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.

 

Following Jesus

Simon Peter, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew, Thomas, James the son of Alphaeus, Simon the Zealot, Judas son of James, and last (and certainly least) Judas Iscariot. These twelve men had an opportunity and subsequent experience that tumbles the rest of us deep into the sin of jealousy! Having been called by Jesus himself into his inner circle, these twelve men were given VIP seats to the most important three years in God’s great story of redemption. They saw the God-Man at work day after day: no doubt awed by his miracles, intimidated by his rebukes, even of high officials, and challenged by his teachings, not to mention by the private explanation of parables that took place behind closed doors. Wow, to fall into step with the physical Jesus, even if just for one day, would be a journey of a lifetime.

 

Well, neither you nor I have been chosen for such a privilege, nor even to be alive during those exciting times, but thanks to the blessing of written language and the careful collection of these experiences into what is now known as the four gospels, we can, in a sense walk beside our Lord. We can help Andrew haul in that great catch of fish. We can attend Matthew’s party with all the tax collectors and sinners. We can stand next to James in awe of the transfiguration (and maybe warn Peter to just keep his mouth shut). We can help Simon the Zealot fill baskets with leftovers after feeding a whole stadium of people. At night, we could pull up a chair with Phillip and James son of Alphaeus and together marvel at the number of demons Jesus had commanded to enter that herd of pigs. We can recline next to Bartholomew as Jesus breaks the bread and passes the cup of the New Covenant for us to partake. We can weep with Peter after the foretold rooster crowed. We can stand in devastating shock with John at the foot of the cross just as the midday sunlight goes black. Then less than 48 hours later, we can race with him to the garden tomb which had only temporarily swallowed the flesh of its Creator. We can shout “Amen” after Thomas’ faith-filled declaration “My Lord and My God!” Then, we can fall into step with Judas son of James, as we walk back to Jerusalem, involuntarily looking up over our shoulder at the very cloud into which the King of Kings ascended. With the eyes of faith and the written accounts of eyewitnesses, we CAN relive these moments in all their power!

 

This realization hit me in a new way this past week in the translation office when we came to Luke 4:25: “I assure you that there were many widows in Israel in Elijah’s time, when the sky was shut for three and a half years and there was a severe famine.” To me, this was a routine verse for translation and so I thought nothing of it. But, after I had communicated the idea in my mix of ugly Amharic and ugly Gmz, we worked to come up with what everyone agreed was a good rendering in the Gmz language. As I looked down at my Bible to prepare for verse 26, Dewaan slumped back in his seat folded his arms and shook his head. Now, this is not an unusual posture for Dewaan, as he is my most careful translator, never afraid to speak up when he doesn’t like the way something sounds. “Is there a problem, Dewaan?” I asked, reaching for the keyboard to make the anticipated change. “Yea, it didn’t rain for three and a half years? And there are widows during such a famine? That is terrible!”

 

Clearly, I had fallen into the trap that awaits many Bible translators, Bible students and Bible scholars alike, the trap of engaging one’s mind when working with Scripture, yet leaving the heart idle. Dewaan’s lament was true. This was a TERRIBLE situation and the Gmz people know it better than you or I. For example, a June with no rain in America means that we would have to water our treated lawns ourselves to avoid being the neighborhood eyesore all summer. A rainless June among the Gmz means that life gets a lot tougher. The seeds planted in May, in anticipation of rain, are long gone, jeopardizing the next year’s crop or at least requiring a loan for replanting a late crop – that is, assuming that rain would come in July. Three and a half years of drought would devastate and destroy the whole Gumuz subsistence way of life, with, by the way, nothing to fall back on. And yet, Jesus highlights the helpless condition of the many widows in Israel during this time. The Gmz, as the ancient Israelites, could appreciate the grave consequences of such a famine upon widows, where social security meant only what one’s family could provide. Without a family, widows have nowhere to turn. The description of this situation had entered Dewaan’s ears, its devastation had been processed by his mind, and the hopelessness of it all had reached his heart. And when that heart overflowed out of his mouth, it was a confrontational blow to my dormant emotions.

 

It was then that I realized something. Something huge. Something unnoticed by me, but that had been happening from the very beginning. Dewaan, Werku and Habtamu sit with me every morning as we work through the text of Luke’s gospel. As we talk our way through each sentence, each verse, each story, they are the modern-day Peter, James and John. You see, although the gospel was introduced in this area about eight years ago, it is clear that their understanding of the stories of Scripture are fuzzy and very much disconnected. But now, for the first time in their spiritual lives, they have laced their sandals so that they might walk vicariously alongside Jesus during his earthly ministry. The stories are fresh, they’re clear, and they’re powerful, just as they must have been to their original eyewitnesses.

 

I can’t help but smile as I think of the journey that they are on. They’ve entered the temple with Zechariah. They’ve travelled to Bethlehem with Mary and Joseph. They’ve stood with the shepherds as the glory of the Lord surrounded them. They’ve heard the testimony of Simeon, Anna, John the Baptist and the voice of God himself from heaven. They’ve been awed by the genealogy and worshipped the only Man to ever stand sinless against Satan’s strongest temptations. And though they know some of the major events that lie ahead, much of the details lie in the mystery of anticipation. For not unlike Jesus’ Twelve, these three Gmz translators are experiencing it one day at a time. And I have the privilege of joining them on this journey. I can’t wait for tomorrow!

Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner

“What are we on now, plan H?” I said to Larry out of frustration. With death of one of Micah’s chickens a few weeks ago, I was reminded that my big fat hens were not bred for the rough life out here in Gesas. Overall, they have done well, but the original plan was to breed them with strong local roosters and create a second generation with the best of both worlds. So, in February, Larry bought a rooster, named “Johnny” by Larry’s son, and all evidence points to Johnny doing a good job in “servicing” my hens these past few months. Well, my hens are doing a great job in laying eggs, however, fertilized eggs don’t hatch themselves. They need a warm, moist bo-hinee on top of them for about three weeks. My hens either don’t understand this, or they are so displeased with my care of them that they have all gone on strike. At one point, we had more than 75 eggs piled up in their laying areas, with no sitters. Scrambled eggs anyone?

 

So we have moved on to plan H – that is – “Habesha.” Habesha means “Ethiopian local” and is the opposite of Farenge, which means “foreigner.” Giving up on the farenge chickens ever fulfilling their mothering duty, I went to the local market and picked out three young habesha hens. The plan is that whenever a Habesha chicken lays an egg, I will replace it with one of my farenge chicken’s eggs with the hope that the Habesha chickens will eventually sit on and hatch them for me.

 

Now compared to my fat-bottomed girls, these new chicks are scrawny, but as long as their fannies can cover a few eggs for the 21 days required for a hatching…we could be in business. If they decide not to work for me, then the $2.50 I spent for each bird becomes an investment into our protein diet. To spur these girls onto good deeds, we have tried negative reinforcement in their naming. So without further ado – may I present to you:

 

Breakfast,

Lunch,

and Dinner.

 

Progress Report? Well, as of today, they have been with me for 11 days and their progress has varied. “Dinner” has not laid any eggs, yet she eats the food I give her. Believe me, her room and board bill is in the mail. “Lunch” laid her first egg on day 6 and has laid 4 eggs since then so that looks promising. However, “Breakfast” is definitely the top of her class. She laid a new egg 10 out of the 11 days since I bought her and she has built for herself a nice nesting area. As planned, every evening, after “Breakfast” went to bed, I nabbed her tiny habesha eggs and replaced them with my massive ones. Then, today, after laying her 10^th egg, she started acting strange, spending much more time by her nest. I replaced the new egg and, sure enough, later this afternoon, Breakfast plopped herself down for what seems like good. We hope for the best, but we won’t know the results for another 21 days. Either way, it appears that plan H is at least getting us beyond where we have been before.

 

If this doesn’t work…what’s next? Well, plan “I” of course – that is “Incubation.”