03.11.04
Took Mamush to dinner tonight and got him his own plate of injera. Andy and I usually split one. We all lined up at the water bucket off to the side to wash our hands, and he scrubbed and scrubbed until a guy behind us finally told him, "bekka"--enough. He scarfed most of his meal and drank a whole bottle of Pepsi. He also insisted on feeding each of us some of his "potato chips," and shared his aleecha with Andy. I was already too full. Each of our plates came with a full, long green chili on it. Mamush took a bite of his and then hucked it over the wall to his pals who were waiting without. We gave his ours to do the same with, but it was a bad aim and it landed inside. We split the popcorn that arrived after the injera, with Mamush
discreetly licking the plate when we'd already stood up and passed him to go pay. At that point I foolishly pulled out the 100 birr note we had, crisp and clean and new. It was all the change we had. He wanted to hold it, inspect each side, hold it up to the light and look through it.
We had Wynerg wrap the rest of his rolled-up injera and sauce in newspaper for takeaway. While we were waiting for the change, Mamush picked off pieces of the newspaper wrapping with his teeth and mouthed them into spitwads which he projected a considerable distance in the air. He also kept pointing to my shirt, I thought. I tried to figure out what he was motioning. The words on my shirt? The colour? No and no. He finally touched me where he had been pointing: my breast. What? I withdrew in weirded out surprise. Andy pulled down Mamush's shirt and pointed out his tiny little black nipple as if to say, "It is this." What in the world? Mamush may not speak, but he's an eight-year-old street kid and this is certainly not the first time he's seen a woman's shape. I of course assume he's indicating the same whatever the Misrak girl felt she had to indicate. It was weird. Like he wasn't laughing or embarrassed, and he poked them in front of Andy and this other guy in the restaurant. What was going on?
Mamush doesn't talk around us. We thought he couldn't talk for a long time. He doesn't seem to know any English except Come on!, as unlikely as that is for a street kid in Soddo. (I mean they should at least know mother, father, one birr, feenuts (which they sell unshelled by the handful), and at least one unpleasant directive.) So he only uses gestures around us, like a mute mime. He gets pretty elaborate with them, which can be amusing. We did have
qualms about the precedent we were setting with him, and the fact that we didn't bring in the other two kids with us. And then I pulled out that 100 birr note. Oy. It's difficult to know. Anyway, it's over now. As Andy says, Mamush has a special relationship with the Orbis feuringes.
The director at the school we were by today crossed the road to where we were doing exams and approached Andy and I. Andy exits when he smells a solicitation, so I heard him out myself. He explained their need for money to support the school's HIV club, etc. They could use anything. Even tires for the bikes they use. Would we give some? I told him the line I've
rehearsed to myself, to Andy, to other people who have asked us. My husband and I have decided while we are here that we are only supporting the organization we are with, as we are unable to support every worthy cause we come across. Half valid, half lame. He continued to be very polite and asked if we were with the Lions club. No, I told him, this is a research project from an American university, not a charity organisation unfortunately. Did I
have contact with other organisations? he asked, and if possible, could I let them know about their need. I asked how I or they would contact him. Was there a telephone number? Or PO Box? He sort of laughed/snorted and explained carefully that this was a remote area, there are no telephones, duh. So how would they contact you? I asked. If they will come to the
school, they may come into my office and we can talk, he said. I will try I said. Then he thanked me and left. It was so polite and formal and sincere, it made my heart ache. I watched him walk away and thought of the all the different things we waste, of all the budgets wards and other orgs. have for plastic tableclothes and doughnuts and crappy ice cream. It just isn't fair. Abundance may never be equally distributed, but at the very least we have to realise that abundance is no excuse for waste.
Lots of people ask us for money, but this man was different. He wasn't begging. He was filling out a grant application.
discreetly licking the plate when we'd already stood up and passed him to go pay. At that point I foolishly pulled out the 100 birr note we had, crisp and clean and new. It was all the change we had. He wanted to hold it, inspect each side, hold it up to the light and look through it.
We had Wynerg wrap the rest of his rolled-up injera and sauce in newspaper for takeaway. While we were waiting for the change, Mamush picked off pieces of the newspaper wrapping with his teeth and mouthed them into spitwads which he projected a considerable distance in the air. He also kept pointing to my shirt, I thought. I tried to figure out what he was motioning. The words on my shirt? The colour? No and no. He finally touched me where he had been pointing: my breast. What? I withdrew in weirded out surprise. Andy pulled down Mamush's shirt and pointed out his tiny little black nipple as if to say, "It is this." What in the world? Mamush may not speak, but he's an eight-year-old street kid and this is certainly not the first time he's seen a woman's shape. I of course assume he's indicating the same whatever the Misrak girl felt she had to indicate. It was weird. Like he wasn't laughing or embarrassed, and he poked them in front of Andy and this other guy in the restaurant. What was going on?
Mamush doesn't talk around us. We thought he couldn't talk for a long time. He doesn't seem to know any English except Come on!, as unlikely as that is for a street kid in Soddo. (I mean they should at least know mother, father, one birr, feenuts (which they sell unshelled by the handful), and at least one unpleasant directive.) So he only uses gestures around us, like a mute mime. He gets pretty elaborate with them, which can be amusing. We did have
qualms about the precedent we were setting with him, and the fact that we didn't bring in the other two kids with us. And then I pulled out that 100 birr note. Oy. It's difficult to know. Anyway, it's over now. As Andy says, Mamush has a special relationship with the Orbis feuringes.
The director at the school we were by today crossed the road to where we were doing exams and approached Andy and I. Andy exits when he smells a solicitation, so I heard him out myself. He explained their need for money to support the school's HIV club, etc. They could use anything. Even tires for the bikes they use. Would we give some? I told him the line I've
rehearsed to myself, to Andy, to other people who have asked us. My husband and I have decided while we are here that we are only supporting the organization we are with, as we are unable to support every worthy cause we come across. Half valid, half lame. He continued to be very polite and asked if we were with the Lions club. No, I told him, this is a research project from an American university, not a charity organisation unfortunately. Did I
have contact with other organisations? he asked, and if possible, could I let them know about their need. I asked how I or they would contact him. Was there a telephone number? Or PO Box? He sort of laughed/snorted and explained carefully that this was a remote area, there are no telephones, duh. So how would they contact you? I asked. If they will come to the
school, they may come into my office and we can talk, he said. I will try I said. Then he thanked me and left. It was so polite and formal and sincere, it made my heart ache. I watched him walk away and thought of the all the different things we waste, of all the budgets wards and other orgs. have for plastic tableclothes and doughnuts and crappy ice cream. It just isn't fair. Abundance may never be equally distributed, but at the very least we have to realise that abundance is no excuse for waste.
Lots of people ask us for money, but this man was different. He wasn't begging. He was filling out a grant application.
posted by Johanna Buchert Smith at 11:20 PM
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