If only I knew how to translate the punchline, I’d be more than happy to share the rest of the joke. This was essentially how the final hours of my Friday started off. I expected to be writing about how I taught real* Ethiopian students for the first time today, introducing baseball equipment, Scrabble, skiing, hide-and-seek, and key phrases such as “Go Phillies!” to four separate classes of 8th grade students (if you’re following closely, that’s roughly 200 new Phillies
I have made it a regular occurrence to end each week with a
visit to a great little bar that my compound brother, Babel, introduced me to
when I first arrived in Bekoji. I like it for several reasons: it’s quiet and
laid back, it’s away from the main thoroughfares of commerce, and the serve my
favorite Ethiopian beer, Dashen. I have found it a great way to unwind on a
Friday afternoon. It has become the sole location where I write in my journal,
which has gone from a daily to a weekly practice. After today’s incredible
exhausting-in-a-good-way morning, I was undoubtedly bound for another visit to
what I have dubbed, “Babel Bar.”
When I turned the corner toward my little hideaway, I
noticed a hum coming from inside. The place has been quiet upon each of my
appearances, so this kind of stopped me in my tracks. Before I came to a
complete halt, I was already visible through the front door, and was motioned
to enter by a man on the other side of the room. I was hesitant, but shuffled
through the crowded house nonetheless. I kept my head down, but could not miss
the rather serious tone of the party.
I quickly greeted the owners, and made my way into the
second room, making obscure hand motions in an attempt to bridge the
communication gap. It seemed as though room #2 was a spillover of the first
room, so I continued on to room #3, which is usually a part of the
establishment’s typical seating selection. Today, however, there were three or
four men in the company of an older woman in a bed, who appeared to be sick
and/or possibly dying.
My flight response was in full bloom, but it was too much to
turn around and head toward the front door. Instead, I went for the fourth and
final room, which happens to be the kitchen. It was empty, which made it the “safest”
option I’d encountered thus far. I sat down on a bench and uttered, “chigarellum?” to one of the employees.
He responded with an inviting, “chigarellum.”
No problem. Great! I’ll just keep my fanny parked right here if ya don’t mind!
Long story short, by the end of the evening, I was given three traditional
cups of coffee, cookies, some kind of raw bean, a delicious injera dish, and did
not have to pay for a single one of my beers. My flight from the front door to
the kitchen in the back transformed me from a customer into a guest of the
family that ones the establishment. I suppose it’s fitting given that I did
teach one of their sons about baseball today, as he is a student in one of the
8th grade classes at my school. Perhaps that makes the punchline, “…and
experiences Ethiopian culture at its finest.”
The heart of a house is its kitchen. You made your way there, and fully into the heart of the family. Just by being who you are, and following the inner guidance of what was right to do, and to not listen to the inner voice of fear to flee.
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