Full House

ARRIBA ESPANA

The volunteer house filled back up quickly. On Sunday six more Spaniards arrived, all over 40. The good thing about having old Spanish people around is that they like to cook. I've made a nice arrangement with them that involves me sitting around while they cook and washing the dishes afterward. It's also allowing me to practice some Spanish, but I can only take it for so long before retreating across the room to my bed to read. I've read over 1700 pages since being here and showing no signs of slowing down. I'll need to find another hobby soon, though, or I'll read every printed English word in the compound within a few weeks, Bibles and all. Two of the women have been in the dispensary with us bloodthirsty men and are enthusiastic about the work. Unfortunately the space is crowded as it is with the four of us and we can typically only dress one patient at a time. Seeing the redundancy, the sisters sent one of the women and another man to a Mother Teresa home in another nearby city. The remaining woman is religious as sin. She's always talking about her job with the Missionaries of Charity back in Spain, asking me about the locations of the 20+ branches in the US like I know a goddamn... I mean thing... about it, and having ridiculous conversations with the nuns, which I actually rather enjoy. Listening to the nuns talk about their unwaivering faith gives you a sense of safety and comfort, even if once you walk out of the compound it doesn't mean anything. Despite being completely nonsensical at times, I can see why so many people are drawn to religion. For instance, Sister Martha John kept repeating the phrase "hope is more than knowing" as if you can quantify the two. She said we only know things we can see, but we hope for things we can't... which she decided means that hope is more than knowledge. Seems to me like you could use the same argument to conclude that hope is less... whatever... Martha John is still my favorite sister. She's a plump Polish woman who loves fantasizing about edible luxuries and giggling over this violation of her holy rules.

One of the other Spanish women was violently ill last night and tonight, which for me was bittersweet. I really did feel bad at the frequency and amplitude of her cookie tossage but I also really felt good that I didn't have to squirm through her weird habit of staring at you expectantly far after you've finished talking. Jorge, the only Spanish man left, is awesome. He has a rich booming voice like the man from movie trailers. He also brought a culo-load of chorizo, prosciutto, and wine from Spain. In ten days most of the Spaniards will be gone, replaced by two legendary volunteers - Hido from Japan and Marco from Italy... from what I hear two strong personalities who go way back but are not afraid to cross swords.

ENTOTO MOUNTAIN

On Sunday, before the great Spanish migration, the other three volunteers (Anna, Marina, Claudio) and I ventured up to Entoto mountain to see the famous church that overlooks the city. A lot of the churches here seem to be circular and closed to the public for most hours of the day and Entoto was no exception. It was pretty building, though, and was next to the old "palace" (group of huts) of King Menelik and company. I finally took some pictures and will have those up as soon as I find an internet connection I trust. After leaving the church we sat down for some drinks and were later joined by a couple weird white guys and their guides on horseback. I assumed after the rehydration party we were going to walk back home, but the nosy Spaniards had other plans. For some reason they couldn't stop talking about wanting to find the top of the mountain, somehow not realizing that we had been at the top the entire time. There was a path showing a slight incline into a bunch of trees and I guess they were determined to say they made it to the apex (even though we took a bus there), so I followed, hiding my frustration. That task became harder when Anna started walking through peoples' properties. She would poke her head through a fence, be laughed at an invited in by the residents, and take pictures like she was in a museum. Eventually she accepted an invitation into an old woman's tiny mud and thatch hut and I was the only one reluctant to follow. The woman shared with us some homemade injera and offered coffee, which we turned down. Unlike the other three, I waited until the woman was outside to sneak a picture of the inside of her hut. On the way out Marina gave the woman ten birr, after which I was more comfortable taking a picture of the woman huddled in her tiny cooking shack.

The walk back was scenic and my mood was improving until we passed through the first village. Once again, Anna and Marina insisted on blatantly taking pictures of people. They received their just due, though, first from some kids playing ping-pong who stopped to tell them they had to pay if they wanted a photo, and second from some little kid no more than six years old who covered his face, yelled "NO!" and gave a very adult facial expression that allowed for no mistaking its message: 'What the fuck are you doing? Since when is it okay to just walk up to someone and take their picture without asking?' Marina didn't catch the not-so-subtle hint somehow and was told off twice more before finally laughing and giving up. It is infuriatingly embarrassing to walk around with adults in a foreign land who act like everyone else is around for their amusement.

MIGIB

Food. I subside mostly on the free bread and cheese and jam donated to the compound twice a day by Bole International Airport, but the one meal a day I pay for is always a treat. Lately the Spaniards have been cooking a lot... traditional Spanish soups, mostly, which are simple but delicious. When we don't eat together I either go down the block to a place with injera as tasty as the Restaurant's name is illegible or around the corner to Lion's Cage Pastry for some type of burger or sandwich and stale french fries. Injera is between 11 and 17 birr a plate depending on the toppings, and with an exchange rate of roughly 12 birr to the dollar is an unbeatable deal. It's slightly more sour than the injera I've had in the US but I'm told the better, "white" injera is easily found at more expensive restaurants. I'll never be able to verify that. The two most popular Ethiopian beers, St. George and Dashen, are actually pretty good and insanely cheap but I usually opt for tea or a macchiatto. Italian restaurants are common but I haven't tried one yet, worried that one bite of pizza during my time of remission will send me into a cheesy saucy tailspin from which I won't recover.

A BERG'S EYE VIEW

- Begger's are much quicker to leave you alone if you turn them down in Amharic instead of English. I think it's the shock that silences them, not the obvious dishonesty of the claim that I have no money.
- The smell of dirty wounds is unmistakable... unless that's just the smell of 1200 dirty Ethiopians who all happen to have wounds...
- I have switched from wool blankets to a thin sleeping bag and a fleece blanket in the hope that fleas can't survive in synthetic materials. Experiment results in next blog.
- In the instance of a break-in, a couple bed-ridden patients from the TB ward would be more effective at warding off intruders than the pathetic charity case "guard dogs." Apparently there used to be more ferocious dogs but they kept surrounding and tearing the clothes off the mental patients who occasionally roam the grounds at night. They were replaced.
- Some guy just walked in the internet cafe wearing a "United States Navy MOM" hoodie.