Too Late For Cheeseburgers

After last Thursday's trip into Addis, I would expect that we have fulfilled our quota of misfortune for some time (if only it worked like that). The day started early, as I woke up at 4:48am, two minutes before my alarm. We needed to get an early start on our trip to Addis to hopefully make up for the extra 40-minute detour that would be required of us (the road we normally would take was closed due to a broken dam). By 5:10am, I was walking up the hill to where I had parked our truck. You see, shortly after driving out to Gesas in April, something (or likely someone) was playing in the truck, flipped a switch and subsequently drained our battery. We tried charging it multiple ways, but it seemed that the 4-year-old was begging to enter retirement. Even jumper cables were not doing the trick, so, with the help of a tow strap, we had our truck pulled to the top of a hill to allow us to do a roll start. And so, on this starless morning, I held a flashlight out the window, which did very little to help me see the tree I knew I was rolling straight toward. After gathering speed and probably well short of the tree, I released the clutch and praised God to hear the engine come to life. Arriving  at the house, I quickly loaded our stuff in the back, the kids in their seats and off we went, shooting up the same prayer we always pray on such occasions, "Lord help us arrive in Addis Ababa with safety and in time for cheeseburgers!" (the cheeseburger place closes at 6pm on weekdays)

 

We bumbled down the bumpy road for about 15 kilometers without difficulty, until we came to a herd of sleeping cattle. Don't ask me why people don't tie up their animals at night to keep them off the road. After all, livestock, and especially cows, are very expensive ($250-$500) and they make up the bulk of Gmz people's wealth, but then again, I suppose the owners have an insurance policy of sorts in the general practice that if any animal is injured by a vehicle, the driver is always responsible and will likely not only pay a handsome price for the injured/killed animal but also its hypothetical descendants. (You may remember the blog post entitled "Unborn Sheep For Sale" in July 2011.) Anyway, looking up ahead, I saw two more herds lazily ignoring my headlights and honking, so I sent out my brute force, that is, Andrea. She got out and used her intimidating presence, hootin' and holloring to shoo them out of our path. Finding the road open again, Andrea got back in the truck and we continued on. About 15 minutes later, she started searching around for something, "Uhhh…there's a good chance that when I got out to shoo the cows, that my phone fell out of the truck." The cheapest of cheap (about $12) a 5-year-old phone with its own sporadic problems wasn't worth losing 30 minutes to double back and look for under the multitude of cow hooves. We decided to deal with it when we arrived in Addis.

 

Before long, we arrived at Gilgel Beles and stopped to fill up on gas. Having driven an hour with a working alternator, I figured the battery would have gotten enough charge to restart the warm engine. Bad assumption. Upon trying to restart, that old battery couldn't even turn the engine over a second time, and so we sat. The gas station attendant tried to help push us, but the rocky road proved too much. After a few minutes another truck arrived and the travelers were summoned to add their muscle to the push. Eventually, getting it rolling down the tiny slope in the station "parking lot", I released the clutch and it fired to life again. Grr…another 10-15 minutes lost, but at least we were moving again.

 

Not more than 5 kilometers down the road, while passing a bus, our truck's familiar sound of clanking metal and jiggling plastic was suddenly interrupted with a new and very unwelcome sound "Pssss…pssss…pssss...pssss." The bus, now behind me laid on its horn, alerting me of what I already knew – we had popped a tire. Living in Ethiopia has made me quite an expert in changing tires and being unable to turn off the engine, the four of us jumped into action like a Nasty Car pit crew (well, I can't say that Grace helped much apart from providing cute entertainment for those who were passing by). With a spare in place, the popped tire stowed away, we were back on the road, another 10-15 minutes down the drain.

 

After the triple whammy of lost phone, push start at the gas station, and popped tire, I was ready to start making some good progress, which we did before for about 2 hours before we encountered yet another problem, this time of a much more serious nature. Driving along the bumpy road takes a lot of concentration. I wanted to take advantage of the smoother parts which enable us to build some speed and cover some ground. However, I must stay always alert for large dips, potholes and other hazards. Today I was trying to be especially careful because I had noticed at the tire change that our rear shock had broken its seal and was leaking its fluid. Yet, having lost time, I was also trying to balance caution with bursts of speed. Unfortunately, the two didn't mix well when one rough patch caught me completely off guard, sending the truck bouncing quite forcefully on its suspension. It wasn't the first time its ever happened to us, so we thought nothing of it, until we arrived at another flat section and I noticed the truck pulling sharply to the right. Fearing a second popped tire, I got out to inspect, but found nothing. Going a bit further, I couldn't ignore the pull any longer. Stopping again, I looked a bit closer and saw that the right front tire was not longer running perpendicular to the ground, but rather leaned into the frame. "Oooo, that can't be good!" I told Andrea, "You better cancel the cheeseburger plans for tonight."

 

Parking on a hill (so as to roll-start again if needed), I turned off the engine to take a better look and it didn't take long to see that the ball of the upper ball joint had popped out of its socket and lodged itself into the metal arm which swings out from the main body. Seeming somewhat stuck in there, I (and the Ethiopian semi-driver who had stopped to take a look) decided that it was probably drivable as long as the truck didn't bounce again. He, having come from the direction we were headed assured me that the road was a decent condition and so we began our slow crawl toward the city. Praise God the road was quite  a bit better from there on and I successfully fought back any temptation to pick up the pace (thick n' chunky salsa). Some 30 minutes and 10 kilometers later, we were limping into town and trying to ignore the many people flagging us down to tell us that our wheel was broken. Finding the only mechanic in town, we spent the next two hours hanging with the garage crew who took a great liking to Micah and Grace. The whole joint was removed, the ball popped back in place and a metal ring was welded over the socket to prevent any further attempts to escape, we took a test drive, paid the $13 bill and began to load ourselves back into the truck. In putting the jack away, I unwittingly reached behind the seat without first looking and then, feeling something moving on my hand, I pulled it out to see a furious little honeybee burrowing its behind into my palm. Yeow! Plucking its thorny stinger, I clenched my teeth as the venom began to kick in. Yea, it was painful, but nothing compared to the scorpion sting of 2013, and so, gingerly holding the wheel with my throbbing hand, I merged back onto the main road toward Addis. 

 

I glanced at my phone, it was just after noon, what should have taken three hours had stripped us of six and a half, leaving us only 7 hours of daylight for a stretch of road that, when all goes PERFECTLY well with no stops, takes, you guessed it, 7 hours (there is a company policy restricting us from driving outside of Addis Ababa after dark, a policy I take especially seriously after a recent accident involving a colleague rear ending a semi who had parked without lights partially on the shoulder, partially not.). After the lost phone, the push start delay at the gas station, the flat tire, the ball joint and the unlucky encounter with the wrong end of a bee, could I really hope for a flawless remainder of a trip in which we hadn't even reached the halfway point? One would think not, but I wasn't ready to admit defeat quite yet (mostly not wanting to have to find a hotel with a parking spot on a hill for roll starting in the morning). Praying for the perfect end to the anything but perfect beginning of this trip, God answered. The traffic was light, the road conditions were nice, the rain was short and light, the kids were surprisingly well-behaved, even the gas attendant perfectly nailed 500.00 birr on the pump as I asked. Just before 7pm, as the sun was making its final descent below the horizon, we were making our final ascent up Entoto, the mountain which frames the northern edge of Addis Ababa. A journey that began so poorly, had ended quite perfectly, with the exception of the cheeseburgers we had set our stomachs on. Arriving only long after the burger joint closed, we were instead treated to an amazing home-cooked fish and potato dinner, prepared for us by our Addis Ababa housemate and friend. Despite the obstacles, we all crashed in our own beds not long after dinner, resting with full assurance that we were indeed richly blessed, even without the cheeseburgers.

 

Peter! Sheath Your Saw!

When you think of the work of Bible translation, what do think of? Annoyingly tedious day in and day out? You're right! Personally challenging and spiritually enriching? You're right again. But you might not realize that it isn't all down to business seriousness. Rather, laughter is a frequent visitor to our office, providing a welcome respite between arguments.

Sometimes jokes are planned as my study alerts me to a word or phrase that is difficult to render and so I often create a hypothetical scenario in which the word can be tested. Of course, I do my best in weaving in one or more of the inside jokes I hold with the translators. Back in Gesas, Taage (the smallest guy in our group) was always the hypothetical "short end of the stick guy" and WoHis (the biggest member of our group) was always the hero/champion. The story Jesus told of the stronger man coming and overpowering the weaker one, pillaging his house and dividing the spoils (Luke 11:21-22), made for a great laugh when real faces are put on the nameless characters. With the official translators, Work'u somehow got a bad rap as a fornicator, Thomas is a polygamist (because he is in love with overusing certain words) and although the Bible never mentions it, Saul certainly fell off his donkey when he saw the light… trust me, its funny. But, as is always the case with trying to retell inside jokes on the outside, they aren't funny, so I'll spare myself the effort.

Sometimes, laughter makes its appearance unexpectedly. It could be concepts previously misunderstood, words misspoken (usually by me), or possible interpretations of an ambiguous phrase needing revision. One day, last summer, I remember Work'u and Maateyos working away at Biblical key terms in Luke's gospel while I lounged on the other side of the room finishing the final chapters of exegetical check. Unsure of the word used for Peter cutting off the high priest's servant's ear, I waited for a good time to interrupt Work'u and Maateyos' work. "Work'u, what does it mean to dashiil someone's ear." Giving me the immediate translation into Amharic, he replied "Dashiil means to cut." But I waited for a moment as I could see in his face the unsettled look of confusion. "Wait," he asked, "How did Peter cut his ear?" Now it was my turn to wear the face of confusion, "I don't I imagine, he grabbed a sword and went like this. Why?" Work'u shook his head, "Then we can't use dashiil, we should use daciil. Dashiil means to cut like this…" he began to saw his finger against his ear. Suddenly, all three of us burst out laughing at the mental picture of Peter running up to the servants ear and sawing away at it. What would he have been saying, "Hold still! This will just take a minute here. Drat, I should have sharpened my blade a bit, if only I had known you were coming…" Both words, dashiil and daciil can be translated as cut, but I'm quite certain that Peter did not saw off an ear.

Every piece of language encodes tiny details which when not used careful paint a picture close enough to sometimes go unnoticed, but far enough away to be downright hilarious. Finding these mistakes, and taking a moment to laugh at them with the translators is one of the best parts of me job. And consequently, its these shared memories, these times of laughter that deepen our mutual friendship and help us through the times that are tedious and taxing.

Lik'o-Hosa

Trips into town are never without the unexpected. Some days, the surprises are welcome and almost fun. Most times, however, I could do without them. Today's trip, well, I could have done without having to wash the rank odor of blood out of our truck bed.

Micah and I had gone in to town to see if we could pick up a few good egg-laying chickens and whatever fruits and veggies were available this time of year. Having browsed the market and returned to the truck with our spoils (cheap mangos and monster guavas!), I wasn't surprised to see a friend run up to us. "Travis, Travis, can you take a lik'o-hosa for me. I'll come to your house later to pick it up." She spoke quickly in Gumuz and I missed some of it, but I had enough context to know what she was asking even if she had asked in the language of Beeker (everybody's favorite muppet). She had come running from the mills where Gumuz women often go on market days to have their grain ground. Dumping the sacks of flour in the back on my truck sure beat carrying them the 6 miles on foot. "What?" I asked, probably just for fun because I didn't really engage my mind to receive her answer. She ran off and returned later with the most oddly-shaped "sack of grain" I had ever seen. And the smell! The sweet breeze suddenly turned foul as the mystery package arrived at my bumper. As I helped her lift it in the back of the truck, I asked, "What is this?" To which she responded first with the universal "Are you deaf? I told you twice already!" look which surfaces quite frequently in our cross-cultural interactions. Patience finally got the best of her and she responded with a smile "lik'o-hosa." Ding, a light went on in my head as my brain finally connected the two nouns in the compound word – head-cow. I looked down at the my new companion for the journey home and sure enough – it was a real cow's head. I grabbed a horn, patted him on the snout and said, "Good cow head," much to the delight of the audience that had gathered. Dark red stain was already seeping through the bag and pooling in the trenches in my plastic tuck bed-cover. Oh well, nothing a bit of soap and water can't clean off back at home, besides, I may be saving this young lady the hassle of many mangy mutts trailing her for the two-hour walk she'd make in returning home later that afternoon. "155 birr (that’s about $18)" she told me, "Pretty expensive, but it will make a good meal for the yula tomorrow evening." A yula is when one family invites all their relatives and friends to come work in their field for the day. In payment of a full day of work, the host provides an evening meal for everybody. Now stop and think about it, we Americans have a similar practice, reflected in our cultural commandment: Thou shalt not fail to buy cheap pizza to feed all those who help on moving day.  Ever have trouble hooking friends (with trucks) to help you move? Try changing the bait. Instead of promising a lap full of greasy Little Sleezers, why not throw a cow head on the BBQ?

More?

It was July 31^st, 2004, and I have soon cruised past the "Yes Michigan!" welcoming sign in route to meet Andrea's parents for the very first time. Not much had been set up for the weekend visit and I didn't want to make a bad first impression so I tried to cover my bases. Knowing I was about 2 hours from her house, I did the math and realized I would be arriving at what might be considered a fairly late dinner hour. Not wanting to impose on them to reheat whatever might be leftover from their meal, I pulled off the highway at the beacon of a Burger King and added two Jr. Whoppers with Cheese to the horde of fluttering butterflies. Feeling quite satisfied, I continued the journey and soon found myself making the last turns of the directions Andrea gave to me (learning that "Cuss Road" was actually "Cuff Road" took a bit of the fun out of it). Pulling into the driveway, Andrea and her dad were already approaching, thankfully both wearing unmistakable smiles. A good sign.

 

When invited into the house, my attention locked immediately onto the fancy dining table set for what looked like a feast. Table cloth, cloth napkins, candles, long-necked goblets… "Uh oh," I thought, "Look out Juniors, you're going to have company." Having explained that I had eaten a bit on the road (too embarrassed to reveal the quality of the food), I agreed to take a small portion and was given expressed permission to eat "only what I wanted." The smallest burger on the plate, a bit of salad and some fruit to slip between what cracks might be left empty. Over the course of the meal, I slowly but methodically nibbled away at my plate, seriously going way beyond the agreed upon "only what I wanted." With the goal at hand, I mustered the courage to hoist the last bite of my burger up to my mouth. But even before it arrived, my gracious host and the woman for whom I was auditioning for the part of son-in-law broke my concentration, "Here, Travis, have some more, there's more burgers, more carrots, more everything, what can I get you?" Smiling so as to cover the inner turmoil, I graciously admitted defeat and made a mental note to NEVER darken the window of that highway Burger King again!

 

Over the course of the next few months, I found myself a frequent guest at the Rockey dinner table and so I became quite familiar with their family's habits as they differed from the typical meals at the Williamsons. The Rockeys like table cloths and often matching cloth napkins as opposed to the stained wood look I was most familiar with. They drink out of nice goblets, even at breakfast, contrast that with the faded pink, yellow and orange plastic cups that grew old with my family. There are many differences, most of which I learned and adjusted to without difficulty. However, maybe haunted from that very first meal, there is one difference in table manners that I can't completely get over.

 

You see the Rockeys have something in their DNA, a special kind of radar it seems, such that they are always keenly aware of exactly how much food remains on each person's plate. And they must be wired with some alarm system which blares obnoxiously in their minds whenever someone's last bite lifts off its launch pad.  And after years of study, I have recently concluded that asking the question, "What can I get you?" and passing all the serving dishes toward the impoverished individual is, in fact, the only code by which this alarm is turned off.

 

Quite a remarkable discovery, if I do say so myself. This trait, its gotta be instinctual, and its gotta be genetic, particularly attached to the X chromosome, flourishing in the presence of another X. Andrea's mom is a master, but so also are Andrea's Grandma and Aunts. "What about Andrea?" you ask. Yes, at first, she too was subject to this rare (or at least non-Williamson) alertness against empty plates, but we've been working on it together. You see, in the Williamson home I grew up in, those who finished their plate were congratulated and allowed to lean back in their chair, savoring the hard-fought victory (No, that is not a comment on the quality of food! Don't you try to get me in trouble!). Second helpings were given upon specific request. Andrea has lovingly accommodated me by learning to ignore when her alarm is triggered by the empty plate in front of me.

 

But wait, if, as my theory suggests, this trait is truly hard-wired into the DNA, would Grace also have this special gift? And if so, how and when would we know? Well, wonder no longer. The other evening, we were all sitting around eating one of our favorite treats – homemade chocolate ice cream. Having dished out three small glass cups for herself, Micah and Grace, I was given the original container which still contained the lion's share. A few minutes later the stillness of collective enjoyment was broken by one of Grace's favorite words, "More!" When seeing that her cup was still half full, I responded graciously, "Gracie, finish what you have in your cup, then you  can have more." Unsatisfied, she said it again, "More, daddy, more!" I looked at Andrea, who tried her best to explain it such that she could understand, "Gracie, do you have some ice cream in your cup? Ok, finish that first, then you can have more from daddy." Frustrated now, Grace saw that she was going to have to spell this out for her dense parents, "More, daddy, mommy, more!" As Andrea and I burst out in laughter, Gracie had had enough, she walked over to Andrea's seat, took her mommy's empty cup and brought it over to me for a refill. Receiving what she deemed to be a sufficient second helping for her mom, Grace then gave it back to Andrea and returned to her own seat. Sorry Grace, that little alarm must be quite strong to distract you from chocolate ice cream!

 

These days, it's not uncommon for us to be enjoying a meal together when, out of the blue, we hear a very recognizable, "More." I've learned now, to instinctively look down at my plate and the plates of others at the table to see what needs to be refilled. While I may not have the right DNA to blare the internal siren, I now have the cutest little girl's voice to raise my awareness. This time around, it seems, it is me who is doing the learning and accommodating.