Merry Christmas 2011

After three Christmases away from the home routines we would much rather be a part of, we are beginning to appreciate what celebrating Holidays abroad can be (“appreciate” certainly does not mean “prefer”).

 

Holidays in general are weird. No fireworks on the 4^th, no turkey on Thanksgiving and no “Robin Eggs” at Easter time. Christmas, is probably the most unique. Ethiopians celebrate Christmas, but according to their calendar, it lands on Jan 7^th. Therefore, December 25^th is just another day in the society as a whole. Contrast that to the culture back home where everything seems to direct our attention to the holiday season. Imagine a Christmas without non-stop carols on the radio, without holiday commercials on TV, without decorations on lampposts, without Christmas lights, without snow, Santa, shopping, or candy canes. I think it is the Christmas once hoped for by the tiny-hearted Grinch.

 

But, like the classic cartoon, the Grinch could take away all of the “things” that make Christmas Christmas, but he couldn’t take the Holiday out of our little ‘who’ hearts over here in ‘who-ville.’ So what do we do to make the Holiday meaningful? Well, it’s been a bit different every year but one thing stays the same – gathering with friends.

 

This past Thursday evening, we were invited out to the home of some of our very best friends. Along with 6 or 7 other families, we had a great time singing Christmas carols, reading portions of the Christmas story and sitting in front of a roaring fireplace (a rarity here in Ethiopia). There were plenty of Christmas goodies and gourmet hot chocolate to top off an excellent celebration in the company of friends.

 

As I write we’re driving from the capital to our home among the Gmz. Why spend all of Christmas Eve on the road? It’s the same principle as above. We look forward to a Christmas feast with some of our closest friends in Ethiopia – the two other families living and working among the Gmz in our area. If we can’t be with our real family during these special times, we must do our best to be with the closest thing we can find. So that without snow or Christmas lights or 24 hour “A Christmas Story” marathons on TV, we can still allow our hearts to express the joy of the Holiday with others as together, we celebrate our Savior’s first coming while at the same time anticipate his second coming to take his own home! It’s during seasons like this one, that the idea of “going home” burns like a hot coal in our stockings.

 

The God's Must Be Crazy

Having put in three and a half weeks of hard work at the translation principles course, I wanted to reward the Gmz candidates with a fun night. So, on the Tuesday of the final week, I told them to come extra early for dinner. For if we finished eating by 6:30pm, we would have enough time to watch a movie as old as I am, “The God’s Must Be Crazy.” In preparation, I had previewed the entire movie that morning, wanting to make sure that the comedy scenes would not be seen as discriminatory against the rural, tribal people (like the Gmz). On the contrary, I was impressed. Not only was the 1980 humor still just as funny today, but it was ingenious how they portrayed the clash of cultures and the problems that arise therein. Each culture had its background, its assumptions, its values, and each acted appropriately within them. Plus there was plenty of action and not a whole lot of the plot rested on the spoken words. It was perfect for the Gmz audience.

 

“Now, how can I gain some language data from it?” I thought that afternoon as my mind wandered from the topic of the workshop. I can’t pause it all the time and get a running summary of the action as that would take way too long and we’d never finish the movie. I can’t silence the sound and have them give a commentary on it because that would ruin the movie-watching experience and they would most likely miss the plot completely. Yet, how can I get some complete events, spoken in natural, full-sentenced Gmz?

 

Not long before they arrived for dinner, I had it. I scratched out a list of nine different scenes that were self-contained, action-packed, and often humorous. I would then pause the movie at the appropriate spot and ask for a volunteer to explain the next scene. Once the daring volunteer was chosen, we would resume the movie until a second pause cued the speaker to retell the scene into my digital recorder for later analysis.

 

The plan went perfectly. As I introduced the movie, I asked if anyone had ever seen it and Addisu got very excited, “I have never seen it but I have a T-shirt with that logo on it,” he said pointing to the title screen on my laptop. “The elders at my church say that I cannot wear it because it is sacrilegious.” I explained the very important difference in English between God and gods, and gave a brief background to the movie before launching in.

 

Each of the guys did exceptionally well in retelling the scenes I had chosen, giving me great data for studying down the road. But, it certainly wasn’t just a work-related night. All nine of them were really involved in the story and burst out laughing at just the right times. All-in-all, it was a great night for strengthening our relationships with one another and planting common memories for more laughs down the road.

Died with Anger

Every Tuesday and Thursday during the November translator training workshop, we faithfully filled the stomachs of the nine Gmz guys and then led them in a practice translation activity. Two of these evenings involved revising stories that were written for the government-run Gmz reading curriculum. Although they are written in Gmz, the dialect in which they were written is noticeably different from either of the dialects represented in our group of translation candidates. Thus, the revision process would accomplish two things. First, it would help me see the differences between the two dialects that the New Testament translation project will be trying to unite. And second, such a revision/conversion/adaptation is much the same process that we will undergo as we adapt from the New Testament text already published in a different dialect of Gmz. Little did we know, it would be really fun as well!

 

The first night of story adaptation, the three guys from Gesas were not able to come, leaving me with no one who had ever done translation work with me. “No problem,” I thought to myself, “These new guys are better educated, with better Amharic and this first story is short and rather simple,” or so I thought. As we got the re-translation underway, I noticed some confusion so I gave my usual explanations for clarification or questions for possible renderings. All of which seemed clear and rather simple, or so I thought. Little did I realize at the time: working together as a translation team is a learned skill.

 

You know a version of the story we tried. A dog tricks a quail into letting her guard down and then grabs her in his jaws and runs into the woods to eat her. When crossing a stream the quail yells out “Look there is another dog in the water.” Seeing his reflection the dog spontaneously barks and the quails flies free, laughing at the foolish dog.

 

So where did the problems lie? Everywhere! They argued for way too long on unimportant details like the exact name of the quail-like bird poorly depicted in the book’s pictures. They were very wooden in their translation from the Amharic text, insisting on individual words rather than trying to grasp and recreate the concept as a whole. They repeatedly struggled with using correct Gmz grammar, once again influenced too much by the style of Amharic. A story that would have taken less than 20 minutes with my team back in Gesas (despite their comparatively unimpressive 5^th grade educations), here took over an hour and a half with this new team.

 

The final activity of the night was the record the story which I then edited and played back for them the next morning. Overall, they seemed happy with the result as each of them burst into laughter at the final sentence literally translated: “Dog when he was tricked by the quail, his insides died with anger as he sat on the bank of the river.” Well, maybe my insides hadn’t died with anger, but for sure they were knocked unconscious by frustration that previous night. I said to myself, “Careful, Travis, it just takes time. Working as a team, working with you, working in translation. It just takes time.”

Stinkin' Peppers

“Watch out for the peppers!” Andrea called from the doorway as I waved my final goodbye to the Gmz workshop participants who had come over for dinner that night. “Oh great,” I sighed heavy, “is that what those are?” I should have known, for while rushing out to open our compound gate, my foot HAD slipped on something…stinkin’ peppers…but, if only they were actual peppers.

 

You see, when visiting from the U.S. last August, my parents had dragged themselves out of bed at the ghastly hour of 4:30am in order to get an early start on our drive out to Gesas. In those early morning hours, we were loading the car with the final items, mostly our crates of fresh veggies and other delicate goods. On one such trip out to the car my dad announced, “Oops, I think I just stepped on a pepper.” “Uhhh, that’s not a pepper,” I responded from the back of the pick-up. “For whatever reason, the seven ankle-biting mutts that guard our compound each night consider the area just off our porch to be their dumping grounds. It would be best to wash your shoe before you go back in the house.” Indeed, they are stinkin’ peppers!

Thanking Misa...Egziabiher...God

Being far from US soil during American holidays just doesn’t feel right. No decorations in storefronts, no anticipation of long weekends, no holiday greetings and no family gathered around. On the other hand, just because work and life continue as normal, that doesn’t mean these special days pass by totally forgotten. In fact, when the traditions of home cannot be observed in their entirety, we are presented with the challenge to either come as close as possible, or to create our own special memories/traditions. Sometimes our holiday reconstruction attempts fall flat and our minds drift back home, wishing we weren’t absent for yet another special day. Other times, however, our recreation of the holiday brings its own blessings and unique memories that will surely not be forgotten. Such was the case of Thanksgiving 2011.

 

Being in Addis these 4 weeks for the beginner translator training workshop, I knew that I had to get to know the Gmz translation team candidates on many levels (to help in deciding who would be hired for the official team). Therefore, I set up a routine to host the 9 Gmz translation trainees in our home for dinner twice a week, “Every Tuesday and Thursday evenings, you are invited to come eat some foreigner food, followed by a translation activity.” I didn’t realize at the time that one of these Thursdays would involve Thanksgiving dinner. Should we cancel our invitation? Forget the holiday altogether? Or combine them? Though intimidated at first, Andrea agreed to make a basic Thanksgiving feast – Ethiopian style. You see, turkey is imported and therefore RIDICULOUSLY expensive (over $100 a piece), therefore we opted for two plump chickens to accompany the baked veggies, mashed potatoes, two kinds of bread and 8 bottles of orange soda. Maybe not the full spread you’d expect back in the States, but I can assure you, that is a mighty special meal here in Ethiopia.

 

The guys arrived just as I was finishing the carving of the first chicken, and that amazing Thanksgiving smell greeted them at the door. Micah who had been tortured with these smells all afternoon was asking anyone who would listen, “Banana? Banana?” (that’s Micah’s way of saying, ‘FEED ME!’). We gathered around the nicely-set table (if I do say so myself), gave Micah some of the baked vegetables to calm him down and got out our Bibles. After reading the story of the one thankful leper (Luke 17), we turned to and read Psalm 75:1

 “We give thanks to you, O God, we give thanks, for your Name is near, men tell of your wonderful deeds.”

Jumping off of this verse, I introduced the common Thanksgiving tradition of each person “telling of God’s wonderful deeds” in our own lives. I began by thanking God for the privilege of a front row seat in seeing His word come alive in the Gmz language. Andrea followed by thanking God for the blessing of a new Canadian family living and working closely with us. Next, one-by-one, each of the Gmz guys shared. What was their thanksgiving? Although there was some variation, most of them highlighted being thankful for the dream that would soon be realized - God’s Word in the Gmz language.

 

With the final prayer of thanksgiving, out came the food. The chicken was cooked perfectly and quickly found its way from the serving dish onto the individual plates of hungry Gmz. The veggies made their way around the table as well, but the big bowl of mashed potatoes surprisingly sat undisturbed for a minute or two. Noticing their curious stares, I pointed at it and said “donaanzeya” (potato). Suddenly the table burst into conversation, “Those are potatoes? I thought it was butter…that’s A LOT of butter!” Once the food got on their plates and they overcame the strangeness of using silverware, things got relatively quiet as it was clear they were enjoying this special meal. And they must have liked it, for it didn’t stay around very long. For example, when Andrea brought out the platter with the second carved chicken meat (to the replace the first one that had already been devoured), this new plate hardly hit the table before several hands were reaching for the serving fork. Not more than 2 minutes later, I managed to snatch the last pieces of that chicken for Micah. A Thanksgiving feast without leftovers! Can you imagine?

 

As we moved from the meal to the discussion time, all of the guys agreed that this was a very good holiday, and that wasn’t just their full bellies talking. Once we were all settled in more comfortable chairs, I introduced the translation-related activity of the evening – the translation and retelling of the American Thanksgiving Pilgrim Story. Having downloaded and printed off 24 coloring book pictures, I slowly walked through the story describing the pictures of each event. When I finished, they, as a group walked through it again to confirm that everyone understood what the pictures stood for. Next, I broke them into three teams of three. Then, as teams, they practiced retelling it (each took 1/3 of the pictures). Finally, I invited them into my recording studio (ie. the kitchen) where I recorded their retellings for future linguistic analysis. “If someone makes a mistake or forgets a detail,” I said, “don’t correct them. I don’t care about accuracy; I just want complete sentences of natural speech.” Such freedom led to some interesting renditions, followed by bursts of laughter as soon as I stopped the recorder!

 

As the last team finished I glanced at the clock – 8:30pm – long after when we had agreed to be finished with such evening sessions. Not wanting to keep them out later, I quickly served up the Thanksgiving essential - pumpkin pie. They cautiously reached for yet another new food, but like everything else, once the first taste went down without a problem, the rest just seemed to leap into their mouths. Between bites, all of them were still talking about the activity and their team’s attempts to remember details, “Can we hear it now?” they finally asked. “Sure why not?” I thought, “No one is too eager to get home.” Replaying each of the teams’ stories was amazing. Hearing how some tellers remembered small details brought encouraging compliments. At the same time, hearing mistakes, stutters, and off-the-wall interpretations brought roars of good-natured laughter. Good team dynamics, good memories, and a good God who gave them to us. There certainly is much to be thankful for!

 

Thump, Thump, Thump!

Can you hear it? Well, if you spent any time eavesdropping on our house in Addis Ababa these days, you would no doubt hear the sound of feet thumping up and down the white marble stairs. Listen a bit closer and you may hear my lungs pulling in large gulps of oxygen, maybe the occasional thud of rocks tumbling over on each other in my backpack, or the faint whisper of CCR, Stix or Lenard Skynard echoing off my eardrums. These sounds are becoming more and more familiar for Andrea, Micah and our patient housemates as I am trying to take advantage of our month in Addis Ababa by getting into tip-top shape.

Why? Well, about two months ago, my older brother came through on a dream he’s talked about ever since he learned of our acceptance to work in Ethiopia. Being a family with the reputation of attempting crazy things (like marathons), physical fitness challenges have a certain appeal to us. What is the draw? I’m not sure. Some call such an addiction the “runner’s high,” while others call it nothing short of insanity. I, myself, enjoyed two back to back years in the loony bin of marathoners, but plagued by knee-pains, I somehow found enough sanity to declare my retirement from marathons back in 2000. However, I checked the records to be sure, and that official retirement speech said nothing about mountain climbing.

And so when my brother emailed last month “Hey, I have vacation time to use, are you up for Mt. Kilimanjaro?” the temptation of adventure grabbed me and immediately had me in a firm head-lock (thus impeding any attempt at clear thinking). I shot back my emailed response, “I have to ask Andrea first, but my knee-jerk reaction is ‘I’m in!’ just give me at least 2-3 months to train.” And so it began.

Addis Ababa, a high elevation city at 7,500 ft, gives me a good training ground and given my primary need for leg strengthening, I opted to climb up and down our stairs for 30+ minute workouts. Back in Gesas, we would walk to get water from the hand pump about 2/3 mile from our house. On such trips, Micah helped by slowly filling my backpack with rocks. Now, with my hiking books laced up tight, my rock-filled backpack strapped on, and classic rock music pumping raw adrenaline into my veins, I start my timer and hike. Thump, thump, thump. I guess there is one benefit that my family and housemates enjoy about this Kilimanjaro training. That is, all this exercise is forcing me to step up my well-established routine of 2 showers a week to 5 or 6. I guess, the 30 minutes of thumping, is a small price to pay for fresher air they are now enjoying.

 

Well Stocked

I couldn’t help but smile when walking down the baking aisle in Addis Ababa’s biggest and best supermarket/grocery store. The three of us were shopping for a long three-month stretch out in Gesas so we had a long list of supplies to buy and were already prepared for a double-shopping-cart spree. “Let’s see, according to this list we need three 5-kilogram bags of flour.” Ok, flour is one of those things that we actually have brands to chose from so I quickly scanned the prices until my eye was captured by one particular brand name – Wabko. “Hey,” I said to Andrea behind me, “I didn’t know that Wabco switched from making large dump trucks to now grinding wheat.” While Micah stared at me blankly, the joke was not lost on my wife who knew that my grandparents had worked for the Wabco company which has since been bought out by the now very well-known manufacturer of machinery, Caterpillar. Anyway, with Wabko flour’s competitive price, I plopped three 5-kilogram bags into my cart hoping that somehow I was supporting my grandpa’s pension plan. Moving along, we filled both of our carts without much of a problem and made our way to the checkout. Everything was nicely bagged up for us and so, pleased by the service, I tipped the young man who helped load it all into the back of our truck.

 

It wasn’t until we got home and I was recording our purchase in our financial notebook that I noticed a problem. For whatever reason, my Wabko flour had cost me over 750 birr (that’s almost $50)! Looking more closely, I saw that the checker-outer had scanned one bag and instead of typing in 3 for the number of pieces, she had typed in 15, which was the total number of kilograms. Now, as mentioned in a previous blog entry, there are no standard return policies here in Ethiopia and whoever came up with the ridiculous idea that “the customer is always right” would have been a terrible businessman in Africa. But, anyway, I thought, if anyone might have the slightest clue of these foreign business practices, it would be this fancy, new supermarket. So, I thought, a $35 refund was worth a try.

 

The next morning I drove across town and, with my three-foot-long receipt in hand, approached the worker I saw closest to the Wabko flours. With only one attempt at the explanation, she understood my problem and promptly led me to the cashier where the story was first repeated. Next, the manager-on-duty was called, the story was again repeated this time with the attention of many curious employees and customers. The manager then said “I am not the head manager, so come back on Monday morning at 11am and we will see what we can do.” I left hopeful, for no answer is often better than the immediate answer I was afraid I would find.

 

I obediently returned for my appointment and thankfully I found this same manager-on-duty. Upon seeing me with my LONG receipt in hand, she remembered, yet immediately apologized having forgotten to discuss my problem with the head manager. No harm done, for he was only in the back room and so, when he was called, I got to hear the explanation repeated a 3^rd time – great for strengthening my Amharic vocabulary. This was it, the top of the food chain and the point of decision. It was clear that he understood the mistake, but would he believe my story? He looked me in the eye and asked “What do you want?” Unsure of how to interpret that question, I asked for a refund. He thought for a bit before saying, “Refunds are difficult to do (because of the 15% sales tax having already been paid to the government), would you consider taking the additional 12 bags of flour?” Without Andrea’s voice of reason, I was pleased with the option of fair exchange, and besides I was funding in my grandpa’s retirement plan right? The stock-boy was called, a whole cart was filled with Wabko flour, driven straight past the cashiers and promptly loaded into the back of our truck.

 

I don’t remember the exact date of that adventure, but I do know that we are coming up on its one-year anniversary very soon here (it was early December 2010). So, how have we done? Well, those 75 kilograms (that is 165 lbs) have not only provided every gram of white flour we’ve used this year, but we are still sitting on seven unopened bags (35 kilos or 77 lbs). So, at that rate, it looks like we will be all set well into 2012. Anyone need flour? Could I recommend the Wabko brand? “I give you special price…”

 

There's No Stopping Him Now

As any parent knows there is both anticipation and apprehension for the day your baby begins to walk. For some they cringe because their 10 month old doesn’t know enough about life yet to realize how much trouble they can get into with their increased mobility. For others they’ve spent months coaxing their cautious 1+ year old to take those independent first steps with a goal other than mommy’s or daddy’s waiting arms. Yes, we have been in the company of the latter with Micah as he was content to crawl through his 15-month anniversary. But now, gone are those days of longing for Micah’s independence that would leave me with a bit more freedom (and, I suppose, the need for more energy to keep up)! Like it or not, our little guy has figured out this walking gig and clearly, there’s no stopping him now.

 

His debut walk to nowhere-in-particular went virtually unnoticed by all of the kids who had come over to our house to feed our baby chickens. Unnoticed by them, but, momma, of course, caught it all and has it recorded in her mental video file – it was precious and inconspicuous.  However, the following Sunday at church, Micah left modesty behind and decided to demonstrate his newly acquired skill for everyone to see (which literally means EVERYONE since the Gmz church meets in a circle with little Micah doing his thing right in the middle of it). So, there was the little white boy, walking back and forth from me to one of the support columns in the middle of the room – big smile pasted one his face.  Not long into this, one of his sandals fell off, but that didn’t stop him, he just kept on walking around, obviously proud of himself and quite possibly showing off the fact that he’s SO good, he doesn’t even need that shoe.

 

But the cherry to top it all off was when he discovered a round, marble-sized seed on the floor. He grabbed it, inspected it, and proceeded to throw it across the room. Much to his delight, the person nearest to where it landed, rolled it back to him. Oh, now this is fun! Someone else from the congregation rolled another seed in his direction and his game continued with multiple participants. Yes, all of this during the middle of that week’s sermon. For those of you who are cringing inside thinking “How could you let Micah be such a disruption in church?” I assure you, I can sympathize with your cringe even now in retelling this event, but at the time I just had to chuckle…I guess things are a bit more laid back here on this side of the world.

 

ps. The “What does grandma say?” in the video is an inside joke from this summer’s family reunion that we missed. Micah learned of it from Grandma and Grandpa Williamson’s visit in August and still remembers them by it.

Anyone Up For A Walmart Run?

Grrr…I could really go for a Frosty right now (that is always our hypothetical comfort food from home), followed by a quick Walmart run. I don’t care if I have to wait in line for 30 minutes with a screaming baby in front of me and a squealing hearing air battery behind me, I would be happy to! Let me explain.

 

When my parents came in August, they brought along a chicken egg incubator, complete with an automatic egg turner. Pretty nice, I know. So we waited until the rainy season passed so as to have sufficient power from our solar panels and we started our first eggs. However, we learned several times that the thermostat is bit moody and if it feels that we are messing with it too much it will just go crazy and spike the temperature way above what a developing egg can survive. So, anyway, we have been watching it closely. However, one particular evening Andrea and Micah went to check and actually place 15 new eggs into the incubator. One of the Gumuz guys from our area followed her into the translation office (where the incubator was set up) and basically asked enough questions to be bothersome – not at all unusual for him. Andrea, probably wanting leave sooner rather than later, failed to wait around and monitor the thermostat after setting up the new eggs and wouldn’t you know it, the thermostat got upset and the temperature spiked, roasting ALL the eggs ALL night long – By the morning check, not were all the eggs ruined, but so was the thermometer (which was rated to only go to 120 F).

 

“No problem,” I thought, “I’m in Addis, I’ll try to find another. It’s kinda an adventure.” And to be honest, I was up for the adventure, given that I had a day to kill before heading back to Gesas. So the adventure started Friday night as the sun was setting. I started looking around the part of town we live in, going first to our typical hardware. “Termamiter ale? (is there a thermometer?)” After some discussion found out that they didn’t have anything like that. But, I’m no idiot, I asked the question I knew I would soon be saying in my sleep “Where can I buy it?” Oh, try the pharmacy around the corner. Alright, it was an idea. “Termamiter ale?” The pharmacy quickly responded with a smiile, “No we don’t have any left, try the other pharmacy over there.” Upon asking there, I was told, “We do not carry those, you would have to go to the Gihon pharmacy (in a totally different part of town).” I decided to try some other hardware stores, stopping one lady just before she closed up shop. “Termamiter ale? “ “No, we have nothing like that…but they have them at the store down by the taxi stop.” I started walking that way, enjoying the crisp night air. About half way to the taxi stop I passed a store with household items and poked my head in “Termamiter ale?” He cocked his head like a confused puppy, so I explained, “It measures air heat.” “Oh,” he said “try in front of  ‘Amigos.’” Amigos is a restaurant right by the taxi stop, thus confirming the previous tip. Yet, I didn’t hold my breath. Arriving at Amigos, I saw a substantial hardware store across the street. Entering, I greeted the guy and asked the question of the hour “Termamiter ale?” “For what?” he asked. “For measuring air heat,” I responded with confidence, now well-practiced in the vocabulary. “We have none,” he said, “Look in piazza. Do you know piazza?” Of course I know piazza, it is a CRAZY part of Addis Ababa with a GAZZILION shops of all sorts, so I followed with a question “What kind of shop do I look in?” He thought for a minute, “Yetul suk wust tiyaq.” I understood all the words except one so I asked, “tul min malet no? (what does ‘tul’ mean?), to which I once again received the cocked head posture “tul, you know, English, tool.” I hate it what that happens. Then he gave me an honest comment (probably the first I had heard all evening), “I do not know for sure if they have them, but checking there is better than here.” With that I was satisfied, tomorrow, piazza it would be.

 

Arriving in piazza, I was surprised at how easily I found and squeezed into a parallel parking spot. I double checked that the truck was locked (believe me I KNOW piazza!) and headed out on foot stopping in every tool shop that I came across. I repeatedly asked, “Termamiter ale?” only to receive either the cocked head of confusion or an unfounded impulse response, “Yes, we have them come on in” (only to hear them ask a second worker “do we have a termamiter?” or “what is a “termamiter?”). I was shown quite a few voltage multimeters before finally I entered one store that had a HUGE wall thermometer (not ideal for an incubator but it could work). The excitement over the actual thermometer faded with the rudeness of the lady in that shop and the very high price I was given. So, having more shops ahead of me and more time to kill, I said would ask around and return. No joke, 25 stores later I had not uncovered anything more except one broken thermometer and a handful of people trying to sell me multimeters. Returning to the first shop, I asked to buy the large expensive wall thermometer, only to be told by the now smirking lady, “You have to come back Monday, I am leaving now.” “What? At 2:30 in the afternoon, you are sitting behind your desk saying your closed? I can’t come back Monday, I’m leaving for the countryside tomorrow.” After much grumbling, she and the other man in the store agreed to sell me one. I remember seeing the guy take a handful of thermometers off the rack, packaged up one of them in a dark plastic bag, took my money and hurried me out the door. I expressed my gratitude and walked toward my truck feeling tired yet victorious.

 

The victory didn’t last long as at my next stop, just 5 minutes down the road, I took a look at my great find and did an immediate double take: A broken mercury line and a nice clean crack in the glass casing. “You have got to be kidding me!” Now, of course, at Walmart in the US, that is no more than the simple hassle of returning to the store and getting it exchanged. But we aren’t in Walmart anymore, Toto. There are basically no return policies in Ethiopia, after all, what evidence do I have that I did not drop it along the road or break it on purpose. It would simply be my word against theirs and who ever heard of the ridiculous notion that the custom is always right? Sounds like a great way to go out of business.

 

So, if you have any other suggestions on solving the “termamiter” puzzle, I’m all ears. Otherwise, if you are ever walking through Walmart and find a simple $2 thermometer, don’t forget to smile and say a little prayer for our continued sanity as we navigate life’s little challenges.

 

Careful Dad, It Might Be Poisonous

It’s amazing how fast signals travel through these bodies God made for us. Although I didn’t start my stopwatch, I can assure you it was less than a quarter second between the time my foot pressed into the soft, unidentified mass curled up in the toe of my large rubber boots until the time my brain interpreted that touch and sent out code-red panic signals in every direction. Hearing the neurological siren, my eyes widened with fright, my heart beat suddenly broke into a full sprint, tiny beads of sweat sputtered from my pores, and most importantly, my leg involuntarily shot out of my boot faster than my mouth could spit out its first meaningless utterance, “Ah!” Like an overgrown flamingo, I stood on one foot, paralyzed for a second or two. I looked down at the boot, which stood upright, waiting to see what might crawl, slither or waddle out. As my mind’s adrenalin alarms subsided, rational thinking returned and, glancing over my shoulder, I informed Andrea and Micah in the calmest voice I could muster, “There’s something in my shoe.”

 

Our trip to lock up the chicken house this evening would necessarily be delayed while this varmint was properly disposed of. Andrea and Micah retrieved a flashlight which I poked into the top of the boot, hopeful of seeing a foot or a tail or something so as to have the advantage of first sight. Unfortunately, the little bugger must have gotten mighty cozy up in the toe, and no doubt squeezed in tighter when startled by my invading appendage, not to mention its mildly offensive fragrance on what would soon be “shower night.” So, with my unwillingness to stick any other valuable body parts into the boot, I knew we would have to play by his rules. Grabbing a long stick, which I intended to become the murder weapon, I let the boot fall down onto its side and waited…and waited. Nothing ran out. So, I carefully grabbed the sole of the boot and lifted it to create a gentle ramp down to the ground, tightening my grip on my trusty bludgeon. Finally, tipping the boot over completely and pressing its mouth into the sand, I banged on its sole to inform the little fellow that he had been discovered and that presence was no longer welcome. I felt no movement, heard no squeaks, hisses, or claws scrapping against the rubber in an effort to resist gravity’s pull down to earth. After a moment to collect my thoughts, I raised the mouth of the boot just enough to… “AHA! There it was” I said as I slammed the boot back down to the ground. I had, in fact, seen it, a tight, fuzzy ball, huddled in the shadows, no doubt scared half to death. Well, fully intending to help with the other half of that journey, I widened my stance, raised my blood-thirsty club and slowly lifted the boot again. There it was, still in the same place, still motionless, yet no doubt planning its mad dash for freedom. I continued to raise the boot…amazed at the little guy’s patience. But wait, as more and more light crept into the varmint’s hideout, something strange caught my eye – the color RED. Pausing for a split second, the tension in my lips melted into an uninhibited smile. “Oh brother,” I said to the audience looking intently over my shoulder, “Micah, I think you are to blame for this.” I lifted the boot completely to reveal a foam red ball with a slit down the middle – commonly indentified as a “dollar store clown nose.”

 

But in a world with mambas, cobras, scorpions, and rabies carrying rodents, I suppose one can’t be too careful. So I guess in the end, Micah got the last laugh. Maybe we can chalk it up to his first successful practical joke, and he was quite good at it too, watching the whole drama without cracking a smile.

 

Unfraid to Lead

“New lord prayer debut” was Larry’s text message that vibrated my phone during church. A smile stretched across my face as my imagination closed the 600 kilometer gap between Addis Ababa’s International Evangelical Church, where I sat, and the Gmz church at Gesas where believers had gathered for this morning’s service. I checked out of the English sermon for a bit and shot back a response – “That’s great” My attempts at tuning back into the message on Psalm 40 were soon interrupted by a second vibration of an incoming text message - “They were so excited and six stood up front to recite and teach everyone sorry you missed it”

 

Well, with these few details to feed my imagination and thought processes, I knew I would never be able return to Psalm 40 that morning. How exciting to think of what had taken place these past few days, or rather, these past few months. We began translation four months ago and by divine providence April was also the month that the Gesas church leadership was being handed over to the Gmz believers. You see, up until then, the general church leadership (including the teaching/preaching) had always been done by non-Gmz, non-local people (mostly the highland Ethiopians who worked with the education project on our station). Until then, the Scripture reading had always been in Amharic with the sermon consisting of a free, on-the-spot translation of the passage. But all that was changing last April as Bible translation began as well as young Gmz started being trained and given opportunities to preach.

 

Apart from the normal hesitation before stepping out into something new, the young Gmz believers are eager to take the reins of church leadership. Week after week, a group of 6-10 Gmz would meet with me on Tuesday afternoons to study the Scripture passage for that week’s sermon and then talk through its applications. Every Friday, this same group of young leaders attends a “review committee” where we check the accuracy and communicability of the newly translated Scripture. This exposure to Scripture is a great teaching opportunity through which they grow in their Biblical literacy. Then, week after week on Sundays, one Gmz man leads a time of singing, another then stands to read the selected passage out loud, a third delivers a message (often in Q&A style), while a fourth leads the children in a time not unlike what we call Sunday School. So, by the time we left for Addis in early August, we were quite pleased with the leadership we saw developing in the Gesas church and their ability to direct every aspect of the Sunday service.

 

As the arrival of my visiting parents was approaching, I began to think about how the work might continue in my absence. I had been preparing my three co-translators for some time by giving them computer training and practice translation experience, but I was curious about what should be done with the Friday review committee. The review committee really cannot function without me there, so should I just cancel it during my absence? Or, is there something else they can do? My answer came when we got to Luke 11 as Jesus was teaching his disciples how to pray. “Father, hallowed be your name, your kingdom come…” Now, I had heard the Lord’s Prayer recited in the Gmz church service many times, but I was always disturbed by some down-right errors and how all the difficult terms (holy, kingdom, temptation, etc.) were just borrowed from Amharic. An earlier blog lamented the disadvantages of borrowed words, as they rarely develop the correct meaning, if they develop any meaning at all. And so, on the final review committee before our departure for Addis Ababa, I asked the group two questions. First, “Are you happy with the text of the Lord’s Prayer that you recite most Sundays or do you want a retranslation of it?” As expected, their response was in favor of a retranslation. So my second question, “Do you want to take off next week in my absence, or do you want to meet and do the retranslation yourselves?” The response was unanimous and their immediate excitement was contagious. Oh, how I wished I could be a fly on that wall.

 

A phone call from our co-worker (Larry) that next Friday described the scene when he stopped by to encourage the team. “They had writing all over the table-top (which is made of white board material), and had made several copies of their new translation on papers and even on the computer. Oh and they were all really excited about it!” Enough said, I couldn’t wait to get back.

 

Now, here I was, I was physically present at the English-speaking church with Andrea, Micah and my parents, but for a good 20 minutes or so, my mind was 600 kilometers down the road. Imagining six of my co-workers in translation standing in front of the congregation and sharing their new and improved translation of the Lord’s Prayer, it brought tears to my eyes. How I would have loved to be there, but then again… After some reflection and praise to God for all that He is doing, I texted Larry back: “maybe it’s better that i’m not there, the gmz are leading their church!”

Nature's Euthanasia

I was just commenting to Andrea the other day that we were getting ourselves quite the number of chickens: 5 foreign hens (Hot Wings, Cory, Sunny, Eggnog, and Terry), 6 local chickens (Breakfast, Lunch, Dinner, Snack, Welcome, and Moe), 2 roosters (John and Shambel) and 4 baby chicks (unnamed) – that’s 17 total. Well, I think I spoke too soon as this past week was a week of horror when it comes to the Gesas chicken project.

 

It started immediately upon our arrival back at Gesas. I got out of the truck, stretched my sore body and started counting chicks…1…2… that was it. As I looked into their house I saw chick number 3…dead. And number 4 was never found. When I asked the guy taking care of my chickens, he said “K’aasa-mata” – the Gmz word for “Mites,” which upon close examination, I saw had taken over my entire chicken coup. Armed with bug killer, I got “spray happy” and doused all the chickens, sticks, and every patch of ground around the coup. Down to 15.

 

The next morning, I took a closer look at the two remaining chicks and noticed one of them with black dirt caked all around its nose and eyes. My dad took it over to Larry (who is a veterinarian) who then gave the dismal prognosis – “well, when I was scrapping the crusted matter off of its face, the baby chick’s beak all but fell off! It looks like the mites had set up camp in its nasal cavities and pretty much ate from the inside out. We can give it medicine, but it would take an act of God for it to survive.” Hmmm…not the kind of report you want to hear from the doctor, but we never want to rule out the “act of God.” After all, Luke 12 says that God does not forget even one sparrow, so maybe He will intervene to help our little chick. And that He did, just not how we were expecting. You see, to keep the chickens out of the mite infested coup, I set up temporary housing on our front porch. Well, in the middle of the night, we heard the chickens go absolutely bizzerk, for about 10 seconds. Then it was silent. Tired and sleepy I went back to sleep only to awaken sometime later to a second ruckus outside our front window. This time I heard louder struggling and light footsteps run past my window. I grabbed a light and opened our front door, and immediately saw our welcome mat covered with feathers. Upon further investigation, I learned that one chick was taken as well as “Breakfast,” the hen who had hatched the chicks. It turns out the chick that was eaten was the sick one whose beak was falling off. When Larry heard the news, he commented “Well, I guess that’s just nature’s euthanasia.”

 

Dropping from 17 to 13 chickens in 3 days was not fun, but it didn’t end there. “Welcome” was supposed to be a special dinner for my parents 36^th wedding anniversary on August 23, however, when we came back from Addis, it was obvious that “Welcome” was not at all well. She was thin, missing a lot of feathers, had a massive growth completely covering her left eye, and a rattling cough like an asthmatic chain smoker. Over the next 3-4 days I watched her decline, until I finally ended her journey by the edge of my knife.

 

Down to 12, well not for long. It was that very next morning that Andrea and Micah returned from opening chicken coups with bad news – “your rooster was killed.” Apparently, something had gotten into our “fattening for feasting” coup and chose the fattest feast it could find – the nice big rooster I called “Shambel” (named after the guy I bought it from). Now, Shambel was on slate to take Welcome’s place at the anniversary meal, but apparently, this little varmint beat us to the kill. However, after eating its fill, the little bugger kindly left the head and lower half of the body for us if we so wanted. Needless to say, we passed on the leftovers. What type of animal has been terrorizing our chickens? Well, a cat-like animal called a Civet has been spotted in the area so we suspect that, but we can’t be for sure.

 

With 11 chickens at my disposal, I still had a chicken dinner to serve. So, on August 23, I unsheathed my knife and slaughtered Terry, the foreign chicken who had all but stopped laying eggs about a month prior. She was never a good egg layer, kind of a feisty brat toward the others and after eating a whole month’s worth of chicken food without more than 5 eggs to show for it, her rent came due and the next thing we knew, our population was down to 10. So after 8 months with only one chicken death (sickness-related), we grieved the loss of 7 in one week of terror. Well, I can’t say that we grieved over all of them, Terry was delicious.

 

Unborn Sheep For Sale

“Greetings, is there peace?” I was asked this morning shortly after arriving in town. “There is peace, I am very happy today.” How could I say that when I was the defendant in a “court case” that I knew would end in me being found guilty (unjustly, I believed)? Well, sometimes, it’s better just to end a problem/argument, then to actually win it. Yes, that advice applies to more than just marriage.

 

I sat on the large stone along the backside of a liquor store. On my one side sat Wenber, whose name literally means “chair,” a very fitting name as he is the current chairman of the Kebele (the smallest of the political divisions in Ethiopian government, maybe like a town or sub-city).  On my left sat an old man who had witnessed the incident at hand. And directly in front of me, stood the upset man, unfortunately, there were no more big rocks for him to sit on, but his crossed arms and restlessly shifting his weight exposed him as seemingly content to stand. I had called for this ‘timba’ (traditional reconciliation ceremony) in advance to finally put an end to a saga that had haunted me for three weeks.

 

Mr. Chair kicked things off by reviewing the details of the case, something like this: “Three weeks ago, Travis drove into town and parked in the main square. After concluding his business in that area he hopped into his truck to head out of the market area not noticing the sheep that were enjoying the shade under the truck. As he pulled away, people started yelling strange questions like “doesn’t your head work?” He looked out his window to see a baby sheep limping away. As with any excitement in a small town, a crowd gathered quickly and joined the fun of insults and accusations. After some time, one man claimed that it was his sheep and played the cultural role very well: blowing his top, demanding money (but carefully not saying how much), and of course, dramatically storming away with threats of further action down the road - “I know where you live!” My position was simple, “If there is a problem, let’s solve it. The sheep’s leg is not broken, he is limping but has no problem walking off on his own. Look, he is 100 meters away already, keeping up with the others. If you want me to buy the sheep and take it home, name the price and all these people here can help us decide if it is fair.” The owner of the sheep, however, was quite elusive until finally he agreed with what everybody else was now saying, “The sheep is fine, go on your way.” But, could it be that simple?

 

Later that morning as I was leaving town, my truck was weighed down with as many Gmz people that could fit. Mr. Chair (Wenber) was one of those who had hopped into my truck for a lift home. When this “sheep-owner” saw Mr. Chair through the open window, he went over to him and filed a complaint saying, “He hit my sheep, if it dies, I want to be paid.” I rebutted saying, “No, if there is a problem, we solve it now. I don’t want you coming to me one week, one month, or one year later to say I killed your sheep.” Everybody in my car agreed that it needed to be solved right then and so Mr. Chair asked me to give 50 birr (about $3) for the sheep to go to the doctor and get a shot (there is a general thought here that shots cure everything, when in reality most shots given here are simply pain killers.). I gave the 50 birr and was told it was all over. But, could it be that simple?

 

The next time I went into town (5 days later), I stopped at the post office only to be confronted by another angry man saying that I had hit HIS sheep. “Who did you give the money to?” he demanded. “I don’t know, some guy who said the sheep was his. If you want to know, you’ll have to ask Mr. Chair. He decided the judgment and handled the cash.” I said, “By the way, how is the sheep doing?” “Oh, the sheep is fine, I just want that 50 birr because it was my sheep!” Great, everybody in my car agreed that this was an easy fix. He would ask Mr. Chair for the identity of the lying man and then track him down for the 50 birr. But, could it be that simple?

 

The next time I came to town (now 2 weeks after the initial incident), I was approached by two men, whom I recognized as the original liar and the actual owner of the sheep. In the course of the argument that took place between the three of us, the liar gave the sheep owner 50 birr. My guess was that the liar wanted to clear his name by handing over the money in my presence. Then they both dropped the bomb, “the sheep is dead.” The owner of the sheep was not satisfied by the 50 birr but I wasn’t about to fork over more money without proof of the sheep’s death and my having caused it. Besides, I wasn’t understanding his ss-l-u-rrrr-e-d speech well enough to finish the conversation. I walked away to take care of business and when I returned, he was gone.  But I knew it wouldn’t be our last meeting, for by now I was sure, it couldn’t be that simple.

 

And so sure enough, the next time I passed through town, he stopped me on the road to pick up the argument where he left off. How does a sheep get better after one week, only to die by my cause in the second week? Some of the passengers in my car helped me by talking to him until finally a bystander pulled him away from the truck and told me to drive off. It is widely known around town that this man tips the bottle a bit too much and there is no point is arguing or discussing anything with him in that state. Upon returning to Gesas, I knew something needed to be done. The next morning I had sick people lined up at my door requesting rides into the doctor, but I no longer wanted to go into town because of the harassment that awaited me. I couldn’t just roll up the windows and drive by his angry demands, nor could I just throw money at him as that would in effect be a public request for more un-provable accusations against me. Something official needed to happen.

 

 And so, here we were sitting on rocks behind the liquor store, playing the role of the defendant in a traditional timba reconciliation ceremony, a beautiful cultural event, if you ask me. Well, it sure beats the pants off of our way of solving things with court dates and lawyer fees and a whole mess of paperwork. I sat on my rock smiling knowing that when I got up, I would fork over some cash and be DONE WITH IT! Woohoo! Mr. Chair started off and before long, all the important details of the case were discussed, well…with the exception of evidence that the sheep was actually dead, the possible causes of its delayed death, and whose fault it was that the sheep was camping out under my truck. But, I didn’t care, I was here to end the disagreement, not to actually receive what I understand to be justice.

 

My guilt was assumed from the very beginning and so we soon came to the compensation portion. Now, keep in mind, a baby sheep would probably go for about 200-250 birr in the local market (about $9-$12). But first, as in all timbas, the offended party is asked what he wants in compensation, a request which is discussed and then considered in the final decision made by the timba elders. True to cultural form, the plantiff passionately requested 800 birr, that is reimbursement not just for the baby sheep that was “killed,” but also for whatever sheep that little gal might have possibly given birth to down the road. Sounds like a funny argument to us, but it seriously holds weight here. I was glad to not have to barter that one on my own, I just had to conceal my smile as I waited for the decision of the elders.

 

The next thing I knew, Mr. Chair had reached his decision. He took my hand and the plaintiff’s hand and brought them together. Then he placed his hands on top and the three other elders followed suit. He then declared “I ask that you be reconciled of this sheep for 400 birr.” The plaintiff jerked away and tried to pull his hand out of the fold, but everyone held tight. Mr. Chair asked him to please accept his judgment. And that he did. His acceptance was demonstrated when all the elders let go and he kissed my hand and offered his hand to be kissed by me. We then hugged and promptly I forked over the 400 birr. I was then given the original 50 birr back (since the shot was never given), and then gave two of the four elders 10 birr for their services (the plaintiff gave 10 birr to each of the other two). It was finished, the right way, and I got to be a part of a very respectable part of the culture in which we live.  So, I guess it was simple after all!

The Sights and Sounds of Culture

When bucked off a horse…maybe try riding a different one. Why? Because if you don’t, you might never build the courage or confidence to try again, much less enjoy the fun of riding. Painful experiences tend not only to stick with us, but serve more as a haunting presence that can affect our decision making, our attitudes and thus our subsequent experiences.

 

You faithful blog-ateers surely read of my discouragement last November when I attended a funeral with one of my language helpers, Wohis. Since that time, I have been to other funerals, and thankfully did not return with an equally bruised self-confidence. However, I can’t say that any of my funeral experiences have been positive. That is, until this afternoon.

 

The night before last, I laid in bed listening to the familiar sounds of the wind rustling through the trees, a brilliant chorus of insects, and the occasional lowing of a cow or bray of a donkey. I could faintly hear people singing in the valley below our house, alerting me that there might be something up. As I concentrated my attention on the music, I began to feel the steady beat of the drums deep within my chest: boom…boo-booom…boom…boo-boom…boom…boo-boom. The “andinga” is a big drum with unequally sized drum-heads on opposite ends. It is laid on its side and played in a squatting position, with one open hand pounding out the steady pulse on the big drum head, while the other adds some rhythmic variation on the small end. I could picture it in my mind. The drummer would be in the middle off a large circle of people. One song leader would be pacing around the drummer leading the call-response motif while the women, all huddled together at one end of the circle, would be belting out the drones much like a bagpipe. The men, forming the remainder of the circle around the andinga, would be doing a dance that closely resembles the Hokey Pokey’s “You put your right foot in…you put your right foot out” stuck on repeat. These guys, following the lead of the song leader, would either be singing the response refrains or blowing into small flutes/whistles. Ah yes, it is beautiful to appreciate the music and dance of a different culture and although it sounds foreign to us/you, could you imagine what they would think of America’s hip hop culture?

 

Anyway, I lay there listening for quite some time when a new sound pierced the night air: boom…boom…boom…boo-boo-boo-boom. Although I had never actually seen one yet, I knew exactly what this was – a serma. Now a serma, as I have been told, is the only drum that the Gmz people hit with sticks and it is only used on three special occasions. First, it may be played when a hyena is killed, kind of as a celebration that this evil creature was destroyed. Second, it can be played when one person murders another. This probably served as a call to arms as historically the bereaved family would often demand a quick revenge killing of any of the murderer’s clan members.  Most often, however, the serma’s cry announces the death of an elder. The sharp sound of sticks hitting stretched cow hide that I heard while laying in my bed, surely was calling everyone in the valley to the three-day funeral for Wo-Aanz’s wife, for the local grapevine had previously informed me that her battle with Tuberculosis would soon be ending. Given the proximity of Wo-Aanz’s village to our Gesas home, as well as the fact that four of his relatives (2 children, 2 grandchildren) are currently working in our translation project, I knew that I was expected to attend some of the funeral. That’s the horse that bucked me off last November, but, despite fears of further discouragement, I knew I had to saddle up again.

 

So this morning, with the sound of drums and singing wafting in our screened windows, I warned Andrea of my intention of our visiting the funeral that afternoon. Yes, “our” visiting. I have learned that Andrea and Micah’s presence in villages is invaluable to my overall comfort level – and of course, Micah gives us something to talk about. Later that day, after Micah’s afternoon nap, we laced up our hiking shoes and walked toward the music (I have never actually been to Wo-Aanz’s before). Not long into our walk, that dense brush opened up into a beautiful view of the valley below and what I suspected to be our destination out on the pinnacle of a “mountain” ridge. Despite my hating to feel like a tourist, I had to take this picture.

 

As we approached the village, we walked by what I immediately recognized as the grave, and once having seen one constructed I imagined all the sweat and muscle that had gone into making it just two days before. Under all those stones, I could picture the little room carved deep into the packed earth, which now housed the body of Wo-Aanz’s wife, wrapped carefully in a white cloth. Slowing my step just a bit, I snapped another photo.

 

Entering the village, we walked confidently into the mass of people and of course immediately became the center of attention – something we, to some degree, have just had to get used to. This party, however, had a different feel to it when compared to the funeral last November. For one thing I wasn’t alone. But secondly, as I looked around, I saw many familiar faces. There’s Bechank, one of our station guards. There’s Wohis, one of my language helpers. There’s Habtamu and Werku, two of my translators. And WoTaak the old man that comes to our door for tea and biscuits. As we approached what was obviously the center of the action (Wo-Aanz’s house), I was greeted by Maange – one of my translation review committee workers. He held an official clipboard as a guard and money collector. He asked for two birr ($0.12), I gave ten ($0.60). I was happy to be there.

 

We found a log to sit on and I struck up a simple conversation with the Gmz men on my right – yes, in the Gmz language. No I cannot speak well, nor can I understand everything, but a lot of translation water has flown under my bridge since the funeral last November, and I was determined to override that memory. Not five minutes after sitting down, a Gmz man I recognized by face approached and handed me a young chicken. He told me (in Gmz) to take this chicken home and put it with my other chickens, let it grow and then eat it. He explained, “We are not going to slaughter the cows until tomorrow morning, so we have no meat to serve you. Take this chicken instead.” Thinking I understood it all, I wanted to be sure. So I went over to Wohis and asked him “Why did I get this chicken?” “He explained, “You are an honored guest, and since you don’t drink the whiskey that Gmz culture expects to give you, they gave you a chicken instead.” An excellent substitution in my mind.

 

We stayed for probably another 2 hours and although I will spare you from a play-by-play of all the details, I can assure you that we had nothing but positive experiences. At one point we went searching for a place to sit (I like it when Gmz people treat me like a normal person, not insisting that we sit on the nicest seats while the old guy finds a new place.) So, we found some log space among many people I didn’t know, but with Micah along for the ride, we soon had made a friend with the woman sitting near us. She was flirting with his shy disposition, giving him space, yet being goofy to hold his attention. Before long, Micah was laughing and playing with her and the others around us while Andrea and I just enjoyed being comfortable in an entirely foreign world. Then again, maybe it isn’t so foreign anymore. Sure, we are not becoming Gmz and we never will feel like one of them. But we are growing in our love and appreciation of many Gmz individuals as well as their language and culture.

 

We returned home in high spirits, encouraged and affirmed in most every way. Thank you, Lord! I couldn’t help but smile as I clipped the wings and sprayed for mites in preparation of my newest chicken, whom was promptly named “Welcome.” I suppose it’s a two-fold meaning. This chicken was a “Welcome” gift to us as special guests at the funeral, and in turn, we plan for him to provide the main course in a “Welcome” meal when my parents visit in just a few weeks – that is if we get some meat under those feathers. ps. I will try to post a video of the music when we return to Addis in a few weeks.

"Cheep, Cheep, Cheep, Cheep"

Yea! Our front yard chicken pen is now filled with the constant “cheep, cheep” of four little puffballs with legs and beaks. That’s right, our chicken named Breakfast came through for us by faithfully sitting on the eight eggs I slipped into her nest. Now, we were warned not to expect 100% hatching and although 50% isn’t all that great, we think it’s a good start. Actually, to Breakfast’s credit, one other egg hatched but the chick, for whatever reason, died that same day. Two eggs did not hatch at all. And one egg totally disappeared. Not sure what happened there.

 

Lunch began sitting on a clutch of eggs just five days after Breakfast, but after two weeks (with one week to go), she abandoned them. Why? Well, you have to know that a few weeks ago, as a result of a Gmz woman’s persistence in wanting to sell, we bought another chicken – named “Snack.” She’s a beautiful white hen, but I think she is the main one responsible for Lunch’s failure to persevere. You see, Lunch’s nesting box must have been in the preferred school district because apparently both Snack and Dinner were, unknown to me, cuddling up and laying their eggs in there too. When Lunch’s egg count became too many for her to adequately cover, she gave up. And, although I was quite disappointed in Lunch’s quitter attitude, her plea for mercy was heard and I am giving her another shot before sharpening my knife.

 

Hide and Seek (Language Nerd Edition)

Key terms are challenging and yet one of the most fun aspects of translation work. That is, communicating the ideas behind loaded terms like redemption, faith, holiness, baptism, forgiveness, etc, and then allowing the Gmz translators to discuss and come up with the best equivalent word or words in the Gmz language. It is not uncommon for such discussions to take on the tone of a good argument, and more often than not, we must move ahead with a “tentative translation” that no one is really happy with. Without fail, these same key terms resurface later in the text, as do the heated discussions, but each time we strive to make headway.

 

Such was the case with the term “holy” or “consecrated.” The people who originally planted the church among the Gmz in this area may have struggled a bit with this Biblical key term, but in the end, it was clear that they just stole the Amharic word and slipped it into the Gmz church vocabulary. This resulted in all the Gmz Christians knowing and using this Amharic word (qadus). However, I have drilled into my co-translators that I don’t want to take the easy way out in borrowing Amharic words unless we absolutely have to. Why? The Amharic word ‘qadus’ (holy) is a perfect example. The first time we encountered the term “holy” in the text of Luke’s gospel, I knew we were in for a can of worms, but it didn’t begin how I expected. You see, everybody knew the Amharic word “qadus” and so after a brief discussion amongst themselves, they all agreed and told me to type in “gashokwa.” But, not so fast, I knew the word “gashokwa” and its meaning (breath, spirit) was far from the semantic domain of “holy” or “consecrated.” Not to mention that it was the wrong part of speech (a noun when we needed an adjective). So, after a few questions, it became clear to me that, though everybody in the church had used the Amharic word “qadus” for more than seven years, none of them really had any idea what it meant – and that is EXACTLY the danger in borrowing key terms from foreign languages!

 

Good thing we don’t ever do that in English right? Well, how about an example a little closer to home? How many English Bible readers really know what the term “Christ” means? Christ (a loan-word from the Greek’s ‘Kristos’) was a technical term so rich in meaning that the English Bible translators couldn’t bear to dumb it down into just one English word. However, by stealing the Greek word, they locked away this treasure of meaning, hiding it from the average Bible reader and instead leaving the burden of communication on the shoulders of preachers and teachers. Now, the question I ask, in an extremely Biblically literate sub-culture like Christian America – how good of a job have our preachers and teachers done to fill in the meaning of this stolen key term? I would hope that none of you would say that ‘Christ’ is simply Jesus’ last name. But how many of you would speak of its connection to kingship, and more technically, the fulfiller of the Davidic covenant? Had the English Bible translators decided to translate ‘Christ’ as its literal meaning ‘The Anointed One,’ at least English readers of the Bible would have some place to start in discovering what it means to call Jesus by this royal title. With that said, the Gmz Bible translation, thus far, has followed suit with every other translation I have in front of me…we too have stolen the Greek work ‘Kristos.’ Does that make me a hypocrite?

 

Speaking of “hypocrite,” that’s another key term that we encountered recently in the translation office. When the Amharic word communicated nothing meaningful, I began giving examples of hypocrisy. “Let’s say that Larry doesn’t like it when whips are cracked right outside his house at night. So he yells and creates quite a stir to make sure the offending kids are properly punished and the annoyance stops. But then, one day, Larry makes a new whip and tries it out late that night. When his neighbors complain, he simply blows them off. That is a hypocrite. Or, let’s say, in volleyball Alake always yells at people when they just hit the ball over the net without setting him up for a good spike. “Three hits…three hits!” he yells every time. But, then when the ball comes for him to set up his teammate, he just hits it straight over. He is a hypocrite. Feeling good about my two examples, I looked up at my co-translators, all of which seemed less than impressed. They talked a bit but only came up with general statements like “bad person” or “liar.” So I looked at the deeper meaning of the Greek term “hupocrita” (yes, English stole this word from Greek, but, unlike “Christ,” the meaning of ‘hypocrite’ has become mainstream English). I remembered that the Greek word also might be translated as “pretend,” as an actor pretends to be someone or something else. So, changing my strategy, I explained how sometimes I pretend to be a lion when playing with Micah. I crawl around on the ground, circling him and roaring. Then, without warning I rush in and tackle him, while pretending to eat his belly. Before I even finished the description of my pretend game, Habtamu had thrown out a word that got the whole room buzzing. “That’s it! That’s it!” They said all together. This word worked with the lion, with Alake the volleyball fiend, and with Larry the whip cracker. After spending some good ten minutes on this one word, my co-translators burst into excitement and pride having found that their language can accurately capture this idea. And yet, another key term was discovered!

 

Unfortunately, the term for ‘holy’has not had such an “Aha” moment. After many discussions, I felt my co-translators had retrained their thinking as to what ‘qadus’ or ‘holy’ was, but we still hadn’t found anything that captured the ideas of either being “set apart” or “completely pure.”  Even the tangible concept of being “set apart” is not simple in Gmz for in all the examples I tried, they just stated it literally “That bag of grain was placed by itself” or “that money was given to God.” Then one day, Habtamu, randomly threw out the suggestion “how about ‘daagahaats?’” I knew the word root meaning ‘good’ or ‘clean,’ but asked for explanation. He explained that after a woman gives birth, she is unclean for two months. At the end of this period, she then slaughters a chicken and is declared clean or ‘magahatsama.’ The term carries the idea of containing nothing impure, which is definitely an important concept within the key term ‘holy.’ Surprisingly, I tested to see if this term carried some meaning with regard to “set apart” or ‘consecrated,’ and although I didn’t get an enthusiastic reaction, I was not shot down either. So, we decided to run with it as a tentative solution and even now, after many more discussions, we are still tentatively settled on this word for ‘holy.’ However, my ears are always open for new possibilities. For example, I just learned that when a witch doctor declares a certain house to be a home of a powerful spirit, people must take their shoes off when entering. Next time we encounter the word ‘holy,’ I am going to ask about this cultural situation and why shoe removal is required. Is it because the ground is sacred? Holy? What word is used to say that?

 

 The game of discovering key terms is not unlike playing hide and seek. We suspect there are useful terms hidden all around the language, and so we start by looking for careless hiders in the most obvious places (using Amharic words for direct translation). When this avenue is exhausted, we dig a bit deeper by giving example situations. Then, if some little bugger is tucked away really well, the seeker has got to start getting a bit more creative – with an ear always open to catch new words and concepts in everyday life.