There is however, one aspect of my life here that I have yet to welcome with open arms and I suspect I never will. My coping strategies have fallen short in this arena. No amount of visualization, humor, prayer, or sheer stubbornness has helped me to adjust and embrace what I like to refer to as the “your life is not your own” mindset. For an American who cut her teeth on individualism and is an honorary if not actual member of the “ME-generation,” this is a hard pill to swallow. Privacy, personal agenda, me-time and the infamous “personal bubble” truly are foreign concepts here. I know that my Ethiopian friends probably think me crazy…and I will be crazy if I don’t figure out how to cope with this! That I long for a solo-walk, want to hole up in my house for an afternoon of reading, and don’t need to be constantly surrounded by people is unfathomable to many of my Ethiopian friends. I’m definitely not a misanthrope…just a person who requires a modicum of space.
There is no better example of my “life is not my own” than the events that transpired a few weekends ago. Actually it was only a day…24 hours…a full revolution of the Earth on its axis. In the grand scheme of things—a relatively short period of time. In the moment—an eternity.
Aselef, my landlady, approached me on a Saturday afternoon asking if she could use my house for 2 hours on Sunday. It was a seemingly straightforward request that required a simple yes or no answer. Unfortunately, that is not how things work here. I desperately wanted and needed to say no. My home has become my haven. It’s the ONE place in this town where I can almost find a bit of privacy (almost is the key word). I had planned on a “me-day”….reading, writing, cleaning, organizing, movie watching, etc. But I knew “no” was not an acceptable answer; nor could I even begin to explain a “me-day” and my need for it. So…reluctantly, and before a host of on-lookers (Aselef always makes requests to me with peer support in tow) I acquiesced. We agreed on the hours of 12p-2p, all the while knowing that her 2-hour request was probably a gross understatement.
Sunday dawned bright and beautiful. I was in the middle of a bucket shower and planning how I would enjoy my remaining few hours of privacy, when Aselef began pounding on the back door. Time—9am…a mere 3 HOURS before our agreed upon time. Before I could get out of the shower and dressed, she was pounding on my bedroom window. So, while I finished my morning ablutions, she and a small army of workers bustled in and out of my house. They rearranged my living room, carted in armfuls of cut grasses (my house smelled like a freshly cut field of hay), moved in no less than a stack of 50 plates and glasses, large clay pots of Tella (the local brew), and a stack of “fat injera.” It truly looked like they were prepared to wait out a storm of grand proportions. It was at this time, that I was given a job—to remove all of my possessions from the living room and hallway. Books, stacks of magazines, blankets, computer, shoes, and a sundry of other items had to be carted into my bedroom. It was there that I took refuge…for the day. At 3:20p I ventured out (nature calls) and discovered the party to be in full swing. At 4:30p, I had had enough. Although a few stragglers remained sipping the last of the Tella, I began cleaning. Let me tell you, when the farenji picks up the broom and dustpan, things begin to happen.
After 8 hours and 150 guests, I finally reclaimed my home, but not my sanity. “What’s mine is yours” is a fine sentiment, but in practice it’s a bit much. I’m sure that someday I shall look back at this moment in time, this clash of cultures and smile. At the moment, however, I’m not laughing!
Unfortunately these pics don’t come close to capturing the chaos that descended upon me this day. When the party was in full swing, I was hiding. And, I didn’t think to take pics until the clean up was in process.
