Burp Cloth

Uh Oh, Micah, your drool is going to drip…oh wait nevermind, you got your “spit up” rag underneath.

 

Micah is always happy to hear that the Badgers won, but it is especially sweet when they beat his Grandpa Rockey’s Wolverines.

Crash and Burn...Rookie

Well, Tuesday afternoon gave me my first crack at real translation and as I think back on it, I can’t help but smile at how it all unfolded.

 

Let me give you some background. Our co-worker here (we’ll call him Larry) is involved in two projects: he is involved in planting and providing support for the Gmz churches while at the same time, running a private school for the Gmz. In addition to his primary school in the mornings, he also sponsors Gmz people who want to participate in the Mandela Distance Education Program (I’m not sure of its actual title. This program allows for people to complete grades 5, 6, 7 and 8 long-distance (kinda like an internet course without the internet)). Anyway, the Mandela tuition costs 250 birr (about $15), which most Gmz are unable to pay. So, Larry offers to pay their registration fee in exchange for “X” number of hours of work throughout the semester. What type of work? Well, maybe cutting grass or building a fence, or painting. But, shhh…, the inside scoop is that Larry doesn’t really have enough work to fill the hours that these Mandela students “owe” him.

 

Another important aspect of this story is that on Friday afternoons, Larry is holding an evangelism training class with about a dozen of the Gmz church members. The major goal of this training is to teach them a series of stories which chronologically tell the story of the Bible (ie. the Gospel), which they can then share from village to village. These stories had been roughly translated into Gmz by one of Larry’s staff (a non-Gmz person), but when I came across one and tested it with my Gmz language teachers, I found it riddled with ambiguity and down-right errors. Bringing this to Larry’s attention (keep in mind that Larry doesn’t know much of the Gmz language), he immediately saw the need to have these stories tested and revised by actual Gmz people before teaching them to the evangelism class. But, then wait a second, Larry had a thought. Seven of the nine Mandela students who owe Larry work time are also involved in the evangelism training! Why not use them as story checkers and editors, which will, at the same time, give them a great start on learning the stories! Good idea? Some would say Larry is brilliant…well, at least Larry would.

 

Ok, so Larry came to me asking how to set his guys up to check these stories and I turned the tables on him by asking if I could work WITH them. After all, what better way to learn Gmz than to lead these guys in the revision process, not to mention helping me get some translation experience before we jump into actual Scripture translation? So, it was a win, win situation…at least until I showed up on Day 1.

 

Here’s where the fun began. During the course of introductions and an explanation of the work we were to be doing, I could tell that I was in trouble because I seemed to have left my Amharic at home. By that I mean, my Amharic was lousy, which, for some reason, is not uncommon when speaking with Gmz people (most of whom also have lousy Amharic). So, finally we jumped into the work. Now, looking back, my first mistake was to listen to advice from “The Sound of Music,” for in this case, “the beginning” is a very BAD place to start! I was given the story set for the New Testament which began with “The Announcement of John’s Birth.” Had I read through the story before coming, I may have chosen to start elsewhere. But I didn’t. The first line of the story should have been simple. It read “This is the story of the announcement of John’s birth.” After about 15 minutes of pressing these guys for the word “announcement” in Gmz, I realized something: The word “announcement” and the word for “story” are not exactly, but virtually identical. So, it was confusing to start off “this is the declaration of the declaration of John’s birth.” More work was needed on this but having already burned a lot of time on it, I decided to go to the next sentence: “Over 400 years after the time of Malachi, the people of Israel had become many.”

 

Now, I knew how to say “after 400 years” and “after Malachi lived,” but I had never tried to say both in one “after” clause. The rough draft translation was not clear so I attempted a few different constructions and each time was met with their disapproval. They weren’t understanding what I was doing so I switched to something within their culture. Right now is harvest time for the small millet (taak’a).  So, they cut their taak’a and then put it on a platform (daanza) in the sun for drying. After a month of drying, they thresh it. So, I presented them with this idea, “one month after building the daanza, the taak’a is threshed.” Understanding the situation better, they gave me their answer “we say, ‘the daanza is built, after one month the taak’a is threshed.’” Ok, that makes sense, but you made two full sentences, can’t it be done in one? Again I attempted what I thought should be close, but with no success. They kept changing it to the two sentences, as before. Why not just go with two sentences? Well, in our story, this clause is really just a time stamp. If we started the story with “Malachi lived/lives,” then we are putting him into focus when he really is not AT ALL a character in this story. To a culture with zero Bible background literacy, such a move would be VERY confusing. Instead, the point of this time stamp is to say that God had not spoken through a prophet in over 400 years, but before making a major revision like that, I would need to talk with Larry. Besides, I had already spent more than 30 minutes on all of this, I decided that we should once again skip to the next sentence.

 

Grabbing my paper, I quickly checked the clock: 4:55pm. Five minutes remained. Could we at least have one sentence to show for Day 1? So I hoped. My first attempt at translation had already crashed into failure, but reading the next sentence in the story was equivalent to it bursting into flames! It read, “There were so many Levites that they had to cast lots to decide who would go into the Temple to burn incense.” Levites? Casting lots? Temple? Burning incense? I looked up at the thoroughly unimpressed students, smiled and said, “Oh look at the time, we’ll pick up again tomorrow.” Although my insides were all knotted up with frustration, I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the last hour. “Hang in there, rookie!”

 

Glad Its Not Me!

This morning, I decided to start reading Nehemiah simply because I remember Dr. David Jeremiah once preaching an excellent sermon on discouragement from the book of Nehemiah. Yea, I need that word now. But as I think about my circumstance I realize that it is not exactly like Nehemiah’s. His oppression and discouragement came mostly from opponents, which thankfully I don’t have right now. Further differences are seen in that Nehemiah had the difficult task of motivating a discouraged work force, which is a whole lot harder than my task of motivating just one discouraged person: myself. The point of similarity, though, between me and Nehemiah is that we both faced ENORMOUS tasks that must be accomplished. Nehemiah started with rubble and had to build a strong wall around God’s chosen city. I start with the feebleness of my mind and limited strength and have to build a usable understanding of the Gmz language.

Ok, honesty in communication means telling the upbeat, fun stories as well as giving you glimpses of the tough times. And yet, there’s no real value in just straight complaining or begging for pity from those who only hear my side of the story. So I will attempt to walk this fine line and write with honesty, knowing that there are a few of you who will actually take the time to read all of what follows (it is L O N G), and then possibly some who will translate it into a matter of serious prayer, which I know we need not just now, but always.

Wohis is my language teacher on Mondays and Tuesdays, but this past Sunday after church he came to me and said that his grandmother had died and that there was a funeral the next day (Monday). Sensing a good opportunity to get out of the house and into a Gmz community, I asked if I could come with him in place of our class time. He agreed and we arranged to meet on the road at 9am. I purposely showed up 20 minutes late and Wohis was not there. I went to his house and was told that he had left. Surprised that he had left without me, I thought, “Maybe I’ll drive down the road and see if I can catch up to him.” Not far along the way, there he was, walking TOWARD our meeting point, telling me that my being 20 minutes late was not late at all, it was still too early. No problem, he jumped in the truck and we continued to the place where the path took off to the village. Things were good as we hightailed up a steep hill/mountain, although it was brutal on my cardio-vascular. After 15 minutes or so, we made it to a village that had only a few people in it. We sat down on some stools and were given keya to drink. “This isn’t much of a funeral,” I thought as we sat there talking with some kids. Then, we got up and moved up to another house. Staying there only a minute, we headed up the mountain again to another village where from a long ways off I could see several hundred Gmz people amassed, all sitting in little groups around the village. As we approached what was obviously the main house, four armed guys stepped in our path - not that guns were uncommon there, probably 70 percent of the guys had big guns, including Wohis (to help you visualize, these are not handguns, or rifles, or shotguns, I don’t know what to call them – it’s the type that is about three feet long and has the ammunition clip curving out from the barrel just in front of the trigger area). Ok, so these armed guys confronted us. Wohis was greeted nicely, but the other two guys with us were obviously interrogated about something – none of which I understood. Individually, they agreed on something and each paid a “birr” (about 6 cents). Wohis also paid a birr and said something about me and so I guessed (correctly) that the non-related guests had to pay in order to party (which is really what followed). Then we did a formal greeting of the elders and each gave two birr to them – why? I didn’t know at the time, I was just told to do it. We went inside and were given more keya to drink (yippee). After about 30 minutes in there, we went outside and sat in one of the big groups. At about 11:30, Wohis, who was being a pretty good host, told me that the cow was going to be slaughtered at 1pm and then we could leave at 2pm. That was stretching the amount of time that I wanted to be there, after all, the day before Wohis had said “I have to go to a funeral in the morning but I can come in the afternoon if you like.” So I figured I would be home sometime at or shortly after lunchtime. But, in the name of cultural sensitivity, I agreed to leaving around 2pm after the slaughter. To speed up the story, 1pm passed, 2pm passed and after all that keya, I had to pee like a racehorse. But, being the center of attention anyway, I knew it would create a disturbance in the force for me to get up, walk to the edge of the village and post up like countless other males were doing throughout the day. Nevertheless, knowing that there was no way to nonchalantly do it, I stood up and announced my need to pee. Thankfully, a crowd of kids did NOT follow me and it was very nice to stretch my legs which repeatedly had fallen asleep having been cramped by the 6-inch stool I had been awkwardly sitting on all morning. Finally, around 2:30, Wohis said it was time to eat (though the cow had still not been slaughtered). We went into a house where we were served keya, nga, kohwa and oopa. The oopa is like a lima bean, but the other stuff is entirely foreign and not at all pleasant. The nga and kohwa are made out of millet and is very similar to the sedo (play-dough and snot) that I wrote about in a May 2009 blog. I choked it down with a smile on my face, glad that I didn’t have to eat it all the time. Ok, so we’ve eaten, that means we can go, RIGHT? That’s what I thought when we exited the house, but Wohis then said something that I knew right away was trouble “Travis, sit here on this stool, I will come back.” Oh great.

Now, so far, the story sounds like I am just getting tired and needing to be patient, but let me fill in two gaps I’ve left out. Keya is a slightly fermented grain-based drink, arike is a whiskey with a very high alcohol content. At any Gmz celebration, both keya and arike flow freely. Being in the midst of the gun-bearing Gmz people as they got drunker and drunker was wearing me down emotionally. Yes, this “funeral” is an important cultural event for me to observe, but like most Gmz celebrations, they just turn into gatherings of drunkards waving their guns and jumping around to the beat of a drum. These guns are loaded, decades old and known to misfire, so why would you sit with it between your legs, the barrel pointed at your face? And why would you all gather in a circle and dance with your gun in your hand, carelessly pointed at the crowd on the other side of the circle? Ok, enough on the guns and alcohol. Now, Wohis had left me, where did he go that he didn’t want me to go with him? The non-confrontational side of me didn’t want to know.

The second detail that I haven’t said yet is that being in a 100% Gmz environment was not at all encouraging to my language learning. It would be generous to say that I understood 10% of what was being said around and to me. It’s as if Nehemiah spent 3 months of hard labor building the wall only to step back and see that his work resulted in a 1 foot tall ledge which served only as a speed bump for any approaching army. Exhausted and frustrated by my inability to do anything more than entertain people with my attempts to say single words or small phrases, I eventually just fell silent and stared at the ground – a position of defeat.

Let me finish the story before I comment on it. So I sat on the stool where Wohis left me, gearing myself up for how I might leave, when one of the two guys that had come with us, now sloshed, came and invited me into another house. Is Wohis in there? I wasn’t sure, so I hesitantly followed him inside and unfortunately was fed more Gmz food. Yipee… For the next 40 minutes, this guy kept saying over and over, “It is good that you have come to live here. You know, it was my father that gave you foreigners the land where you are living and it is good that you have come too. As my father’s son, I tell you that you can stay as long as you want, 10 years, 15 years, if you like. It’s good for you to be here. Now if we just wait a little longer, the cow will be slaughtered and then we can get our meat and we can go back home together in your car. You know it was my father who…” I learned two things from this guy. First, I learned that the two birr I had given at the beginning meant that I got a portion of meat from the cow to be slaughtered. And second, I learned that this guy, who was now as drunk as a skunk, was showing me hospitality and repeating nice things so that he could get a ride back to his village. It was clear that he had come to the “funeral” just to get trashed and I wondered how many of the people there were just like him. Now, these guys would not claim to be Christians, so why should I expect them to act like one right? Right. But that doesn’t make me any more comfortable with it. Maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s being in the heart of Gmz darkness that was breaking my heart. Maybe…but I don’t want to give myself too much credit. After all, by this point, I was down-right crabby.

Oh great, just as I was getting noticeably upset, word came that the ox had been slaughtered, but the way in which my sloshed friend told me made me doubt its truth. Nevertheless, it pacified me for a few more minutes. At about 4pm, I just got up and left the house, ignoring everybody’s attempts at stopping me. When outside, countless people tried to make me sit down again, even by force. When I refused for the 200^th time, I forcefully said “I want Wohis.” I figured I should tell him that I was leaving.

He was located in a house at the far end of the village and when he came out to talk with me I simply told him I was leaving. “You can’t,” he said mater-of-factly. Why? “Well, what if some bad person is waiting by the car to harm you, you can’t go alone.” His concern was valid since a nice shiny vehicle on the side of the road was a great sign which read ‘wealthy person soon to return and handsomely reward the patient thief.’ Wohis continued, “If you just wait a little longer they will slaughter the cow and you can go, you already paid didn’t you?” I responded immediately and confidently, “You can have my meat, I’m leaving,” not quite sure whether I was bluffing or not. After all, I had heard rumors of the slaughter being at 6pm or even 7pm, which was after dark, totally out of the question for me. Wohis, who had been a good host with the exception of the last hour, knew I was tired, upset and serious about leaving. “Shall we go? I will walk with you to the car and then come back.” Perfect, and with me leading the way down the mountain, we arrived at the truck about twenty minutes later, and thankfully Wohis’ gun had no reason to leave his shoulder. “I’ll come to your house tomorrow at 9am, just like normal,” he said to me before I drove away. Well, now as I write, it is 12:30 and still no Wohis, so that didn’t happen. I hope he is ok, or maybe, knowing that funerals last several days, I was not supposed to expect him to show up anyway.

Now, let me conclude with the REAL chigger that’s under my skin (and Andrea’s too). In the past three months, we have used Micah as an excuse to stay close to home (which is a pretty good excuse given the previous blog “The Ugly Face of Malaria”). I’ve been to the villages only a few times and although we have had many people coming to our door, it is obvious that we need to be spending more time out among the Gmz. Our introverted personalities are fighting against us and, thus far, our love for the Gmz people hasn’t broken us free to make us actually WANT to go hang out in a village. With our teachers coming 5 days a week, we are picking up some language, but we are a long way from actual communication. So, here I was, sitting in the midst of hundreds of Gmz people, hearing only Gmz language and yet I was miserable most of the time! Arggg.

I know, I know, I know. The solution is easy, “get out there and put yourself in uncomfortable situations for the sake of the call (work).” But two of the problems run deeper than these easily resolvable surface things. First, the haunting question, will I ever learn the Gmz language to really communicate in it? You may say, “of course you will, just look at Amharic?” And I respond “Yea, that’s MY strongest argument!” Our Amharic is good enough to get by, but you won’t see me trying to preach in it and when a good Amharic preacher preaches, I’m still barely keeping my head above water. One of my colleagues assures us that Amharic is one of the hardest languages in the world and that learning Gmz would be different, but days like this take me right back to the same frustrations we found with Amharic. Will we ever really speak and understand Gmz well enough that I would not just get along but to be able to critique and fine tune the use of precise wording in Scripture translation? At one point, in a moment of optimism, I said to Andrea “I have the easiest job in the world!” but these last 24 hours have changed that tune to what others have been singing about our work “Glad it’s not me!” -Yet it is me!- Arggg! All languages are messy and I’m not sure learning Gmz deserves to be in an easier category because it’s still the reprogramming of a stubborn mind to process things very differently. That’s the first underlying cause of my present cloud of discouragement.

 

The second was the overall feeling that I had yesterday at the “funeral.” Even if I had the translated Scriptures here for them to read or hear, would they even care? I had my notebook with me and for a short time, some people were interested in me writing things down and reading the translated story of The Very Hungry Caterpillar, but the novelty was extremely short-lived and interest quickly died away. Apart from God’s Spirit beaconing the Gmz to Himself, I see that Scripture is useless to the vast majority of the Gmz people. Then again, apart from God’s Spirit, nothing can really be eternally accomplished. And so, the name of the game is “faithful perseverance.” Not knowing the outcome and with no guarantee of success, we strive toward the goal to which we’ve been called. Whether or not that work will produce fruit beyond mere words printed on paper; that is not up to me; though it is my honest prayer. Nehemiah had a MASSIVE task and yet the Lord gave him and his workers success. Andrea and I have a different yet equally MASSIVE task ahead of us, might the Lord grant us the same favorable outcome. For apart from His help, it ain’t happening. Then again, with His help, there’s no stopping it! That’s the lesson Nehemiah is teaching me yet again.

 

The UGLY Face of Malaria

“Good, its Thursday morning,” I thought to myself, “Habtamu will be coming today and tomorrow so I can finally plow deeper into verb conjugations” (Habtamu is by far my best language helper when it comes to this). He showed up close enough to on time and after greeting him at the door, I began by asking him the name of the little lizard I had captured while he was swimming in our large water tank, a new word that I promptly forgot. We had bigger business today and so we quickly gravitated to the back patio where we dug right into the work. After about twenty minutes, I was pressing hard to find a word in Gmz for “must,” “need to” or “obligation” because up until this point, I have only been told the word “want” or “desire.” Unaware of the haunting irony that would soon surface, I started to explain a hypothetical situation to him: “Let’s say that a very close relative of mine dies, then I MUST go back to my country and…”

 

In the middle of my sentence, a woman’s voice broke in from outside the patio door, just out of view, “Habtamu, Habtamu.” Now, I prefer my workers to remain focused and so I’ve shut out other distractions pretty well, but this was a first, as normally a Gmz person, especially a woman, would not be so bold as to interrupt like this. Habtamu, remained seated, yet turned to face the doorway from which the voice came.  After a quick 30 second conversation, he turned back toward me and his facial expression alone told me that something was terribly wrong.

 

“My sister is dead.” Sharing in his surprise I asked a few questions. “When did she die?” “Just now, my wife ran to tell me.” “Was she sick?” “She just started to get sick last night,” he replied staring past me. “You must go,” I said pointing at my paper where I had written the Amharic word for “obligation.” Habtamu got up immediately, leaving his pen and notebook behind. Letting him out the door, I stood and watched as he ran up the path.

 

There are many different types of malaria, but the grand-daddy of them all is P. falciparum, which quickly develops into deadly cerebral malaria. Habtamu’s sister, a young girl of about 4-5 years old, was one of many children in Habtamu’s village who very recently came down with malaria-like fevers. That same morning I made a run into the nearby town to bring another three feverish children to the doctor/pharmacist (one of which was the brother of the girl who had just died). The next day, when another child from this same village came down with high fevers to the point of seizures, our co-worker jumped in her vehicle and rushed to the doctor. The city health department was notified and, much to their credit, they immediately sent two guys hiking up the mountain to take samples of six additional fever-stricken children. Word came back the next day that all six of those blood tests showed P. falciparum malaria. That very afternoon, the government health guys motor biked in with a dozen or so treatment packets, which they gave to any child who even felt feverish.

 

Walking down the mountain back from the “funeral” for Habtamu’s sister on Friday afternoon, I couldn’t help but thank God again for the good health he has given our family, realizing anew that the beautiful landscape I saw all around was not a rose without it’s thorns. I recalled an article I read recently in TIME Magazine that said that malaria is the number one killer of children in Africa. I knew that this was only the beginning of its ugly face darkening the community in which we live. As the card which I wrote to Habtamu said “My soul find rest in God alone…He alone is my rock and my salvation…I will not be shaken.”

Something Just Jumped On My Face!

“Something just jumped on my face!” That’s what I muttered as I shot upright at about 4 am this morning. Andrea just laid there like a slug, it was her only defense (sorry, that’s an irresistible quote from the movie “A Christmas Story,” I am not trying to draw too close a comparison between my lovely wife and a slug – which by the way the Gmz classify as evil!) After a few seconds of no response from my wife, I made explicit the question I had thought my exclamation had implied, “Can you hand me a flashlight?”

 

Now this request of a middle-of-the-night flashlight was not at all new to Andrea, so I need to back up in my story a bit. Last week, shortly after going to bed, I jolted awake and requested Andrea’s flashlight not once, not twice, but three times in a row. I know what you are thinking, “why didn’t you move the flashlight to your side of the bed?” Well, I DO have a flashlight there on the end table by my head, but I wasn’t about the reach for it! After all, that is precisely where I distinctly saw a large praying mantis! October must be “praying mantis appreciation month” because they seem to be EVERYWHERE and in a strange way, we have enjoyed observing the drama of those who had moved onto our back porch. Though I never saw it, the situation reminded me of the “Meercat” animal TV show that my niece kept me updated on. On the first morning, there were two mantises (or is it manti?) and soon it was clear that we had one male and one female. By the next morning, another male had moved in; don’t ask me how any of them got in since our house is screened in quite well. Sometime in the afternoon on that second day, my faint remembrance of praying mantis trivia was confirmed – the larger female feasts upon the male after the mating process.

 

The ensuing drama unfolded over the course of about a week. Each consecutive day, more males moved onto our back porch and often times in the morning I would sweep up the spare wings and legs which were left over from the female’s lover/victim. The female was growing quite large until finally, on the morning of the 6^th day, having eaten five previous mates, it was the head of Ms. Mantis that lay on our back porch floor. The saga was over, and I promptly captured and evicted the five males who had so savagely avenged their gender-mates from previous days.

 

All that to say, somewhere during the week-long praying mantis drama, I had either dreams or hallucinations of them in our bed at night. These dreams are wonderfully enhanced by our current drug of choice: mefloquine. Now, some people take mefloquine because it’s a very effective malaria prophylaxis, but deep down most of us take it for its well- known and often joked about side effect - “vivid dreams.” At first, I was skeptical, but now, having been taking mefloquine for about three months, I definitely can’t deny that my dream-world contains full color action and adventure, at times juiced with emotional intensity (whether good or bad), and all the while deceptively REAL.

 

So, to bring these three stories together, the praying mantis fascination during the day in combination with the mefloquine side effect was causing me to gain the reputation of crying “wolf” (or “mantis”) with my sleepy wife. So, that explains why when at 4 am this morning, I mumbled “something just jumped on my face!” Andrea did little more than roll over and go back to sleep.  But, I was not convinced. Dream or no dream, the still-tingling scratches of tiny claws on my face did not let me lay back down without having a look. When I finally got Andrea’s flashlight, my case was vindicated. There, clinging to the side of our mosquito net, just above my head, was an obviously terrified bush baby. What’s a bush baby? Well, it’s like a mouse who inherited its bushy tail from a squirrel (Wikipedia it if you like). Andrea, finally believing my claim, sat up and we spent a few minutes watching the little guy run around inside our mosquito net until finally he found a way to escape, plopped onto the floor with an audible thud and disappeared. Unless that is, we hallucinated the whole thing together…hmmmm…I don’t think mefloquine is that powerful.

 

With the bush baby being nocturnal, it’s hard to locate them during the day. I wish I knew what room he had chosen to bed down in, but I don’t. So the question is: tonight when I go to bed, do I close our bedroom door to hopefully keep the bush baby out (and thus off my face!) or might that actually trap him into our room for another night of fun and games? On the other hand, if it was all a vivid hallucination, maybe I can ward off the bush babies by concentrating hard on cats or mouse traps tonight before going to bed. Hmmm…Life is an adventure…and during the malaria-ridden rainy season, it’s a rather “vivid” one.

Substitute Grandparents? Not Possible.

“This is Mike, who as the Translation Program Director, is our most direct boss here in Ethiopia…and Mike these are my in-laws, John and Sue.” John and Sue’s visit was full of many such introductions in any of the three languages we now juggle (helping to solidify the “in-law” terminology in both Amharic and Gmz). This particular introduction (with Mike) was unique in that John followed up the introduction with a very sincere comment, “Thank you for taking care of our kids.” Now this is an entirely appropriate remark to the man who has been a supportive and encouraging leader from day one, however, Mike heard the words from a different angle - “Taking care of your kids? Hey, does that mean I am not one of the kids anymore?”

 

Mike, as an outstanding member of the 40-something club, is like many of our co-workers who fall between the generational gaps with regard to us. He certainly is not old enough to be our parent; yet recognizing his 15 years of service in Ethiopia, we can’t help but put them into that “parental” category of respect. Granted, there are people of all ages in every community, where generations blend one into another without awkwardness. However, generational classification becomes an issue in a “mission” community where children commonly address their parents’ coworkers with familial terms. Now, that’s easy for our age-mates whom we can look to as brothers and sisters, or aunties and uncles for Micah. But, we join John on thin ice if we bump someone up the aging ladder, “Hey, give a BIG smile to Grandpa Mike!” I don’t see that going over well.

 

So, I suppose, to be on the safe side, everyone here is an “auntie” or “uncle” to Micah until they promote themselves to honorable title of “grandparent.” Better yet, why don’t we reserve the names “grandpa” and “grandma” for those who truly deserve them. Think about it. What makes a grandparent so GRAND? They give gifts, read books, sing songs, go on walks, make special treats, give more gifts and play and play and play…AND THEN they even lead by example at nap time! In summary, no definition of the English word “grandparent” is adequate without employing some form of the word “spoil.” Yes siree, Grandma and Grandpa Rockey have proven themselves to be GREAT grandparents (yes, John, that is intended to make you feel old!). Now, even Micah knows better and can attest to the universal truth: nobody spoils better then a real GRANDparent! These mission community substitutes just don’t cut it.

 

Ding Dong

“Ding dong…” our make believe doorbell rang the other night when a pirate, a spy, Snow White, Toothless the Night Fury (from “How to Train a Dragon”), Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz, and a Babe Ruth showed up on our door step with three words we didn’t expect to hear in Ethiopia “Trick or Treat!”

 

It wasn’t our idea, but we’re glad someone else had it! Allison, her husband Craig and their three kids live and work among the Gmz in a place about 3 hours from our home at Gesses. They had planned a trip which landed them spending the night in our compound on November 2. With three different houses occupied by three American families totaling 7 children, Allison’s idea of Halloween at Gesses was an easy sell to the rest of us (especially when she offered to provide the candy!).

 

Micah was too little to stake his claim on any of the candy, but he wasn’t too little to get into the fun of dressing up. After much deliberation, he decided that he wanted his first Halloween costume to be the “Very Hungry Caterpillar” from the book that his dad has been borrowing to use in his language learning sessions. So, after his evening nap, he was rolled up in a green blanket and given feet and antennae. And walla, Halloween at Gesses.

Camel Crossing

This really isn’t a story, just a picture that I wanted to share with ya’ll. After visiting a place called Awash National Park with some fellow Cheeseheads during our first few months in Ethiopia, we wanted to share the experience again with Andrea’s parents. Awash is in a lowland area to the east of Addis Ababa, an area where a famous people called the “Anear” live (I changed the name of the people group because they are a notoriously hostile people, if you want to Google them just change the “near” in their name to its opposite). While most Ethiopians use donkeys for transporting heavy loads, the “Anear” are known, among other things, for their tending and working of camels. We knew that the trip to Awash would find some camels alongside and even in the road, but we didn’t expect to see this! Apparently, the driver of this large truck ignored the non-existent “camel crossing” sign and came barreling down the road. I don’t know what stopped him first, his brakes or huge camel bodies that had lodged themselves under his front tires. That’s right, “bodies” is plural. We aren’t sure whether there were two or three camels smeared on that stretch of road, but we are sure it’s more than one! As we drove past and rolled down the window to vent the stench of rotting camel (for it had happened some days prior), I couldn’t help but think of the fate of that driver. I’m sure he survived the accident, but I wonder if he survived the wrath of an enraged Anear camel owner, whose murderous reputation far outweighs that of the rightfully feared Gmz. Just another reminder that driving in Ethiopia is serious business. May the Lord make our paths straight, and clear!

 

Drinking Dirty Dishwater

“Woah” I exclaimed as the sleeping cow lifted his head less than two feet in front of me. The absolute darkness of the night couldn’t be exaggerated as I led Andrea’s parents up the path to Wohis’ village. I flicked on my tiny “bargain-bin” flashlight only to see the shadows of a dozen or so cows who had bedded down for the night just outside the village. Of course, I had seen stakes in the ground here during daylight visits but with this being my first visit to a Gmz village after sundown, I knew that these bovine roadblocks would not be the only surprise that awaited us.

 

We had heard about the Gmz nightlife, but with Micah too tiny to be taking malaria prophylaxis we were very careful to stay at home during mosquito prime time. Now, with Andrea’s parents visiting, we knew that their experience of Gmz culture would not be complete without spending an evening around a Gmz fire. But, as we cleaned up from dinner, I began searching my mind for excuses not to go. Afraid? Not really, outside of the natural fear of a new and potentially awkward situation. I knew this would be an important part of John and Sue’s visit and besides, I had already told Wohis that we were coming.

 

So now, as we approached the village, the butterflies in my stomach evidently awoke with the realization that I was walking into my first real exam in the Gmz language. Everybody knew that Wohis had been meeting with me for the last 7 weeks and now here I was to show what a great teacher he was, or so I hoped!

 

After navigating the narrow path through the village, we entered what I knew to be the clearing just in front of Wohis’ house. It was hard to make out the house now, apart from the doorway blazing a brilliant orange against the darkness of the night. Obviously, the fires had been started. “Wohis daawat?” (Is Wohis here?) I asked as two little children ran out of the house to greet us. “Daawat.” (He is) they responded and invited us through the low doorway. The last time I had entered Wohis’ house, my eyes had to adjust to the darkness within; but this time, my eyes were startled by the brilliance of the two fires that effectively held the darkness outside from creeping past this home’s threshold.

 

After greeting everybody and finding small stools to sit on, the spontaneous exam began. I Introduced John and Sue and then fielded the simple questions asked by Wohis’ brother and mother. Before long, Wohis reached into the fire (literally) and pulled out some of the ears of corn that had been resting on the coals. Peeling back the charred leaves and breaking it in half, he handed the blazing ears of corn to each of us guests. Unable to hold my corn right away, I used my shoe as a cooling rack…hoping that the cows hadn’t left any mammoth landmines along the path on the way in. John, likewise unable to hold his corn, was playing charades with Wohis’ brother to communicate the white people’s hands didn’t come with built in pot holders. Next, a bowl of roasted and mashed pumpkin was placed before us as the family was obviously sharing their evening meal with us (right now is corn and pumpkin harvest season). Over the next ten minutes, we each began working on our corn while repeatedly being encouraged to remember the pumpkin which sat in the darkness at our feet. Suddenly, without any real transition, Wohis suggested that we head over to another house to drink keya.

 

Having passed the first part of the exam in Wohis’ house, I faced part two with confidence, even making jokes in Gmz as we entered the small hut – “look out, the foreigner is coming!” Throughout the night, I was in a very upbeat and talkative mood, which soon got the whole keya house laughing. Now, it’s not like I’m spitting out whole sentences in Gmz. In fact, getting a whole phrase like “the mother and father of the wife of me” off my tongue was enough to get a rise out of my keya companions.

 

What is keya? As a matter of fact, that’s the same question that these Gmz guys asked me “what is the English word for keya?” And much to their surprise, I told them that there was not one. Without being at all familiar with the world of fine (and not so fine) drinks, I could only compare it to what I know of beer. After all, it is a drink made out of grain (usually sorgum, millet or corn) and is slightly fermented. However, the taste of keya is not like the smell of beer (I can’t speak for beer’s taste because the smell was unappetizing enough for me.). So I don’t really know how to describe its taste qualities other than as a slightly fermented drink made from whatever grain is available at the time. One co-worker compared it to drinking dirty dishwater, which is probably accurate when one considers the dirt and bugs that find their way in the large fermenting pot. Regardless of whether my foreigner tongue appreciates the keya, for the Gmz people, it is an essential part of their lives. First, it is the main staple of their nutritional diet. Some Gmz people will go for days, weeks or even months without eating, only drinking keya several times a day, not that this is at all a healthy option. Keya is also an important element in Gmz culture as each night, Gmz men (mostly) gather around fires passing the keya around in the hallow half of a large gourd (which holds probably 2 gallons at a time). We, as guests, were not offered the large gourd to drink from, which was ok with us. Instead we were given a small cup which we shared between the three of us. Afterward, we were told that being given keya to drink meant that we were seen as contributing members of the society (probably through our employment of Wohis). However, the true honor will be when we are allowed to drink from the gourd itself, if that day ever comes.

 

For about an hour, we, or rather I, entertained the keya drinkers with what ended up becoming Gmz-Amharic-English lessons. Then, using the excuse of the old geezers having to get to bed, we said our goodbyes and exited into the refreshingly cooler night air outside the hut. By now, the stars had come out, drawing out attention upward where we paused to unconsciously praise God with our wonder and amazement. Oh that our new keya-drinking friends might soon join us in praise of this great and awesome God!