Initiation

Dear all,

Where do I begin? Since I last wrote, I’ve been busy helping plan an international conference which has taken me hostage and given me heart palpitations faster than Oprah Winfrey on speed. The confrence is my excuse for having not written, but do not fear faithful readers, there will be a later update about the International Conference on HIV/AIDS and STIs in Addis Ababa. For now, let me tell you about my initiation to my current organization’s field work. Please be guided through past weeks experiences that led to hygiene horror, crazy adventure, and trembling fear. (Just promise me no matter what you will at least read the last half of this blog).

I had not yet been outside Addis Ababa except for a brief hike the first weekend, so this adventure lead me even further into the heart of Ethiopia to evaluate clinic and drug retail outlet supplies. I went to Awassa and Adema, two major cities in Southern Ethiopia. Awassa is famous for its gorgeous lakes and a resort owned by Haile Gabriel Selassie, whom you might recognize for winning every single long distance Olympic running event.  See lakes pictures below:

Adema is the Oromo tribe name for a town known by Christians as Nazareth. Adema has the same hustle and bustle of any city, with less altitude than Addis Ababa- therefore, I left my inhaler at home. In Awassa, I did not go swimming, which wasn’t even tempting because there were big ass birds the size of a Lincoln Diner “He-man” meal (shout out Lexi Kelly). All in all, the lakes were quite pretty to look at, but I had work to do. Here is a recap of my days:     

Step 1: Get around town to different clinics in a Bajaj (featured below). I love dodging incoming traffic and having my life flash before my eyes.  

Step 2: Arrive alive at our partner clinics and see all of the commercial sex workers, waitresses, day laborers, and truck drivers from our program await testing with their families. At least they are getting tested, but you have never witnessed such a nervous room (can’t blame them). In the 190 towns in which we operate along Ethiopia’s transportation corridors, we have at least one clinic in each location. I was disturbed to discover that some clinics did not have gloves or capillary tubes for testing. Also, the rooms were crowded and people often walk for miles outside the city to come to the clinic and seek treatment. After talking to clinicians and lay consolers who support or program participants living with HIV, I was greatly inspired by their dedication and commitment to people suffering within their communities. It is truly the local people on the ground working with our target populations who make a difference and ensure the success of any NGO program.                                          

Step 3: Walk to the drug retail outlet to check supply and see the place where our STI treatment kits were distributed. Any person who tests positive for STI is given a voucher to receive free treatment and condoms in the hope of curing the infection and preventing future exposure. I am told that one of the three kits we prescribe has never been issued to any of the clinic. We need to do better.

I just wanted you to have an overview of my work. Now for the interesting story:

A few weeks ago I befriended an older French woman who is a big shot in my organization for the entire Sub-Saharan African region. She is evaluating our programs and recommending new methods for us to achieve better results and reach more of our target population. Since I had not yet been to the field, she invited me to join her and help evaluate our clinical programs. How do I begin this story? This woman, let’s call her Madeline, wears perfume, scarves, eats bread and drinks coffee every morning- totally French…However, she married an American and has been working in development for years. When describing anything and everything, she throws in adjectives  such as “beautiful, wonderful, concerning, or worrisome”- black and white, no in between. Madeline is a very kind woman and thoughtful in that she looks out for my well being since I am the baby of the bunch at my current work. Now back to our adventure: on the drive back from Awassa (six hours outside of Addis Ababa), I am awed with the amazing beauty of the Rift Valley. We drive on the open road for hours next to the umbrella trees, tall grasses, green hills, tef (the wheat for injera), and banana trees. Every thirty kilometers we spot a few huts and herders with cattle, sheep, or camels returning from the bush.

The driver of the car, Girma, stops so I can take this picture, and an angry herdsman in a white robe runs up to the car waving a knife and stick above his head at me. He starts yelling in Amharic as I roll up my window. Like a genius, Girma decides to pick a verbal fight with the man, which leads to more window banging, Madeline yelling “drive,” and me too shocked to say anything. Turns out the herdsmen, who was very small in stature, as many people in the countryside were from childhoods stunted by the horrible famine, was hungry and Girma told him we would not give him any food in exchange for the picture. We had bread in the car, but did not understand the situation since it we don’t speak fluent Amharic.

A few miles further down the road, we got stuck behind cows for about twenty minutes further delayed our already late return to Addis Ababa. This picture was taken in a random town along the ride back. There is another random town, Shesheme, that is inhibited by a Rasta diaspora community from Jamaica. There was even a white guy with dreads. Ya mon’!

About thirty minutes later we are back in the middle of nowhere with nothing ahead of us but the open, wild, and free Ethiopian road. Usually in rural Ethiopian communities, children do not attend school, but rather learn to be Sheppards/hearders, and are taught to tend flock at a young age. This young camel herdsman is thirteen years old. He chased down our car and asked me to take a picture of him because “he had not seen his reflection since he was small.” His father carries a gun and knife to protect the camels and they live a nomadic life in the Ethiopian bush. The boy is carrying a gourd filled with water for himself in his right hand, and a bowl for camel milk in his left hand. Fate led us to another weary young traveler.

As we continue down the road, the sun sinks beneath the valley and it becomes pitch black. At night in Ethiopia, people do not drive because there are no lights along the road and no traffic police to monitor speeds.  We are about an hour outside Addis Ababa, and still in the middle of nowhere- all I can hear is stray dogs howling, the sound of our truck’s engine, and Madeline complaining that we should stop in a small hotel because it is too dangerous to drive. The Beatles song “Ticket to Ride” is on the radio and I close my eyes with the satisfaction that life has led me to Ethiopia.                                                                                                                 

  All of a sudden I am startled and awakened by Madeline’s yelps of “Al Qaeda, Al Qaeda” as she points to dozens of men passing us wearing scarves over their heads slouched in the bed of a white Isuzu truck. They have dodged us and speed up ahead. “We must stop! We must stop! I see Al Qaeda! It is too dangerous to continue!” Madeline frantically yells to the driver, Girma.

Girma, a thirty year old stubborn Ethiopian driver has already started a fight with a herder holding knife near my face is insisting that we can continue driving. As he and Madeline argue, “Al Qaeda? I think to myself. I know there are Muslims here, but this is a Christian country… This does not make sense, but we are close to Somalia…I guess they could be here, but there is NO way I want to stop.” We continue to drive, Madeline starts talking to herself in French and Girma refuses to stop.

Then another Al Qaeda truck sweeps in front of us and hits a stray dog. Internally, I am freaking out and fear has already built up inside me after the past incidents of the day. However, I build up the courage to say, “I don’t want to stop if there is Al Qaeda on this road- I am an American and that just doesn’t work.” Girma and Madeline immediately start to roar with laughter like a stoned Sarah Palin at a drag queen show.                            

 Imagine in a deep, jolly, French accent this response, “Laura, Al Qaeda is a term we use to describe truck drivers who drive at night, and are crazy because they chew chat and drink alcohol the whole night.” Chat is kind of like Ethiopian red bull, but the only way to break the high is by drinking a lot of alcohol. Somewhat relieved, I agree with Madeline that we should stop because, hell, it’s an escapade and I have to work the next day (boring). However, little did I know I was about to experience the TransACTION program and interact with culture deeper than I have ever ventured in Ethiopia.

Imagine you are an outlaw, riding through the desert on a horse through the American West in the 1800s. After little sleep, hectic adventure, and in the dark, you see lights in the distance. Soon, you find a random town filled with gallows, swinging bar saloons, and an inn filled with prostitutes. Now imagine a more rural, unsanitary situation in Ethiopia, and I’d like to welcome to Lemann, Ethiopia. For thirty dirty birr (the local Ethiopian currency equivalent to a $1.60) Madeline and I were given the last room at the Lemann Hotel pictured below. 

  Along with the flickering light, rats prancing across the floor, the pot for all bathroom necessities, and a broken door, at least we would not get into a late night car accident with Al Qaeda. As pleasant as it was to share this bed with Madeline for one night only, I could not sleep because of the sounds next door of moaning truck drivers and waitresses. I can only imagine what’s been done on this bed.  

Anyway, before we went to sleep, we dragged ourselves into the hotel and town’s only restaurant and ordered Shiro and injera (kind of like Ethiopian chick peas) for dinner. The waitress who brought the food was 19 years old, had two children, and had moved to Lemann from a herding community a few months earlier. How do I know all of this? Well, in Ethiopia, waitresses at many restaurants serve food during the day, and men throughout the night. Although this sounds funny, words cannot describe how disturbed Madeline and I were that our driver, Girma, and the truck driver in the restaurant kept hitting on the waitress. With step she made past our table the men were touching her, flirting with her in Amharic, grabbing her hand and stroking her thighs while getting rip roaring drunk. She could not fend them off because her manager would fire her for irritating the customers, leaving her without a home provided by the hotel and food for her children. She could not return home from fear of other villagers gossiping about her, her family shunning her, or worse.  At nineteen years old, she has little escape, trapped in a bar filled with sin, vile men, and the stench of alcohol in the middle of Ethiopia.                                                                                                                                   
The restaurant where the nineteen year old waitress worked had mud floors, red earthly walls, and was filled with scents of frankincense, burnt wood, and alcohol. With every sip of St. George’s beer Girma and the other man chuckled, and repeated this nineteen year old girl’s life story in English to us. Every time the nineteen year-old girl walked past they pinched her backside and grabbed at her breasts.                        
 This is how transactional sex and rape occur in Ethiopia. It often starts at with girls from rural communities coming to towns to earn more money and search for a better life as waitresses and day laborers. Often, they are taken advantage of by men who pass by labor sites and offer to give them a ride after work, or waitresses are tipped extra by drunken men with the expectation they will have sex. In the culture, men see it rude to be refused by a woman, and if rejected in front of his peers, the result is emasculation. Our program works with waitresses, commercial sex workers, and female day laborers to empower them economically and provide learning tools for testing and prevention of HIV/STIs.

After the meal, a visit to the smelly, disgusting, unkempt latrine, and the loud Tegga music blaring from the bar speakers as sex workers danced on loose men, my exhaustion kicked in, and I fell asleep in a room smelling of sweat and human feces next to a room filled with moaning couple- perhaps the waitress and other man from the restaurant. This incident was my initiation to field work. Welcome to my world, welcome to NGO work, welcome to rural Ethiopia.

All in all friends fear not, I actually value these experiences, but no matter where I travel, this incident is just a testament and reminder of my luck for being born in the U.S.A. In less than two weeks I will be home for Christmas, but Lemann will be far from a distant memory.

Until next time,

Laura