01.11.04
Tomorrow is election day. Ironically, Andy's not even casting a ballot this time around. Although we had our absentee ballots sent to the Orbis office in Addis, we never received them. Even if they did arrive, we'd have to get them down here, then back up to Addis, and then FedExed to the States all within about two weeks. We haven't heard anything about them arriving in Addis. First thing Wednesday morning though, Andy will be in the hotel bar
watching CNN.
We leave Soddo in a week, which in a funny way suddenly makes it dear. Even when it's frustrating or annoying, it's dear. I find myself trying to memorise details and learning words and making mental connections that I wished I'd made seven weeks ago. The layered tableclothes in the diningroom. The tomahto sauce that comes out hot in two stainless steel chalices. The stale bread that comes out of the cupboard, and how Genet and Nado slice it
on the crumby cutting board under the tablecloth. The cupboard that houses the silverware and salt and limes and unrefrigerated ketchup. When we first brought it back from Addis, Genet asked if she could have the bottle when we're through. She's reminded us about it once.
The path out to the trash pile and laundry shed. Always negay when we ask when they're going to butcher the next goat. The tall scented geraniums the turtle always levels instead of eating grass. The pastry shop across the street . . .
Ugh, the pastry shop across the street. "Misrak Pastrey." It was my favourite eatery until the young staff got a little too familiar. I have no idea where it came from. I don't feel like I do anything obnoxious or attention-getting or different than anyone else. Except maybe we're less demanding because we don't know how to insist like everyone else does. Anyway, at one point we ended up waiting about 35 minutes for breakfast and finally I went in and cancelled and said we didn't have time to eat anymore, at which point they handed it to me right there. The waiter, this cute young guy who I generally like, invented a story about how we ordered something and refused it so the kitchen had to make us two breakfasts, when Abaineh showed up and we told him what was going on. Then the next day, not wanting
to completely sever ties with the closest breakfast alternative to the hotel, I went in to get some bread. The whole place pivoted and watched, nothing unusual. But then whole staff started laughing, the waiter guy looked at me and ran out of the room, and one of the counter girls, the one who always gets right in my face and says, "I love you," and laughs, asked
in front of the entire watching café, why certain parts of my anatomy were so small, while gesturing to her own, the whole staff laughing their heads off.
Come on. The last time that was an issue was in grade seven at Aweres school. Stupid girls chased each other in front of the boys snapping each other's bra straps to prove they had them. I stood with my back to the brick wall and wished I lived on a different, puberty-less, planet. (At Aweres school I also learned I didn't know how to make a fist--only someone who had never swung one would tuck their thumbs in.)
I rolled my eyes at the Misrak people and turned my back and walked out. And walked across the street to our room and raged at Andy for the idiocy of some people.
Two days earlier we were walking down one of the side roads to get some fruit, and an insistent begging woman I had passed by ran up behind me and caught hold of me through my shirt by my bra strap. She was quite strong, and let it snap back when I turned to see what was going on. It's hard to describe the kind of attention you get on the street here. I mean, its not hard to describe--its hard to imagine unless you've felt something like it.
EVERYONE is watching you. Everyone you look at you make eye contact with. Everyone saw the lady snap my strap. Probably only many of them, but it seemed like all, laughed. (Ok, as did I, but it was still embarrassing. Jeez.)
This has maybe been sounding a little negative. Every moment seems like a conflict between inflated expectations for helping/giving/fixing things and at the same time being a helpless (unless you speak more language than I do) target. My dignity is often lost. I don't like that. I'm lonely for people who don't want something from me and who don't want to laugh at me.
There's a cat in heat on our doorstep. She makes noises like I've never heard before.
watching CNN.
We leave Soddo in a week, which in a funny way suddenly makes it dear. Even when it's frustrating or annoying, it's dear. I find myself trying to memorise details and learning words and making mental connections that I wished I'd made seven weeks ago. The layered tableclothes in the diningroom. The tomahto sauce that comes out hot in two stainless steel chalices. The stale bread that comes out of the cupboard, and how Genet and Nado slice it
on the crumby cutting board under the tablecloth. The cupboard that houses the silverware and salt and limes and unrefrigerated ketchup. When we first brought it back from Addis, Genet asked if she could have the bottle when we're through. She's reminded us about it once.
The path out to the trash pile and laundry shed. Always negay when we ask when they're going to butcher the next goat. The tall scented geraniums the turtle always levels instead of eating grass. The pastry shop across the street . . .
Ugh, the pastry shop across the street. "Misrak Pastrey." It was my favourite eatery until the young staff got a little too familiar. I have no idea where it came from. I don't feel like I do anything obnoxious or attention-getting or different than anyone else. Except maybe we're less demanding because we don't know how to insist like everyone else does. Anyway, at one point we ended up waiting about 35 minutes for breakfast and finally I went in and cancelled and said we didn't have time to eat anymore, at which point they handed it to me right there. The waiter, this cute young guy who I generally like, invented a story about how we ordered something and refused it so the kitchen had to make us two breakfasts, when Abaineh showed up and we told him what was going on. Then the next day, not wanting
to completely sever ties with the closest breakfast alternative to the hotel, I went in to get some bread. The whole place pivoted and watched, nothing unusual. But then whole staff started laughing, the waiter guy looked at me and ran out of the room, and one of the counter girls, the one who always gets right in my face and says, "I love you," and laughs, asked
in front of the entire watching café, why certain parts of my anatomy were so small, while gesturing to her own, the whole staff laughing their heads off.
Come on. The last time that was an issue was in grade seven at Aweres school. Stupid girls chased each other in front of the boys snapping each other's bra straps to prove they had them. I stood with my back to the brick wall and wished I lived on a different, puberty-less, planet. (At Aweres school I also learned I didn't know how to make a fist--only someone who had never swung one would tuck their thumbs in.)
I rolled my eyes at the Misrak people and turned my back and walked out. And walked across the street to our room and raged at Andy for the idiocy of some people.
Two days earlier we were walking down one of the side roads to get some fruit, and an insistent begging woman I had passed by ran up behind me and caught hold of me through my shirt by my bra strap. She was quite strong, and let it snap back when I turned to see what was going on. It's hard to describe the kind of attention you get on the street here. I mean, its not hard to describe--its hard to imagine unless you've felt something like it.
EVERYONE is watching you. Everyone you look at you make eye contact with. Everyone saw the lady snap my strap. Probably only many of them, but it seemed like all, laughed. (Ok, as did I, but it was still embarrassing. Jeez.)
This has maybe been sounding a little negative. Every moment seems like a conflict between inflated expectations for helping/giving/fixing things and at the same time being a helpless (unless you speak more language than I do) target. My dignity is often lost. I don't like that. I'm lonely for people who don't want something from me and who don't want to laugh at me.
There's a cat in heat on our doorstep. She makes noises like I've never heard before.
posted by Johanna Buchert Smith at 2:42 PM
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