freedom hangs like heaven.

I finally read The Poisonwood Bible, and although Kingsolver is much
too flowery a writer for my taste, I still couldn't put it down.
Perhaps because I'm here, but it turned out to be one of those books
that will probably forever stay with me. Part of me wishes the
preacher had tripped coming off the plane and sustained a brain injury
that would leave him forever mute, but I'm sure anyone else who's read
the book could have predicted I'd react in that way. There are
passages throughout the novel that I felt like were stolen from my own
thoughts. About trying to make sense of your own culture, lifestyle,
and beliefs in a world where they're frankly absurd. The daughters'
reactions to the lives and behaviors of the villagers. Reconciling
yourself to the reality that you must live under every assumption
based on everyone who's ever looked like you while knowing full well
you'll be lambasted for venturing any assumptions of your own. The
child-like fascination with the local food, dress, culture, lifestyle
- everything. The odd things you find yourself missing from home.
Your tiniest, most mundane action being fascinating, every single day
for months on end. Feeling like a regular in an establishment to
which you've never actually been. The notion that no amount of time
or language ability is enough to allow a white person to truly fit in
and be accepted. It's comforting to know that you're never the only
one.

As I come down to my final weeks here, I'm starting to think about
what Ethiopia will mean to me - how do I take this experience home
with me? How have I changed? The five-person narrator style of the
book did a lot to set me reflecting on how people allow Africa to
affect them. (This will be one of the few times I willingly refer to
"Africa" in the broad sense - culturally, each country is drastically
different, but the overall effect on Western mores is similar, and
that's the only context in which I'll ever use the term). Some people
end up feeling forever guilty for the privilege in which they were
raised - I don't want to be that girl. There are aspects of America
that I'm sure I'll find overwhelmingly gluttonous - we probably don't
need twenty varieties of canned soup, but all I can see is the other
side of that equation. With rampant consumerism comes choice, and the
belief that all of those choices are equally (or at least marginally)
valid. I'd rather have twenty soups I don't have to eat than have to
justify my job, love life, children or lack thereof, eating habits,
what I do or don't do on Sunday mornings, or anything else to anyone
else. I now appreciate those choices more than I ever would have if
I'd never lived without them. I'll probably also forever appreciate
the tiny details of my privileged life that I've historically taken
for granted - running water, electricity, parents who allow me to live
my own life, friends who appreciate that I form my own opinions, a
government that allows me to publicly disagree with it. I'd like to
fall somewhere in the middle, not renouncing my own background to
become "African," but not also writing off the entire experience as a
closed chapter in my life, never to be revisited.

Less than four weeks left. I just can't believe it's been this long
already and I don't even know how I feel about leaving. There are
reasons here for which I'd stay, not forever but for a time. But
there are also reasons at home for which I'd leave tomorrow. People
join the Peace Corps to "find themselves," but after life here,
everything seems feasible, so how do I weigh those reasons and figure
out how I'll carry Ethiopia with my for the rest of my life?

photos finally posted.

The links in the last post should actually work now - I finally
finished posting photos from the trip. Hope you enjoy!

victory is sweet, even deep in the cheap seats.

Photos:

Uganda: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2892561&id=2001205&l=a8e8ff8849
Rwanda: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2892547&id=2001205&l=bc92401ce9

As the photos suggest, the trip was incredible. I've never met so
many ridiculously friendly people as I did in Uganda. Even the
immigration officials had enormous grins on their faces. When we
stumbled into the rioting in Kampala, people went out of their way to
make sure we weren't involved. Our bus driver warned us about streets
to avoid, and a woman ended up walking us a kilometer out of her way
to show us to a bus station we were trying to find. And this wasn't
limited to saving the mzungus from chaos - on Bushara Island, a
stunningly beautiful camp on Lake Bunyonyi (thanks Will for the
recommendation!), the staff were equally attentive (apologizing for
food being late? Inday?). Bushara was a Peace Corps Volunteer's
dream - sustainable, eco-friendly camp (composting toilets!) staffed
by the local community and where all profits go back into the
community. Scholarships for students, orphan caregiver businesses,
handicraft cooperatives, vegetable garden on the premises, dance
troupes, dugout canoe trips - the works. We further proved our theory
that if you're willing to make a fool of yourself, people will love
you forever. Ugandan dance is not beginner-friendly. Lots of
spirited leaping high into the air - exhausting. But more more free
and uninhibited than most Ethiopian dances, so it was refreshing to
move something besides our shoulders. We definitely felt it the next
day though! We stayed in a sweet little "treehouse" (although not
actually in a tree) with a balcony overlooking the lake and a gorgeous
outdoor shower. Glorious. I'm going back if I ever find myself in
Uganda again.

Rafting the Nile is better described in photos (we successfully
navigated our way down a 12 foot waterfall!), but I'm now considering
abandoning all my academic plans and getting certified as a raft
guide. That would be the life, for a few years at least. One of our
fellow rafters was a Kiwi working for a charity that funds, among
other things, an NGO in Somaliland (not Somalia!) working on education
and rehabilitation for former Islamic militants. He found my
excitement rather odd, to say the least, but is putting me in touch
with the directors to see about possible teaching jobs. You meet the
most fascinating people wandering through Africa.

And the mountain gorillas. Yes, it's worth it. A 400-pound
silverback walked within a meter of me. They're such breathtaking
animals, it's easy to see how Dian Fossey ended up spending her life
with them. I've never felt so poor in all my life though - we were
surrounded by middle age, high-end travelers decked out in all the
fancy trekking gear and wearing several thousand dollars worth of
camera equipment dangling off their belts, and there we were, the
backpackers in ratty clothes, staying at the ten-dollar a night hostel
and fretting over the cost of hiring a car to the park entrance. I
think the park staff noticed and took pity on us though, because we
ended up trekking the Susa family, the largest of them all (41 members
when most have 10-15) and also the family that Fossey studied. After
scrambling up wet undergrowth on a 45 degree incline at 2500 meters
for three hours, we walked up to a sleeping silverback, the family
matriarch, and her six-month-old baby. And it just gets better - we
ended up seeing at least 24 members of the family, including the
playful five-year-old twins who seemed to love posing for our cameras.
You're so close that a telephoto lens is actually a handicap.
Incredible.

Within our group, we also had a very amusing travel companion, who
apparently had "the worst shower of his life" at a $500 per night
resort overlooking the volcanoes. We amused our fellow trekkers with
stories of Ethiopia, which was simply beyond comprehension for most.
Peter frightened them all describing how excited Karen and I got when
we discovered that sliced bread abounds in Uganda (seriously - people
walk around the bus station selling it! I haven't seen sliced bread
in two years!). Note the number of photos we took of us eating basic
grocery store food. And then there were the crisp green apples on
every street corner. We had a mild breakdown in a supermarket in
Entebbe trying to decided between three kinds of equally priced cheese
(it took us close to ten minutes to reason it out), then a similar
incident when faced with six varieties of sliced bread. We won't even
discuss our reactions to finding such a glorious supermarket. Just a
precursor to the odd creatures we're going to be when we come home.
Consider yourself warned.

We also spent a few nights in Gisenyi, on Lake Kivu, a quiet little
lake town that has actually been slightly ruined for me since I
learned that it served as the HQ for the interim
government/genocidaires when the rebel army captured Kigali. But it
boasts a quiet lakefront beach, where we had picnics and made friends
with random Rwandan wanderers who asked us for, in order, a book,
lotion, and to take his photo with all of us. Plus a couple of
teenage boys who proved unable to speak directly to women, diverting
all their questions about Karen and I through Peter ("What book is
Jessica reading? How old is Karen?"). We spent our evenings at a
beach front bar enjoying the local Primus (served in 720 cl bottles!)
and playing with the resident dog and her seven (!) puppies. That's
an impressive litter anywhere, but to have that many survive in
Africa? Wow. I had to be restrained from taking one or more home
with us.

All in all, an amazing trip, riots and all. Both countries are highly
recommended. Peace Corps officially booked my flight and I'll be home
November 15. Crazy. New VSO volunteers arrived last week and the new
PCVs arrive in Assela on Saturday (can't wait to meet you all!), so I
have plenty of distractions for these final months.

never again.

For a lot of people, Rwanda exists as the genocide and nothing more.
In a way, that's true - it's impossible to be there without thinking
about it. But the country shows an incredible recovery. Kigali feels
virtually like a first-world capital - paved roads, shiny glass
buildings, and some of the cleanest streets I've ever seen. (Perhaps
the nationwide ban on plastic bags - in favor of paper - has something
to do with that). After the genocide museum and memorials, the
country's development seems that much more impressive. The museum is
one of the most moving places I've ever seen - the final room is
filled with enormous photographs of child victims, complete with
information about their lives before the war. Things like their
favorite toys or foods and personalities...and then how they died.
The one that made me lose it was a little six year old boy who liked
helping people, wanted to be a doctor, and who's last words were
"UNAMIR will save us." He was hacked to death by a machete. How?
Why?

In only fifteen years, the visible signs of a violent civil war have
disappeared. But I don't believe the memory ever will. Eight hundred
thousand people - ten percent of the population - gone forever.
Walking down the street, you can't help but look at everyone and
wonder "Where were you?" Did you watch your family slaughtered in
front of you? Did a stroke of luck or the generosity of a stranger
save you? Did you betray a neighbor? Or worse yet, did you hack your
friends and neighbors to death? With every child over the age of
fifteen, you can't stop yourself from imagining what they saw. I just
finished reading Romeo Dallaire's (the Canadian general who headed the
UN Assistance Mission for Rwanda before and during the genocide) Shake
Hands with the Devil (a book everyone should read) and I've never been
so horrified by anything in my life. Rivers choked with bodies, rats
the size of dogs, dogs that had to be shot because they'd developed a
taste for human flesh and were no longer satisfied with carrion.
Trying to remove a moving person from a pile of bodies only to
discover that the maggots inside created the illusion of life. The
mission didn't have pens and paper, let alone troops and supplies, yet
they stayed, constantly urging the Security Council that they could
stop the killings with 5,000 troops. The inaction of the world was
shameful, and all the more so because it seems we've learned nothing.

But what struck me more was the incongruity of it all. Rwanda is one
of the most naturally beautiful places I've ever seen. Lush green
hills, rust red dirt - it's the Africa a child would paint. There's
nothing impressively beautiful in the way the Grand Canyon or a
flawless beach is gorgeous, but more of a calm tranquility that makes
what happened even more unbelievable. More shocking is how much a
part of life the genocide reminders still are. In one of the most
densely populated countries in the world, where even steep hills are
intensely cultivated, there's simply no room to move away. We visited
a genocide memorial in a church outside of Kigali. You walk down a
residential road to reach it, which is difficult enough, only to find
that the gates face a school. Walking through the church, with the
stifling odor of death and decay and pews piled with a nauseating
volume of rags that were once someone's clothes, you can hear the
shouts of children in the schoolyard. In the back are underground
graves with piles of skulls and bones. They look the same at first,
then you notice the smaller skulls or the gashes or the shattered eye
sockets. A lone man silently leads you around the grounds and all you
can think about is that he has to have a reason to be there. You
don't want to ask in case it's guilt, but then what kind of person are
you for hoping it's "only" to remain close to the memory of those he
lost?

What happened in Rwanda needs to be remembered, but it's unfortunate
that the reminders haunt those who can never forget instead of those
who stood by and condoned the atrocities. That church belongs in
Washington, DC, in Brussels, in Paris, in London, or on the grounds of
the UN building, not in the backyards of the survivors. Never again.

life is what happens when you're making other plans.

"Insensate cruelty to those you can whip, and groveling submission to
those you can't...It was inevitable that she should accept any
inconsistency and cruelty from her deity as all good worshippers do
from theirs. All gods who receive homage are cruel. All gods
dispense suffering without reason. Otherwise they would not be
worshipped. Through indiscriminate suffering men know fear and fear
is the most divine emotion. It is the stones for altars and the
beginning of wisdom. Half gods are worshipped in wine and flowers.
Real gods require blood...The physical impossibilities in no way
injured faith. That was the mystery and mysteries are the chores of
gods. Beyond her faith was a fanaticism to defend the altars of her
god. " - Zora Neale Hurston, Their Eyes Were Watching God

I think I've recovered from my Toni Morrison-induced disdain for an
entire genre of literature. I've recently finished both Hurston
(above) and A Raisin in the Sun, both of which were excellent. Eyes
was set in Depression-era Florida, which was entertaining. I also
finished the Old Testament (!). Traumatized is a rather gentle word.
Read it cover to cover, not just the inspirational quotable bits you'd
get in a sermon, and I think you get a better picture of why I can't
believe. The indiscriminate punishments, the inconsistencies, the
violence (and let's not even get into the frequent rape and gender
issues), the holding of grudges and punishing the many for the sins of
the few. What's the use of worshipping primarily (or solely, one
might argue) out of fear? How is that a god in which anyone could
find solace, his non-existence notwithstanding? On a side note, I was
rather disappointed that all the allusions I was hoping to better
understand turned out to be only a few verses long.

In less contentious news, I recently experienced the joy and
efficiency that is the Assela police station. When my wallet was
stolen earlier this summer, it seems I was right to think it was too
good to be true that someone would be returning it to me. It never
showed up and I can't get in touch with the guy who supposedly had it.
Alas. Anyway, without an Ethiopian resident ID, I can't get
discounted airfare and there are rumors that we have to return the ID
in order to leave the country, so I figured I should have that
replaced. Unfortunately, you need a sealed police report in order to
get a new one, which strikes me a rather silly, since I highly doubt
there's much of a market for a resident (not citizen) ID with a white
girl's photo on it. But I digress.

I anticipated the process being torturous, so I went with our security
officer when he was in town. The "chief investigator," who I
sincerely hope is downsized tomorrow, refused to help us because we
said it was "lost on a bus" and there was no way of knowing if it
actually happened in Assela (never mind that we just wanted the piece
of paper, we weren't going so far as to actually request he
investigate the crime or anything crazy like that). Fikre (our
security officer) happens to be friends with the chief, so he went
over his head and talked the chief into forcing a report for us.
Fikre was angry enough to not even shake the investigator's hand when
we left, which is probably closest to the American equivalent of
defecating on someone's desk. I was told to call in a week to see if
it was ready. I did so. It wasn't, but would be the following week.
I went back. The chief was gone and no one knew what I was talking
about. I called Fikre to get the chief to share the situation with
his underlings. A week later, I was assured the report and chief
would be there the next day, so I showed up again. Chief was gone and
no one knew what I was talking about. Three calls to the chief
established that my ID had been stolen, but nothing else. While
refusing to sit in protest, I managed to make it clear that the report
was finished and I just wanted to pick it up. A fourth call to the
chief determined this was not the case.

At this point, my standing was making people nervous (we were rapidly
approaching the hour mark), so the guy in charge ordered someone to
write the report for me. After verifying the name of the country (The
Federal Democratic Republic of Ethiopia) in which he was born and has
never left, he embarked upon the task. By hand writing on a piece of
double-wide notebook paper, with a sheet of carbon paper in the middle
so they could have a copy (I suppose I should be grateful I didn't
have to wait for someone to write a second one). Three stamps were
applied, someone signed it, and tore the sheet in half (not even cut).
At the last moment, someone was sent across the street to buy an
envelope. An hour and twenty minutes after walking in, I was solemnly
presented with a torn piece of notebook paper in an airmail envelope
with another symphony of stamps across the flap. How many people
would you guess it takes to reach this state of affairs? I'll give
you a hint. A normal person wouldn't have enough fingers to tell this
story with dramatic hand gestures for emphasis. We peaked at 11
officers, plus four random people in there for their own reasons (all
of whom arrived after and left before me, furthering my frustration).
Remind me to never be robbed again.

I wish I wasn't such a slacker at staying in touch with old
professors. I'm going to have such horribly mediocre letters of
recommendation while applying for graduate school and a means of
funding it that doesn't entail black market organ donation. I had
also not opened my CV file since before leaving Jordan, which was an
unfortunate mess to clean up and update. I haven't brought myself to
start the even more excruciating process of personal statements and
the like. Baby steps.

Funny how nothing ever seems to go according to plan and we always end
up better for the things and people that stumble across us. You'd
think we'd learn to just stop planning and live.

Wishlist:
-Burned/bootleg AVI files of the following TV shows:
+Weeds - Season 4 & 5
+The Office (US) - Season 5, episodes 16-end (or UK Office, series 2-onward)
-Cheese in any form
-Original cheddar goldfish crackers
-Hollandaise sauce
-Sourdough pretzel nuggets
-Fritos

in your world my feet are out of step.

It occurs to me that group 3 of the PC Ethiopia program has probably
received all of their invitations by now and are panicking as they
attempt to fit their entire life into 80lbs in the next two months.
If you've stumbled across this blog googling "peace corps ethiopia,"
feel free to email me if you have any questions, concerns, whatever.
That's what we're here for. You'll all be training in and around my
lovely town of Assela, 2600-ish meters above sea level in the shadow
of Mt. Chilalo (4139m), where the weather and scenery are gorgeous and
there's no oxygen. A great place to start running, if you're given to
such silly notions - Assela is the capital of Arsi Zone, birthplace of
all of Ethiopia's marathoners. One lap around the stadium track and
you'll understand why. A free word of advice - don't bother with
solar anything. Your house will have power, and electricity cuts are
most common in the rainy season, when there's no sun anyway (13 months
of sunshine, the national tourism board slogan, is a misnomer at
best).

I've been reading Huxley's Point Counter Point and find myself
thoroughly entertained by that generation of literature's assumption
that readers speak several languages. Latin and French references are
never translated, and although I don't actually speak either language,
I enjoy the nostalgia for a time when English speakers weren't
necessarily monolingual. Ditto for references to classic literature -
one brief line, and the reader is just expected to understand all that
Morley or Proust encapsulates (if wishing made it so). Those were the
days. I also love the way he talks about sex and love in a poetic,
roundabout way - somehow it's sexier than the more explicit, direct
descriptions of modern literature.

On that topic, I recently had a fascinating discussion with Eshetu
about homosexuality (and sex in general - after all, I AM an HIV
educator). Like all Ethiopians I've met, he's repulsed by the idea,
although less condemning than most. For him, it's more of a lack of
experience than anything else. Anyway, we've danced around this topic
a few times in the past, so this time he took the plunge and asked
about the mechanics and purpose of homosexuality. I made the argument
that in today's world (well, in non-genitally mutilating cultures at
least), sex is more about pleasure than procreation (and hence
penetration). Why else would we need and have bothered to invent
contraception? If it was only about babies, then there'd be no need
to prevent pregnancy. Eshetu himself admitted that he and his wife
have had sex more than their two children would require. From there,
I think it's a small step to suggest that homosexuality isn't any less
"normal" than foreplay or sex with no goal of procreation. Not to
mention that it's absurd to suggest that it's a choice - even in the
most liberal cultures of the world, who would honestly choose to be
treated that way by parts of society? Eshetu pointed out that my
explanation ignores all religious opinions, but that's hardly new for
me. Religion doesn't have to account for the opinions of
non-believers, so why should I?

This led into a discussion of the wrath of the God of the Old
Testament (I'm into Lamentations now - I can see the light at the end
of the tunnel!) and my belief (I won't say "faith," because I have
evidence) in science eventually providing an explanation for all of
life's little mysteries. Historically, mankind invented a god with a
chariot to explain the sunrise and a few seeds of a pomegranate in the
underworld to explain winter, so I think it's only a matter of time
before other things follow suit. I was also halfway through Dawkins's
The Selfish Gene, so maybe that explains it (highly recommended). I
think hanging out with three science-loving atheists is really pushing
Eshetu to question blind faith and decide if he truly believes in his
religion or if he's merely following what his parents taught him.

Wishlist:
-Burned/bootleg AVI files of the following TV shows:
+Weeds - Season 4 & 5
+The Office (US) - Season 5, episodes 16-end (or UK Office, series 2-onward)
+30 Rock - Season 3 & 4
-Cheese in any form
-Hollandaise sauce
-Sourdough pretzel nuggets
-Fritos
-Mac and cheese

beware all enterprises which require new clothes.

Monday was t-minus four months, not that anyone's counting. Pat, one
of the Assela VSO volunteers in Assela, left this week, which makes me
the longest-serving volunteer in town. Time really does fly. She's
been here almost two years (arrived right before I did), so we had to
have quite a few farewell programs. As a result, I haven't done much
actual work in the last few weeks (although, one could argue,
two-thirds of Peace Corps' goals revolve around cultural exchange, so
I've actually been working exceptionally hard). We'll go with that.
There are lots of photos for everyone's amusement:
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2835949&id=2001205&l=504cf6317b

We started with a Fourth of July "cookout" on electric stoves (but we
did at least keep the door open and eat outside). An Ethiopian friend
of ours who's always amazed by our ability to discuss food (even while
stuffing our faces) suggested we switch to politics, so we talked
about the upcoming election. He said he rather vote for a goat, so I
suggested we name one Barack Obama and try to get him on the ballot.
I'm confident he'd win. I was watching BBC coverage of Obama's visit
to Ghana and a woman said "he's everything we dreamed in a president,"
which is sweet, but sad because he's not her president. I have this
sinking feeling nothing he does will ever live up to the global hype.
I mean, at this point, world peace and an end to global warming would
just be par for the course. On the upside, maybe he'll inspire more
potential opposition leaders.

The teacher's college also threw a party, at which all of us had to
explain in explicit terms several times over how white people
generally prefer informal parties with no speeches or special seats.
Most of our Ethiopian friends were confused, but we insisted that Pat
would want it that way. As a consolation, we decorated the room with
toilet paper (an Ethiopian party standard) and presented her with a
bouquet of garish neon plastic flowers (another tradition). Everybody
wins. We also had an entertaining photo shoot with the staff of the
tea house, all of whom wanted their photos taken alone or with us, but
never with each other (it's a mixed staff of young people, so maybe
the boys weren't ready to be that close to pretty girls?).

Finally, we were invited to another friend's house for lunch, but Pat
couldn't come, so Susie, Peter, and I ate her farewell lunch at
Abebe's house. This was the first family I've ever met who could
compete with an American love of animals. The cats roamed the house
freely and we were encouraged to feed them bread (which worked out
well, since we had massive pieces of bread as an appetizer to a lunch
that could have easily fed ten people... Before the three refills.).
Birtukan, his wife, actually picked up the kittens and played with
them, which made us feel less awkward about talking to them after we
got over the shock. The chickens are also allowed to nest in the
corner when it's cold, and one of the hens laid an egg on the bed
during lunch. None of us had ever seen this happen before, much to
the amusement of the family. Another hen threw a fit afterwards, so
they gave her the egg to play with and she shut up. As we were
leaving, Abebe proudly pointed out one of the cows and explained that
she had given birth to twin calves. The dogs even got their bellies
scratched and have names, although they're still not allowed indoors.
Still, an impressive display of affection for the weakest members of
the family.

On the topic of "real" work, I visited the prison farm this week to
discover that they made almost 1000 birr from the sale of the cabbage
crop, which warmed my heart. Tomatoes and garlic should be ready soon
as well. The staff is working on proposals to build a health center,
refurbish the school, and fund other improvements to the facilities.
I won't be around to see them through, but I'd like to help them find
some grants.

Wishlist:
-Burned/bootleg AVI files of the following TV shows:
+Weeds - Season 4 & 5
+The Office (US) - Season 5, episodes 16-end (or any part of the UK Office)
+30 Rock - Season 3 & 4
-Cheese in any form
-Sourdough pretzel nuggets
-Fritos
-Mac and cheese

our endless numbered days.

The past two weeks, I've been busy with the Christian Horizons
training for rural teachers, new and old (originally scheduled for the
first week of June, but then the delay shouldn't surprise my readers
any more than it does me). Although nothing started or ended on time
(again, something I should have learned by now), it was a rousing
success. These teachers are out in the middle of nowhere, so it was
nice to reach some people who can access areas I'll never see. I
helped with the HIV, family planning, and harmful traditional
practices session with a guy from the zonal health bureau and the
gender issues session with Zebenay, a hilarious woman who just
finished her master's thesis. She was the only female presenter
(besides Susie and I, who don't necessarily count because our race
matters infinitely more than our gender) and I thoroughly enjoyed her
because she appreciated my penchant for pointing out tiny details that
most people wouldn't relate to gender. For instance, I talked about
the common feature in many languages (Amharic and Afan Oromo included)
that creates one title for men regardless of marital status (Mr. Ato,
Obbo, etc) but two for women (Mrs/Miss). Shortly after I asked if the
men were married and many refused to disclose, one of the
non-disclosers asked how this was relevant to gender. I said he
didn't have to tell anyone he was married, but he knew my and
Zebenay's status before we walked in the room because our names were
on the schedule. One of many inequalities present in Ethiopia. I
realize I sound like a feminist here, but I can't help it in a town
where 85% of women believe a husband has the right to beat his wife if
she refuses sex (one of many appalling facts I learned from a baseline
survey done by Alliance for Development last year).

I also brought up some of the religious origins of gender bias in
Ethiopia (thanks to my recent foray into the Old Testament - I just
finished Numbers and am thoroughly frightened/vindicated in everything
I believe), which ended in yet another passionate defense of my
atheism with Genene, the program director. He'd met people without
faith before, but never really had someone articulate why, so we had
an entertaining discussion (including that God, if he exists, has
gotten lazy since his days of unleashing plagues for worshipping idols
or questioning his will). The following week, Susie and I patiently
explained our belief in science but not god, indifference to marriage,
and lack of desire to have children to another staff member after he
suggested we just put our life in God's hands and everything will turn
out fine. We realized we're pretty fascinating/confusing people to
most Ethiopians, since many of our major choices and beliefs are
completely foreign here (and our family's acceptance or at least
tolerance of said choices, like moving halfway around the world). All
in all, I've been impressed with Christian Horizons and their staff -
I've never met anyone that open minded in a similar position at home.
Everyone asks us questions, wanting to know more, instead of just
insisting we're wrong and trying to convert us. Refreshing.

And best of all - they let me, the heathen, oversee the HIV training,
which naturally (these were grown adults teaching children, after all)
included a condom demonstration. CH doesn't own a penile model (their
HIV program is new, but I'm not sure any of them would even be
comfortable doing a demonstration if one existed), so I brought
bananas, thus fulfilling a secret goal of my time in Africa. Quite
possibly two of the funniest experiences (I did it with both training
groups) of my service here. After my demonstration (and I now believe
that I am virtually impossibly to embarrass after standing in front of
forty people putting a condom on a banana with a straight face), I had
three or four of them do it as well, thus hopefully forever denting
some of the taboos surrounding condoms and sex here. Entertainingly,
two of my most eager male volunteers in the first group couldn't open
their condoms. Inspired by Salam of PSI, I've added a "stretching and
blowing up" segment to the demonstration, which relaxes even the most
uptight participants. Honestly, the most fun I've had in a long time.
They're doing another training in October and giving me a longer
session, so I think I'll incorporate broader issues of diversity into
HIV and gender. But the bananas are staying, even for organizations
that have models. Highly recommended for anyone in a similar line of
work.

Last month, a group of Americans (mostly from Texas) on an english
teaching/mission trip arrived in Assela, so it's been disconcerting to
see white people all over town. But kind of fun to be the
knowledgeable, crazy one who actually lives here. After we all
finished the CH training last night, we were at the fancy hotel (where
they're all staying) in town for a celebratory dinner. Susie got up
to smoke as one of the guys was leaving, and he held the door open for
her. She stood in front of the door for an awkward amount of time
until she realized he was being chivalrous and it made me nostalgic.
Pat, one of the VSO volunteers, leaves next week, making me the senior
ex-pat in town - yikes. Time flies. We're on the every other day
power schedule, and on the off days, it doesn't come back on until
midnight or 6 am. Word on the street is we're switching to one on,
two off, which is frustrating enough for me but really making me feel
for the IT volunteers. On the upside, I'm honing my Scrabble skills
by playing against myself by candlelight- I broke 500 points last
week. Don't judge me.

Wishlist:
-Burned/bootleg AVI files of the following TV shows:
+Weeds - Season 4 & 5
+The Office (US) - Season 5, episodes 16-end (or any part of the UK Office)
+30 Rock - Season 3 & 4
-Man deodorant (sheer roll-on)
-Cheese in any form
-Cashews
-Popcorn salt
-Hollandaise sauce
-Hot cocoa mix
-Cream cheese frosting