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.
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