"Man's Work".....Revisited

The “field vehicle” rattled upward towards our experimental planting, the roof of the Land Rover rounded with yellow bags of compost and fertilizer. As we passed the city limits, the truck stopped. Our new cargo, a dozen teenage girls chattering and bounding, clambered into the back. Most sported long skirts, patched austerely, and blouses; their hair bundled or covered pragmatically with colorful cloth. 

It is not unusual for the driver to pick up strangers en route.  I figured these girls would be dropped off elsewhere. To my surprise, when we reached the work sight, this team of twittering teens descended and immediately started digging the earth.  With rudimentary tools, their progress was slow. They bent fully at the waist, slamming downward with the hoe, dragging it through the soil and scouring the loosened earth for straggling weeds. To my displeasure, I was not allowed to work. Their unified and admonishing chorus sounded every time I reached to help and served as sufficient dissuasion.  

Excluded from the “women’s work” (for I suppose that is what it must be called), I wandered to the neighbor’s clay-hay home. Sitting upon a hand carved table were blackish honeycomb and Khat (a plant mild stimulant effects). The farmer mumbled “thank-you, thank-you” as he offered me a sticky mass of beeswax. I gladly accepted. On closer inspection, little hexagons of white were interspersed amongst the darkened honey. Slightly flapped but charging onward, I popped the comb, maggots and all, into my mouth. I was unable to taste the extra protein. The Khat, however, tasted quite awful, like chewing a handful of stevia that fully lacks sweetness. The effect of the Khat was not unlike coffee, though I noticed more quickly the boost it gave me.

Boys' best photos

I stood around most of the day taking photos. Periodically, a small boy would carry off my camera, taking off-angled photos of whatever laid before him. The girls were shy and, only after coaxing, would allow a snapshot. The pictures below are more a testament of my insistence than their own willingness to be photographed.

boys' best photos

They worked valiantly all day; strong girls, disposed to work. Together they eked pleasure from toil; their eight hours garnering a meager dollar. When I looked back on my day from the comfort of my room, a curious comparison played in my mind. The faces of these girls presented a distinct image of poverty; one that is cheerful before work, friendly before strangers and resolute in confronting the reality of their paltry wages. My hat’s off to them.

"Man's Work"

Ode To Andrew Simmons

Andrew waited above in the dining hall. This I knew upon waking, for I was already late to our 8:00 am meeting. I was not altogether perturbed, for the time changed has left me bereft of sleep. And Oh what a change the extra hours make.

We ate our usual fare of coffee, papya juice, avocado juice and a strange spicy thing with the texture of squid and flavor of pasta. We clarified goals, made powerpoint presentations and met with a colleague to discuss his proposed publication. The colleague, Ohmhalu, is a young associate professor with Jimma University. As opposed to his countrymen, his hair is loosely curled but he demonstrates the usual friendliness. He has thus far managed to teach my terribly tied tongue the Amharic words for “How do you say….<pointing to item>” pronounced “Yhe Min Ybalal…”, “Your welcome” “Ekabelalu” and “Restaurant Bill”, “Hisab”.

Andrew and I did not tarry in taking advantage of our afternoon freedom. After lunch we immediately trotted North in search of a barber. Descending to the abutted shops, we elected to enter a repurposed shipping container. Within, two men quickly started their work, utterly perplexed by our straight locks. I soon closed my eyes, enjoying the attention, the pampering and the soft scratching along the back of my neck. When they opened again, half-a-dozen men stood in the glassless window, drawn by the spectacle of these two white men. Andrew was charged three times more than I. His sparse arrangement of hair certainly did not merit the surcharge.  

Two doors down, we descended once again for a cup of Buna. The freshly roasted coffee resembled the most artisan roasters, acidic yet fruity and sweet. The purveyor tossed incense to the fire, actually just the actual bark of a tree, and dropped a tiny herb that wafted a spectacular scent. We rose and continued. During our stroll, certain people greeted us with exuberance: a small child ran to give us both “five” before running back to her mother; another child shouted “you, you, you”, then another, and then another shouted the same farther along; a tall woman told Andrew, in a very deliberate manner, “You are beautiful”. She did not stop and passed without saying more.

In the final moments of our walk, we saw a group of monkeys. White faced and nimble, they traversed the sketch of unfinished buildings. I have seen far too many documentaries, been to far too many zoos, and have lived far too many years to have been excited. Yet, against my will, excitement childishly welled within me. Pure wonderment, or even awe, besotted me and I bubbled over. Poor Andrew had to endure this for the rest of the evening, and the pure exuberance has yet to subside.

Coffee Country Part Deux

The asphalt roads fall to deepened shoulders of sodden, sticky clay. Splayed along the way, the wafting scent of incense and coffee spills to the messy red walk, ode of the shops that roast their fresh beans in an hour-long ceremony. Jimmá is the heart of coffee country. The plant finds its way to ornamental gardens weighed by their over-born fruits and peaks out from every shaded seclusion. I do indeed take advantage of the 25-cent espresso of unmarked brand, drinking amply with every meal.

Most all that I know here is gleaned through Andrew. With a taste for fine whisky, he wonkishly maneuvers this foreign land, adroitly calling out requests in Amharic. Together we boyishly enjoy the world cup and with infinite patience he fields my endless queries. With his help, we made our way to Jimma University for our first meeting with the research team.

In a hard, downward pull, the Ethiopians yank my extended hand towards the earth, drawing my shoulder forward in a joyous half hug. This common greeting bespeaks of the open culture that pervades this country. No crime deters their openness and stands in stark contrast to any other experience I have known. I often see men walking arm-in-arm and in our meetings, one professor massaged the shoulders of his seated colleague.

 After some powerpoints and lengthy talks, we moved to a truck that took us higher uphill. There we found our first farmer plot. His small cottage ground was overrun with weeds. Towards the back, a few rows of trial corn eked out a spot among the furor of vegetation. As we posed further questions, four young ones straggled along, faces of flies and runny noses, serious until prompted otherwise. Eventually I managed to let on take a picture of his father with my camera and bid my adieu as we moved along to our second farmer run trial. The second’s elaborate clay home upstaged the first’s. The reddish clay of the walls ran smooth, and the sharp lines of the house were elegantly angled. Run by a thinnish, rather scrawny man, the farm was much more tamed. In his tree hung columns built to house bees. Cabbage and khat grew along the property’s borders. Yet, despite his attention to detail, the eager weeds choked down the all else in his carefully prepared beds.

Before dinner, Andrew and I sat talking behind the hotel. Excitedly we calculated and hypothesized, his insight sparking questions and answers simultaneously. Slowly our talks descended to banal matters until finally, before the frenzy of football madness, finally erased all thoughts of higher matters. For now, soccer reigns over our evenings, but with our work borne bare in a short tour of struggling crops, our real task will soon take precedent over coffee shops and more innocent meanderings.

Coffee Country

Departure Deux

I oft' find that exploring is far preferred to safety and quietude. In Ethiopia, or at least Addis, the inverse may hold true. The city is not particularly filthy though the roads lack lines and drivers lack any respect for human life. Indeed, our first taxi to the center of town careened through crowded streets, bumping the bags of shoppers too slow to flee. He assumed people would move or else did not care if they didn't. My knuckles white from grasping, Andrew spoke animatedly with the driver, as carefree and confident as our chauffeur. The child-beggars in tatters hold a hand out for change. "five?" "one?" "five, sister?" they say having confused their pronouns. Three or four children keep at your side, cutting back and forth around your feet, as would a housecat. They look to each other, corroborating in deciding an asking price..."One?"
"Five?" "One, sister?"

Perhaps the food alone can make amends. The saucy, ghee and mitmita or berbere based fare, served atop injera, competes with any cuisine. I am driven to the outskirts of the compound by thoughts of tibs (meat bits in sauce) and shero. They hand out no silverware, but leave you rolls of crepe-like injera. Tearing pieces of flat bread, you grab greedily for the best bites, unashamedly reaching to your companions side of the plate for a bit of lamb and pepper.

If not out, I remain on the ILRI compound, home to a scores of international organizations; most are related to the CGIAR system, an organization that housed none other than Norman Borlaug at their CIMMYT facility in México. CGIAR (consultant group on international agricultural research) is regarded as the most important agricultural research consortium in the world.  Numerous men with boastful Southern drawls, slinking French and humble Ethiopian accents populate this green oasis. Safe and secure, the birds' sound drown the passing cars; Blaring music is replaced by esoteric science-speak; and this remains, for the time being, plenty excitement for me.

Departure

I promise no more bee-eaters after this

Injera, aka ethiopian fork, is a bread used to pick up, in this case, tibs

A bird rests in the early morning

Sun Birds seem black until a flash of sunlight reveals their myriad colors