rust colored ox tied to the fence; today, not even the rope remained. Instead, there were mounds of cut up meat as the women worked to prepare a celebration meal, in our honour. 

Along with us, the guardians were gracefully flowing in. When they reached forward to shake our hands, they did so with one arm supporting the other at the wrist, and their heads bowed ever-so-slightly. We each marveled at the other. After the ribbon-cutting was complete, we filled the hall to capacity. The program was lengthy as voices in English and Amharic told of the many strengths of the program, as well as the journey to this day, which began over three years ago. We were then entertained by loud, pulsating music together with body gyrating dancing. One could not help but notice the flies that danced and dipped to a rhythm all their own. Much later, I would come to realize that there were also invisible dancers; fleas were jumping from body to body, enjoying the diverse dining.

Faven and Lauren with the child we sponsor - Mebret.

A guardian of the program- a proud grandma.

Gindo is like no other place I have been. The community has an edge to it that I cannot find the words to articulate. The children who live there, particularly those who are not in the CH program are aggressive, rude and misbehaved. I suspect that there is conflict within the community, and I also saw that the children were somewhat desperate - for what? - the abundance symbolized by the white person. They pawed and groped at us, as one who is jailed might reach forward to touch a passerby. They tried valiantly to relieve us of our watches, bracelets and rings; they pinched us on one side, while on the other, a small hand slipped into our pockets; they formed a human wall as we tried to enter our bus and grabbed what they could as we passed through, and in the end, when they were not rewarded, they spit at the backs of our feet. 

Desperation.

On our third day at Gindo, I could not stop the sobs that wracked through my body and choked my words. It was to be a fun day for the children (and us). It was hot, and the air was still. The clouds were aloof - allowing the sun to shine all day. An "incredible race" was prepared (a relay race, with alternating exercises  and running). We all moved to the large field adjacent to the Centre. Lauren and I were to "captain" a team, (one of six), which essentially meant that we were to keep them behind a marked line, and keep them in order within our team. Sounded easy.

As the race progressed and the children all realized that this was a race, the tactics started to change. Small kids were pushed to the back and not allowed to run. Girls were pushed out of the way when their turn came up, and the boys would go instead. After the first round, we paused and tried to remind the children of the rules. However, on my team, things got out of control. I had no authority over these kids, and therefore nothing that Lauren and I tried would make them follow the rules. Girls were being pushed, shoved, hidden and thrown out. It was horrifying. The thing that 'did me in' was when we paused to give the kids a water break. There were six teams of either 7 or 8 kids. There was one white man with water. Chaos ensued. 

They were sent back to their team line-ups and told to wait their turn. However, the kids were line jumping and trying to steal another child's turn. A boy on my team that had been physically aggressive throughout the competition, grabbed a small girl (also on my team), and put her into a head lock and began to hit her, on the top of the head, so that she would step out of line, and allow him to have her water. No one helped me to control this behavior - and we were told ahead of the expedition, that we were not to discipline the kids. I felt helpless. Of course, I yelled at him - and he finally stopped.

We started the last round of the race - and I was physically shaking. Lauren was also quite upset. Our team was unruly and impossible to manage! At the end, I tried to tell the facilitators what had happened - and they were not initially supportive. Ethiopians want competition they told me.. there was no other way.

I was exasperated and upset. I went over and grabbed Ward's hand and pulled him away from the crowd just as the sobs ricocheted out of my body. I was - perhaps - more emotional than I needed to be, it had been a tough three days on many fronts. My outpouring drew a small group of bystanders from the program. Kids stared at me, as if they had never seen a white person cry before. Perhaps they hadn't - as there is a lot of forced smiles and joy-spreading on these expeditions. After many minutes of crying, I felt a tug on my leg. I looked down. Standing at my side, with tears pooling in her eyes was Mebret. Mebret is six-years-old; she is the child that we sponsor in this program. We had met her two days before. I wiped my eyes, and reached my hand out to this pitiful sprite of a girl. She took my hand and smiled. I smiled. We walked around the building, Ward holding one hand, Mebret holding the other - and it was perhaps one of the sweetest moments of my life.

(This was not the experience of every volunteer on that day. All 25 of us were involved in the race, and many had the time of their lives.)

I am not sure what we are doing here. It is hard. It can be sweet. There is so much that I don't understand. We cannot help every child who suffers in Ethiopia--but maybe we can help one.

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia, Oct. 25

It is Friday morning here in Ethiopia. We started our Canadian Humanitarian (CH) orientation on Wednesday, and were out at our first projects yesterday. It was such an amazing day - there aren't really words to describe it. All five of us were on different sites, doing different projects. Ward was doing medicals while I was doing a sewing project with two other women. 

Lauren went with the Self-Esteem team, and led her own group of 7 and 8 year olds, with a translator. She read a book with them (english - amharic), she did some art work and made brochures with them about what they liked about themselves, and then what they liked about each other. (Phenomenal - she was so pumped when we met up with her later at the Guest House, which was cloaked in darkness, as the power had gone out).

Yohannes went with the Infection Disease team and did some games and teaching around disease prevention. He also had a lot of fun - and was a great addition to the team. Not surprisingly, he is taking everything in stride! 

Faven went to help with doing intake for all the kindergarten-aged kids that needed medicals. She partnered with a man named Vern (who says that his passion is children - he has six children and six grandchildren). Faven and Vern had to take a photo of each child, and do the height and weight. All of the kids loved her, and apparently were 'chanting' her name, and hanging at the windows to get a glimpse of her. She was so happy when she returned! Her stress level has gone down significantly since the CH group arrived, and we do not have to talk about, or deal with her 'story' and her birth family. She is still having a difficult time with all of the poverty, and the extremely different way that people live here. In many ways, it is as if she has never been here before. 

Today we leave for Gindo Town, which is about three hours southeast of Addis. We will be out there until Monday night. We will be running programs out there - Medical, Infectious Disease, Sewing, Self Esteem, Drip Irrigation and the "Incredible Race". Also, there will be an official opening ceremony for the Gindo Centre - so we will be celebrating with them - and eating, singing and dancing! We will be busy.

Our first couple of days with the group of 27, have been such a blessing...... I cannot believe that we have been given this opportunity, amongst a very interactive and caring group of volunteers, to provide this 'kind of' volunteer (on the ground) work to our kids. They are truly blossoming, in ways that I could not have even imagined. Though we have only been with the larger group since Wednesday morning, the whole group is enamored with them (which certainly makes us proud) - and moreover, the responsibility for them has really been undertaken by many members of the group.

Yesterday, right in the midst of our volunteer work, Ward and I were separately interviewed by Rick Castiliogne (there is a documentary being made while we are here). He wired me with a microphone, the camera man pointed his camera and lights, and they told me to continue interacting with the kids, AND answer the questions that they asked without really looking at the camera. I was at a table covered with sewing materials, I had (at least) four girls working with me at that table, very excited to show me their stitches, and right behind me, someone was making animal balloons for the boys (who were not sewing) - and there was LOTS of loud shrieking and the sound of many popping balloons. To say that I found it difficult to focus, gather my thoughts and make coherent sentences - is an understatement! However, Rick reported later that both interviews (mine and Ward's) were "gold", especially Wendy, he said, who almost made me cry with her responses that were right from the heart. Rick ended my interview by saying, "I think the saying on your shirt really sums up what you are trying to do." I said, "Yes--Be The Change!" (It was a shirt that I got at We Day last October - almost a year ago to the day!)

We remain healthy, and lucky for us - we are not dealing with jet lag, as many of our fellow volunteers are. There is not a single day that I am not moved to tears by the sights, the people, and the stories. For example, at orientation, one of the social workers told the story of a girl in the projects who lost both parents when she was three; she witnessed their dying and remained with them until found later by her aunt. That girl is now thirteen - and through rigorous work with the social work team, she has found her voice (she would not speak for years after the incident). We heard another story today about a boy named Teddy. His mother died when he was six, and his father abandoned him. He lived on the street, making a life for himself by shining shoes, being a parking attendant, and then organizing construction work (as a kind of contractor) until he was "found" by CH, and taken into one of the projects. He is now 17 - and claims that he would like to be the leader of the country one day. When asked how he has remained so positive over these very difficult years, he responded by saying that it is simply his nature - "I could be happy or sad - but it wouldn't change my situation, so I may as well be happy." 

Each day our facilitator - Deborah Northcott - starts our day with a saying. This morning, the quote was this:

Things turn out best for the people who make the best out of the way things turn out.

Harar, Ethiopia, October 21, 2013

On my fifth day in Ethiopia, as we descended into the Rift Valley, I was (at last) content to be here. The lush green valley, speckled with banana, mango and papaya trees as well as maize and sorghum plants, gave me the impression of life well-lived. Indeed, this was a prosperous part of eastern Ethiopia--hosting the largest market in East Africa. 

The single lane highway was paved and precisely marked. The houses, set in small groups, were made of brightly painted concrete, red brick, mortar and stone, or eucalyptus framing with animal-dung "stucco". The laundry hung in ordinary lines, to dry. The roadside, and at times the road, was occupied by donkeys, goats, camels and cows, as well as the child-sized herdsmen that followed them with a stick. The brightly-clad women brought joy to the eye and the heart, even as they balanced impossibly large loads on their heads. 

We have spent four days in Dire Dawa and Harar visiting the family of Faven and Yohannes.  Our time with them has been a blessed gift - and a crucial time of healing (most apparently for the family here, who had to make the painful decision to place their beloved "children" in an orphanage--unsure if they would ever see them again). It has been an emotional journey. We have encountered the unexpected: one brother is currently in jail, and the other two siblings cannot find work and have sold everything in order to survive. Their life is very hard, and they live away from their extended family. It is a heartbreaking truth that so many people face here, and it is hard for our kids to understand the layers of complexity in their circumstances. For instance, Faven would like us to simply give them money. It is not so simple. With limited time here, we feel a certain helplessness to create a positive influence on their lives. Nonetheless, we will search for some way of helping. We have encountered joy, as our children have been reunited with their siblings, grandmother, aunts, uncles and cousins- as well as a whole community of neighbors who knew them as babies. We have encountered truth, in the telling of the love story that was the beginnings of Faven and Yohannes' life here. We have encountered sadness at the recounting of the many losses.

Their family is large, and each day we are meeting more relatives--and the joy that they are experiencing in the presence of our family is both humbling and consuming. Aunt Mali places both of her hands on our cheeks repeatedly and says, "I like you. I love you". Her smile and her tears - both infectious. (She is in the background of the picture above of Yohannes and his grama.)

Our trip culminated in a family feast at the home of Bekela Aliyu - maternal grandmother. We gathered on the floor of her two-room mud hut, on thickly decorative carpets. Already set on the floor was injera, rice, salad, spicy meat, spicy lentils and potato chips! They served us tall bottles of cold pop. Women kept entering with more and more dishes of food, and placing them on the floor in front of us. The men and children were served first (with the exception of me); the women ate later. Once the children had finished eating, they went out into the courtyard and played with a ball that we had brought with us. In the courtyard with the kids were two goats, a chicken, a dog and a cat. 

We enjoyed a lazy afternoon visiting, drinking freshly roasted and hand-ground coffee, while many of our hosts chewed chat (an addictive, mind-numbing leaf that is prolific in this area). 

It was truly amazing!

Yohannes with his cousin Abee

Aunt Mali

Buziyay, Yohannes, Lauren, Faven, Dagim

Saying goodbye was hard. Watching the family members hug and kiss and squeeze all of our kids was tearful...and warmly satisfying. Our kids have roots here in Ethiopia; this is their beginning. When we came here in 2009, we closed a circle by letting the family know what had happened to their much-loved children; but this time, in the words of Aunt Mali, "Seeing you here is a new beginning". 

Finely Aged Whine

I didn’t think that it would ever hit me! I don’t know how the years crept up on me and then, like Jell-O in a catapult, hit me square in the face and oozed downwards. I look around, and everyone else pretty much looks the same. How could I alone be suffering this indignation? Could it be hereditary?

One day this spring, I put my underwear on, only to find out that the crack of my butt had literally dropped a few inches. My underwear, when viewed from behind (in one of those 3-way mirrors – yes, I have one) hung off of my cheeks as if it were grasping onto the edge of a cliff. My crack was revealed above the elastic band. I pulled it up, and it sagged down; I pulled it up again, and it sagged again. It seemed that the gravitational forces had increased overnight. Either that, or my clothes dryer was running hot, and shrinking my finery.

Gravity is exerting its’ force all over my body. These days, when I strike the pose of downward dog, the skin above my knees wrinkles, sags and dimples like a newborn bum. Now I understand why women wear those really expensive yoga pants! I thought it was a fashion thing—but now I realize it is to hold everything tightly in place giving the illusion of fit and formed. (Why do you think Yogis have to breathe so slowly? And move as if they are in slow motion? It is because their undergarments and yoga clothes are so tight!)

Another area that gravity has remodeled is my bosom. We must, we must, we must increase our bust—the bigger the better, the tighter the sweater, the boys depend on us! What once rose firm and proud below my collarbones now hang lumpy, and stretched somewhere near my lower ribs. When I lie down, they fall right off my chest, landing softly in my armpit. When my kids were a bit younger, this provided many giggles. Settled into bed in our pajamas, they poked my flattened chest, like it was a xylophone and they were the percussionists. Then they gathered my drooping breasts into their scrubby little hands and pushed them back into position. They held them there fleetingly, and then pulled their hands away as if they were performing a magic trick. As my breasts slid over the edge of my ribcage, my kids shrieked with laughter. All fun and games in our house!

It doesn’t end there. Recently while out shopping, I saw a small package with a big promise. “Miracle Bra” it read. I had seen advertisements for this bra, and since gravity seemed to be dragging me down – I bought one and dashed home to try it on. Well, miracle indeed; it was a complete geographical makeover! My breasts, which used to hover over the western coast of South America and the eastern coast of Africa, were pulled and squeezed so that they landed tightly on The Bahamas and Morocco. (Look it up—I know you want to.)

It turns out that there is a whole line of gravity-defying undergarments. I was familiar with bikini panties, hip-huggers, boy briefs, boxer shorts, and underwire and sports bras; who knew that there was a whole line of “shape-shifters—to sculpt your curves and smooth your trouble spots” (Norstrom.com). There are bras, panties, bodysuits, camisoles and leggings to tone hips and thighs, backsides, midsections and of course, the ever-troublesome breasts. I bought a couple of articles and felt a guilty, sinful pleasure when I slipped them underneath my clothes. A lithe woman was reflected back from the mirror. But, I also felt a bit uncomfortable, like I was somehow cheating, (not to mention the difficulty I was having with simple acts, like breathing!)

Some places sag, others bulge. This year, a disc in my lower back bulged out of the space that it had happily occupied for many years. It was such an arduous injury; I don’t want to bore you with the details. Let me just say this—those were the heaviest shoes I have EVER bent over to pick up! My recovery has been slow and incomplete. I was stubbornly determined to return to the soccer field during the outdoor season. I had a fantastic physiotherapist, and together we started to re-build, layer by layer (month after agonizing month).

I did return to the field, stronger in many ways, but not as limber and fluid as I had once been. And I didn’t have a day without pain for several months. I was getting ready for soccer practice one evening this summer and my back and bum muscles were in complete spasm. I was unable to put on my ankle braces, shin pads, socks and cleats. I sat at the kitchen table and cried. My husband came over to me, and gently put my soccer gear on for me. As I got up to go to practice, he softly suggested, “Honey, maybe when you can no longer dress yourself for soccer, you shouldn’t go”. What does he know?

A month later, I came to the same conclusion, and hung up my cleats—from my rearview mirror.

Just days ago, I picked up my 11-year-old daughter from gymnastics. After training, they had to be fitted for their gym suits, so all of the girls were sitting on the beam, and all of the parents were gathered nearby. Laurèn’s friend Julienne looked over towards me with a look of shock on her face and yelled, “YOU”RE FOURTY-SEVEN?!” I looked left; I looked right; I brought my hand to my chest in the universal Me? gesture. “FOURTY-SEVEN!” she yelled again, just in case some of the latecomers hadn’t heard. I nodded, “Yup, fourty-seven”. I had always imagined being center-stage, in a “Sonny & Cher” kind of way, not with giggling children and awkward adults.

Aging—an ever-present train with no brakes. I am swiftly chugging towards fourty-eight; and by swiftly, I mean at a pace somewhere between the fastest human (9.58 seconds/100 m) and the slowest human (standing still). There are days when I can’t seem to put my underwear on, and other days when the possibilities are infinite. So if you think I look good “for my age”, now you know my secrets.

Life

Life is more than the moment and less than the view. It is more mystery than drama. What we don't know can bend us toward insanity. And what we do know is only a thought.

A wing and a prayer

It was a tough evening. I have been slowly recovering from an injury to my lower back, and sitting and driving continue to be uncomfortable (at best). Our kids were in activities at opposite ends of the city, and my husband was out of town, so I spent over two hours simply driving: back and forth, back and forth. When we arrived home, I was in agony, and headed straight for my anti-gravity lawn chair as if pulled by a magnetic force. I sunk back and sighed.

The evening was nice, so despite the late hour, I let the kids play outside. As I gazed out the picture window at the front of our house, I saw our three kids and the neighbor’s three kids gathered in a closed circle, staring down intently at the ground. I watched. Suddenly Yohannes came sprinting back to the house, and flew through the front door. He told me that a baby bird had fallen out of its nest.

"Oh, sometimes that happens", I absently acknowledged. He left.

The neighbor’s kids went inside, leaving my kids in charge of the casualty. I still hadn’t actually seen the bird and assumed that it was a baby that had simply hopped out of the nest, almost ready to fly. I had seen it many times before. A speckled baby, almost full grown, hopping across the grass, enjoying its new found freedom, with a protective mother or father swooping overhead or perching nearby.

However, when I saw Faven gingerly carrying a plastic bag over to our front deck, I saw a small—seemingly lifeless—“being” cradled in the middle. All three of our kids gathered around; Faven was crying and stroking the little bird, Laurèn was pacing and plotting, and Yohannes was whittling a stick with a pocketknife. When I heard Laurèn say, "I am going to gather some worms, you keep it warm", I reluctantly climbed out of my resting place and went outside. All three kids looked up at me, expectantly.

“Guys…… come on, I want you to come in the house; it's time to get ready for bed” I said, unmoved and (even) irritated.

“What!” said Faven, “We can't leave it.”

“We have to, there's nothing we can do,” I replied.

“Please Mom, we have to help it,” Laurèn said, while tugging gently on my arm.

I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words, “Guys” I started, “Sometimes nature is just hard. I’m sorry that the little bird fell out of the tree. But, I don’t think there is anything that we can do, it’s simply too small.”

Faven’s eyes were misty as she trapped my gaze, “He didn't fall out of the tree. His mom pushed him out. We have to help him.”

“Well” I faltered, “sometimes the mom does that. But, we can’t look after a baby bird.”

“Please Mom,” begged Laurèn, “we have to give it a try”.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“I can get some worms and feed him,” she said.

“Oh” I mocked, “You are going to chew up the worms, swallow them, and then spit them up into the baby birds’ beak?” Her expression and withdrawal told me that I had gone too far.

“I don’t know what we can do to help,” I admitted. (Silently, I thought: It’s just one bird).

Laurèn rested her head against my shoulder looking up at me, while Faven pleaded, “He's so cute mom… please.”

I gazed at him lying awkwardly on the hard wooden deck with the thin plastic “bed” crumpled beneath him, his head angled upwards, his body resembled an over-sized scrotum—less the feathers. Cute? I thought not.

Laurèn continued, “Mom, we have to. Give me your phone; I will look up wildlife rescue. We have to try Mom”.

Yohannes whittled, and looked up at me with raised eyebrows as if to say, I think they have a point.

“Okay” I ruefully responded, “We’ll figure it out”.

Yohannes quietly said, “Thanks Mom”.

After about twenty minutes on the phone, with three different people, I finally got some information from the Calgary Wildlife Rehabilitation Society (CWRS).  The woman who answered the phone at CWRS asked me some questions about the bird: Is it hopping around? No, it’s lying on its side with its eyes closed. Does it have feathers? Well, it is mostly just fuzzy, but there are some things that resemble feathers on its wings. Is it moving? Yes, it’s breathing and occasionally moving.

She advised me to take it to the nearest Veterinary Hospital, and gave me the address. I walked into the house, and away from the kids and asked her, “Will they take the baby bird no matter what, because my kids are pretty distressed, and I don’t want to bring it home with me again?” She calmly told me that they would definitely take it, and try and keep it warm until the CWRS could come and pick it up in the morning. The way she said it made me (all of a sudden) believe that rescuing baby birds was a normal thing to do.

The kids packed up the bird and we headed off to the Calgary North Veterinary Hospital. Faven held the box on her lap, and Laurèn asked her every two minutes how the baby (who they named "Beak") was doing.  Reality TV really doesn't get any better than this.

We arrived in the deserted parking lot of the hospital - and headed in.  Yohannes was still carrying the stick and the pocketknife.  Laurèn now had the box. I sheepishly told the admission staff that the kids found a baby bird in our front yard. I still expected someone to say, “So what!” But, instead, they treated that baby bird as if it was a treasure. While I did the "admission" paperwork for Beak, the triage staff called on the overhead, "Steve, wildlife admission at the front." The kids were elated.  I was stunned – wildlife?? Steve came out, and looked into our box and said, "Wow, this one has feathers, he is a lot older than all the other ones that have come in. He's cute." (Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I guess). Steve thanked the kids directly, and just like that Beak was out of our care.

The kids were so excited by the turn-of-events that they chattered and chirped like a flock of birds, all the way home. We got home just before 10:00 pm, and I tried to will them to settle down and go to bed. Eventually, they did. However, even after they were settled, I couldn’t stop thinking about the helpless bird. Why had it fallen into our care? Didn’t I have enough to look after—teaching my own “fallen” birds to stand on their own, and one day fly?

I felt a cold, detachment to this living creature that my children had immediately embraced. Initially, I was “put-out” by the fact that something was required of me. I was not grateful for this opportunity; I simply felt bone-tired. And then, when it felt like the kids and I were at an impasse, I had the briefest moment of clarity. Parenting is unpredictable and inconvenient at its best. Because of unexpected events, our heads are turned in a different direction, and our minds are opened to something otherwise hidden. The life or death of the baby bird was inconsequential to the experience—this was about supporting my children as they faced life. So, I turned towards them and their charge, and found the foot steps right alongside of them. I know that they were changed because of it, and (perhaps) so was I.