My eyes opened at 6:44. I reclosed
them and rolled over to hug my pillow. I frowned at the discovery of a trio of
new bites on my arm. The side I sleep on is irregularly polka dotted from ribs
to knees. Oh well. I straightened my bed and smooshed the flea that scurried
over the sheets. An orange T-shirt today will do, with brown pants and a
Rastafarian headband. I ate a bowl of last night’s rice and an apple as I read
through the book of Esther. What an amazing young lady. What an amazing God.
I left my house in my red plaid
flats and bag over my shoulder. Walking to the bajaj station is always interesting. The people never tire of
seeing a ferenge (foreigner). They
are surprised every time. Boys hanging out of cars yell going by, “Baby! Where
you go? I love you.” Those shoulder to shoulder with me stare as they walk.
People along the side of the road watch me wide eyed. Others walk past and
intentionally bump into me or lean over and whisper, “Ferenge”. Yes, I know. I
finally reach the bajaj. A bajaj is a motorcycle with a tricycle
type cart over top of it. They are known for tipping, and every time I enter
one I know I could surely die. The driver packs us in like meat in a tamale and
we scoot into traffic, both dodging and racing larger vehicles. I pay him 1 birr and 40 cents for the 2 mile ride.
(Equal to about 8 cents). I walk across the street and down the road to the
place where the taxi will come. There are about 50 people waiting on the
street. A tall smirking man flirts with me from the pole he leans on. “Hello.
What is your name? Sister. Where are you come from? Where do you go now? Hello.
Sister. Are you fine? Where are you go?” I keep my eyes forward and do not
answer his questions. Eventually he gives up, shuts up, and goes away to annoy
someone else.
The first taxi comes. The mob runs
altogether next to it as it decides where to stop. Everyone tries to pour into
the taxi at the same time, reminding me of sand in an hourglass, except all the
sand cannot go through at one time. I am not aggressive enough, and join the
rest of the sand back on the street looking for the next taxi. Another comes,
and I dive in the pile with all my hay bale tossing, corn shelling, baby
carrying, barn boot stomping strength, and hit the bottom of the hourglass. On
to the next one. Taxis are blue and white minivans with a boy that hangs out
the open door or window hollering where they are going. If there are no traffic
police paying attention, they will pack as many of us into the 8 seating minivan
as we will fit. In mine today, there were 20. The lucky boy next to me
practically sat on the lap of a ferenge
the whole way. Abisha (Ethiopians) don’t
like fresh air blowing in their faces, so they close each window tightly and
smell each other instead. We stop a mile from our destination to get gas. I
endure the dirty looks to crack my window. In another mile I bang the side of
the wall. “Wede Jale.” (I’ll get off
here). I cross the street and pray I am not killed by the ever-flowing lawless
traffic. I am not killed. “Kore?” Someone asks me. I nod and he shoves me into
his taxi headed there. We stop six times to get more people to stuff in the
cracks. Finally I am in Kore.
I joined Strong Hearts, a ministry
I am also working with this year, for a devotional from 2 Kings. Then I went
out with the hospice team to do two home visits. We visited a woman who had
been in her home in her bed for 8 months with what they called bone
tuberculosis. (I have to look that up.) She has three children, no husband, no
income, and no strength to stand. The ministry is providing her with medicine,
food, and spiritual encouragement. We talked and prayed with her, and listened
as she cried. The next home was a couple in their nineties. The husband was a
recovered leper, and lay in bed with one leg, no toes, leaking eyes, and a
discouraged face. We also prayed with him, and promised to return to take him
to the hospital tomorrow.
I then headed over to my clinic to
play doctor. I bandaged legs and dispensed medicine and looked in mouths and
kissed boo boos until there were no more. I hung up my lab coat, locked the
door, and walked with my friend, Misiker, to her home for lunch. She speaks about
as much English as I speak Amharic, but we still have a great time. Her sister
served us macaroni noodles mixed up with scrambled eggs. (I think the eggs were
mostly for color, to be honest.) We had three rounds of fresh roasted, pounded coffee,
and watched the news. Her mother taught me how to spin cotton into thread with
a drop spindle. P.S. I’m not very good. (I’m pretty sure it’s magic actually).
I gave nine kisses between the
three of them, left their home, dropped off some receipts at the office, and
boarded my first taxi for home. Eighteen people in this one. The bajaj driver tried to cheat me on the
price, but I’m a sharp ferenge. Home
again. I skyped with my beautiful sister, followed by my beautiful mother, drank a coke
and fell in bed. I hate coke. Put some hydrocortisone on a few of my flea
bites. Good night, Ethiopia. I will see you in the morning while my homeland
sleeps.
