Gunfo

I’ve yet to find a traditional Ethiopian dish that I crave. In fact, I don’t believe that I ever will. What I have found are a ton of concoctions that I would prefer not to sample again and at the top of that list is GUNFO. I was first introduced to this creation while in training. When my host Mom set before me a heaping dish of gunfo all I could do was pray that for every spoonful I ate, 10 more would vanish. Unfortunately, it seemed to behave more like the loaves and fishes!

Gunfo is a dish made of wheat flour and water that is boiled into a paste, shaped like a volcano, filled with homemade butter (kibe) and topped with a spoonful of berbery paste. Think play-doh with toppings. Given that I now cook for myself, one would think that it would be fairly easy to avoid gunfo, but no. At one point early on in my time at site, Aselef (my landlady) made gunfo for me and in an attempt to be polite I must have implied that I enjoyed it. I very much appreciated her thoughtfulness, but I’m continuing to reap the consequences of not being direct. Big mistake! Now I am either summoned out back to pick up my heaping bowl of the stuff or am given the powder to make my own with instructions to return and show them what I’ve made. Talk about no way out! One evening while entertaining Smith, Straw, and Megan, I heard a knock on the door and opened it to find Aselef with gunfo for a party of four! Perfect!

Smith, Me, Straw, and Megan

Ava’s First Haircut

A first haircut is a momentous occasion for parents here much like it is for us in the States. The tools, however, aren’t quite the same. Needless to say when I saw the razorblade appear I nearly freaked out. I was more uncomfortable and on edge than Ava was during the process. Somehow, Souwnet managed to shave Ava’s head without a nick…quite a feat as far as I’m concerned. I sure hope, though, that that is the first and last time I’m called on to serve as photographer for an infants first cut…or perhaps “hairshave” would be the better word.

Meskel

The Ethiopian calendar is chock full of Ethiopian orthodox holidays. Some I understand as they are the equivalent of our Christian holidays, others are unfamiliar. The holiday known as Meskel celebrates the finding of the true cross. Legend has it that a piece of the True Cross (the cross on which Jesus was crucified) was brought to Ethiopia in the 14th century and stashed away in the Gishen monastery. Whether fable or fact, the event is celebrated every year on September 17th (Ethiopian calendar). For me and about 4,000 other souls the festivities began on the eve of Meskel with a big gathering in the town square. I was told that the event would consist of lighting a large demere (bonfire). I was not told that I would give up what felt like a year of my life waiting for the bonfire to begin. It had slipped my mind that this was an Ethiopian orthodox holiday and therefore the requisite prayers, chants, and dances would have to come first. After nearly 2 hours of standing shoulder to sweaty shoulder and experiencing a moment of panic while half of the crowd began to stampede (a very large OX decided to infiltrate the crowd), the bonfire was lit. Had I only had a box of graham crackers, a bag of marshmallows, and a Hershey chocolate bar I would have truly been a happy camper.

Saturday, the actual day of Meskel, began for me far earlier than I desired or anticipated. At 6am, I awoke to Hapti pounding on my bedroom window and yelling, “come.” I tried to play possum, but he wasn’t fooled. So…I grabbed my glasses, threw a jacket over my PJs, plastered an “I couldn’t be happier to be outside in the cold at 6am” smile on my face and set out to see what the commotion was all about. As it turns out, it is tradition to have a family bonfire the morning of Meskel, drink bunna, and yes….kill yet another unsuspecting sheep.

Gathered in the town square, I not so patiently wait for the bonfire.

Hapti, Tambarat and I attended the Meskel eve event

The demere (bonfire) was quite beautiful.

Our 6am group shot

Aselef prepares her bunna ceremony in the yard

I’m hoping this is the last of Little Bo Peep’s lost sheep or at least the last Ethiopian holiday for a while.

Market Daze

Getting used to the inconvenience of shopping has probably been one of my greatest adjustments. I truly miss the “one-stop-shop” at Meijer where prices are clearly marked and there is no need to haggle. Initially, shopping here meant preparing for war. I went to the market armed with a hand-made list detailing what fair prices might be for my usual purchases, a sturdy basket to lug all of my purchases, a bottle of water and an umbrella to avoid getting dehydrated or burnt, and most importantly a thick skin to deal with all of the comments.

Things have changed. I’m not so much an oddity anymore. I can roam the market fairly undisturbed. I can hear the whispered “she speaks Amharic” ripple ahead of me and most importantly I’m treated fairly. I no longer worry about being overcharged or having the “farenji tariff” applied to my purchases. The market has transformed from a battlefield into a place where I have a chance to catch up with the vendors that I have gotten to know. I also spend a lot less time searching for things. Although there are no “aisle markers” Meijer style, there is a bit of a system. The vegetable vendors congregate in one area, the grain sellers in another, and so on. I’ve also reached the point where I no longer do a lot of comparison-shopping. I buy vegetables from Addis, coffee from Getachew, string from Genet’s friend, kitchen supplies from Ghion, and odds and ends from the couple that I lovingly call my junk people.

I am fortunate to live in a town with a market that is open everyday excluding Sunday. Saturday, however, is the busiest day of the week. Hoards of people from the rural area descend upon town to buy, sell, trade and socialize…some walking as far as 4 hours by foot. Between the people, transport donkeys, and the assortment of livestock to be sold it is a veritable jungle. To preserve my sanity and avoid the hazard of getting run over by a wayward donkey, I avoid Saturdays like the plague.

A view of my market on a slow day

My vegetable lady…Addis.

While I purchase veggies from Addis, a crowd gathers round to listen and watch.

My junk lady.

Just a picture that I like of a part of the market that I don’t often frequent.

I love this picture and trust me, it’s not posed. I suspect that this kiddo and his donkey are waiting to be hired. I love how he not only protects himself from the sun, but his donkey as well

Genet and I are standing outside the stall of my bunna supplier...Getachew.

Isn’t the egg guy a cutie? He was so excited to have his picture taken, but needed to do a little primping (i.e. he combed his beard) before Smith and I were given the “all clear” to take his picture.

You, You, You!

Ethiopia has a reputation for bold children who love to chant “you, you, you” and “you, money” to any foreigner who happens to cross their path. One child chanting this once on one-day is not a problem. But 50+ children chanting this everyday, everywhere one goes is exhausting and annoying. I have no idea how the “you, you, you” got started, but it is seemingly here to stay. I, however, am on a personal mission to eradicate this from my town. It’s an uphill battle and I’m not sure that I’m making any progress but I have found some tactics that at least have a little bit of carryover.

I have realized that the camera is a powerful tool as is verbal recognition. When I walk the familiar route to town and cross paths with kids who have seen me a thousand times before and yet still cry out “you, you, you,” I don’t stop. But…as soon as I hear one of them call out my name or an appropriate greeting I stop and acknowledge that specific child and then coach the rest. And as for the camera, what a great motivator! I’m constantly asked to take photos. The kids have no desire for a printed picture, but desire the instant gratification that digital cameras can provide. So, this has become a part of my “you, you, you” eradication program as well. Call me by name or address me properly and I’ll stop to take your picture. Below are some pictures of town kids who are gradually figuring out more appropriate ways to greet an unfamiliar farenji face…or at least mine anyways.





This is a group of little tykes with big voices. It has taken me weeks to be able to walk by their corner and not be met with astoundingly loud cries of “farenji” and “you, you, you!” I realized that for this little gang my farenji name was a bit challenging to remember so I adopted a habesha name…Tigist (which means patience…how appropriate, eh!). They have latched onto “Tigist”. Unfortunately, I don’t always remember that they are addressing me!

Jobs that Kids Do

Initially when I arrived in town, I was bound and determined to do everything myself. I didn’t want to appear like the pampered farenji who required a slew of worker bees in order to survive. I still don’t want to have that reputation, but I’ve realized that kids and adults who ask for meaningful work are much better than those who just want a handout. So…I’ve changed my tactics and now often pay very nominal fees for things that I can do myself or really don’t need to have done, but do because it helps real people with real needs.

I now pause to have my shoes-shined, sit and drink tea while the mini-bus “broker” flags me down a bus, hire boys to cart my packages home from the post-office and pay Souwnet to do my wash on a weekly basis (that I’m glad to give up!). It feels good to help support those who have carved out a job in this job-less economy and its even more fun to hand out a hefty tip for a job well done.

The picture that I’m missing is the one that depicts Abi’s job. Because he was always underfoot and I had minimal toys, I was constantly searching for something to keep him occupied. One day it occurred to me that he might enjoy having a job and that’s when I introduced him to my “sheep food bucket” which is full of scraps that need dumping. That was one of the best ideas I’ve ever had. He was so excited and so proud of the fact that he had a job. And boy was he thorough. He would dump it, check, whack it against the ground to dislodge anything hanging on and then would promptly return to the compound to wash the bucket. Now when Abi bops over one of the first things he asks is, “is the sheep bucket full?”


Asirtsehi shines my shoes outside of the post-office. Shoe shining is a popular business and there is definitely a market for it given the amount of dust or mud that coats our shoes. Typically, one is charged 1birr (roughly 10 cents) for this service.

These boys cut grass and sell it alongside the road. Pretty ingenious given that most grass is free for the taking…provided that you beat the cows to it. Grass, such as this, is used for bunna ceremonies. I bought it because Gigi said that if I sprinkled this all over my house that the fleas would flee. Consequently I bought these 2 boys out of everything they had for the grand sum of 3 birr (roughly 30 cents…which Tambarat thought was too much) and paid them 2 birr each for walking it to my home. Unfortunately, the fleas didn’t flee, but my home did smell like a freshly cut lawn for days.

No matter how I might have tried, I would never have succeeded in carrying all of the stuff that this guy carted for me.

Real Men Knit

Tambarat’s father (who Tambarat kindly refers to as the “dictator man”) couldn’t wait to impress me with his knitting prowess. Reluctantly I handed over the needles and sent a prayer Heavenward that he wouldn’t undo 5 months of work. I can knit, but I’m not good with the whole knitting-disaster-recovery-process. Much to my amazement (and relief), he did know what he was talking about. Someday, when I’m huddled under my hand-knit blanket, I can gaze at row #302 and fondly recall that real men (at least Ethiopian ones) can knit!

Enkutatash—Part II

Oh…my New Year celebration isn’t over yet!!! After eating a full meal at Gigi’s parent’s home, we walked around the corner to Tadeseh’s home and repeated the process step for step. And then, we traipsed down the road a bit (not far enough to burn the calories from 2 full meals or to generate any sort of hunger) and, yes, went through the entire process again…hand washing, appetizer, fried sheep (or raw if you would prefer), hand washing, popcorn, and bunna. My gut was full to bursting, and yet refusing to eat is commensurate with a slap in the face. So…I ate. I did put my foot down when the plate of raw liver appeared. No way…no how. For Getachew’s two young girls and Gigi’s Mom, they were perfectly fine with this as they had no desire to share.

For me, Ethiopian New Year was a day full of surprises…interesting food…and fabulous hospitality. Whether the feast is meager or plentiful, the adage “what’s mine is yours” is something that all Ethiopians hold dear. Today was no exception.




Me and my dear friend Gigi



Amela, Simegne, Gigi, and Yimegne

I love the Ethiopian tradition of hand washing. Due to the lack of running water in most households, I’m sure this custom was born out of necessity, but I think there is something special about helping to wash each other’s hands.

I’ve never tried to teach a 4 year old how to crochet, but Yemisirech was bound and determined to try.

No…this isn’t a kool-aid mustache on Yemisirech, but something I’ve coined “liver lips”














On our way to house #3. Gigi (far left) and Yemegne (next to me) our wearing the traditional “Habesha camis.” Many of the women continue to wear the traditional dress on special occasions, but I see very few men who sport their traditional outfit.