Elisabeth Bekes, 15 Oct 2009 19:10 hours
Axum, Ethiopia Cries and Whispers "Where are you? Everybody is here!" It's five past six and we are just about to leave the house with V, for the new volunteers' welcome party that doubles up as my farewell. C and P are coming from my old house that they moved into the previous week. We've all been incredibly busy going through a detailed handover as well as running the first of three orientation courses for new teachers. But this is my last day in Aksum and we are ready to party.
"Get in a bajaj and come right away!" I can't believe my ears. The party was set for six p.m., so I told the new arrivals that we should aim to get to the hotel around 6:20. "No need to arrive at six on the dot. After all, we are the guests of honour tonight. It would be embarrassing for the hosts to find us huddled around the swimming pool because there was no one to greet us. The important people won't arrive before 6:30 and nothing will start before 6:45," I'm explaining based on my experience of almost three years and having attended events that only kicked in hours after the advertised starting time.
Then another call. "Are you on your way yet? The President is here, he's asking for you!" I'm shaking my head in disbelief. It's now eight minutes past six and we are almost running to the main road to catch a bajaj with V, who like a modern day Cinderella, is clasping another pair of sleek sandals to put on in the 3-wheeled scooter.
By the time we get to the Remhai Hotel, everybody is there except for C and P who, having decided to follow my advice, are only now leaving the house. “It’s all my fault,” I’m telling our hosts seated on the traditional, leather covered stools around the low tables carved in wood.
And I recall what I told H from Bahir Dar when we arranged to meet outside the British Council in Addis one afternoon. I got there ten minutes after three; she’d been waiting since quarter to. “Miss Elsie, I know you’re always on time, so I got here early.” But H, you’re always at least 20 minutes late, so I didn’t hurry. Right now, I think, there’s a serious mismatch between us. You see, if both of us assume that the Habesha* timekeeping principle is at work, we’ll be both half an hour late and everybody’s happy. On the other hand, if we both follow the ferenji** timekeeping style, we both arrive on time and likewise, everybody’s happy. Right now, you have tried to accommodate my style and arrived even earlier than expected, while I assumed you’ll be acting as usual and didn’t bother to get here before ten past. So we have both lost out, because now I feel bad and you had to wait LONGER than you should have, either by the Habesha or the ferenji clock. A complete mess if you ask me. Can we decide here and now whose timekeeping rules we are going to follow?”
We all have a laugh at the Remhai; by now C and P have also arrived. It’s our Ethiopian friends’ turn to announce proudly that everyone, including the President, was there – and BEFORE six o’clock.
The Times They are A-changin’
Something has changed and it’s hard to put a finger on it. But it remains a fact that everything appears to be running much more smoothly. Photocopies are done faster and in better quality, a plea for printing paper and toner is heard and listened to – the new stock arrives on time. The manager of the student cafeteria, Ato K, gives me the go ahead when I plead with him to let us take eight tables for the new training sessions – strictly only until the first year students arrive. Last year, we seriously fell out over the same.
It’s a combination of more efficient working methods (Business Process Reengineering has just been accomplished) and the time-honoured method of networking. When I tell my line manager that the only person I can see as going to the workshop where the new volunteers sit together with their new employers is a young colleague of mine, he asks me why. “You said you don’t want to go because you’re busy getting ready for your recruitment trip to India. I won’t go, because I’m busy with last minute handover jobs. The college dean cannot go because his wife is due to give birth any minute. That leaves M, my counterpart.” Dr A shakes his head. “You know, I wasn’t even aware of Ato A’s family situation…” So M does get to go to the workshop (and flies for the first time in his life) and comes back happy and re-energised.
However, it’s countdown time for me and I’m only hoping that all the goodwill that has accumulated in the past 14 months will help my successor, C and her accompanying partner, P. We’d been in touch for months before the placement actually started and I know for sure that the Centre is in safe hands with them.
Sweet and sour
“Miss Elsie, please don’t cry…” B is at a loss when I don’t even try to conceal the tears streaming down my face. It’s quite dark in the student cafeteria and we are standing at the back watching the credits of Slumdog Millionaire roll by.
He takes the crumpled, tear-sodden tissue from me and I’m not sure if he wants to wipe away my tears or his own. He gives me a hug and says he’ll be back. Surely, he is not used to Miss Elsie crying.
But I do. I remember the first time we had a screening here (when there was no power elsewhere and 800 students watched Pay It Forward). How I was fed by the students (this time round I eat with the security guards – injera and goat stew). I remember how I promised the students at one of the guest speaker events that I’m going to buy Slumdog Millionaire in London and show the film to them.
Before the movie, I explain the TV game show, Who Wants to be a Millionaire?, tell them a little about Dumas and the Three Musketeers and how the Bombay of my teenage years four decades ago has by now become the hustling and bustling city of Mumbai. They listen intently, but many leave during the film. About 300 of them remain though, and laugh and cry at the right places.
The cafeteria is as bleak as ever, the sour smell of injera is all-pervading as a couple of dogs growl and fight over the leftovers on the floor at the back. For me, the whole place encapsulates the dreams and nightmares of The Bottom Billion (will you please read Paul Collier’s excellent book of the same title) and reminds me how I have been part of this uphill struggle for more than a year. No wonder the sobs are slow to subside.
The Germans are coming
Of course, there was nothing to cry over when the 21 German students and their professor came for experience sharing. No lengthy speeches, no tiresome PowerPoint presentations: we told them about our development debates, showed them the mini-library we built up on the topic and then – pair them up or put them in groups to talk and then bring them back an hour later for a plenary…
“How was it?” I’m asking and they tell us. How they discussed all the topics we had debated before and more: football, higher education, student life and where the world is going. “I’ve learnt more about development in the past hour than during the whole semester at the uni,” says one of the German students. Somehow, they find the time to teach each other a few words of Amharic and German while our students are becoming more and more confident seeing that speaking English could be a little difficult for some of the German students as well. “I thought all of them would speak perfect English, but one of the girls was not that fluent at all,” says T, with a shy smile. They are all wildly excited, take photos of each other and exchange e-mail addresses. A German female student is the last to speak. “My Ethiopian friend, Yoseph asked me something. He said: ‘Are you leading your life or is life leading you?’ I promised him I’m going to think about this back at home. That’s what I’m taking with me." C and I look at each other; I don’t dare blink and instead flick through the images I’ve taken. I’m struck by the body language: how they listened to each other, leaning forward so that not a word is lost (have a look for yourselves!)…
*********************************************
“Do you really feel it’s time to go? You already extended three or four times…,” says my friend from London.
And I reply:
When your colleagues on the service bus not only give up their seat but move up to make room for you;
When the cleaning ladies, who are usually in hiding, come to the office and offer to bring clean water in your bucket;
When your students, in reply to your “What can I do for you today?’ say “Nothing, we just came to see if you needed any help…”;
When your favourite butcher with whom you’ve been haggling over the ever increasing price of meat, actually asks you how much you wish to pay;
When you don’t just eat injera when you’re eating out but you start buying it for home;
and
When after having proofread your mature student's essay, you are just about to hit the “Save” button and there’s yet another power cut and you start swearing like a seasoned lorry driver and tell those around you “Lucky, you don’t understand Hungarian…” and they reply “But we do…”
Then, but only then, perhaps it’s time to go.
Good night.
* Habesha – burnt by the sun – Ethiopians proudly referring to themselves
** ferenji – “foreigner” from the word “French”
(At long last, I have a couple of new images for you.)
P.S. Miss Elsie left Ethiopia for good (or bad) on 17th October after 33 months (and 32 blog messages). Next year she is moving to Cuenca, Ecuador (another World Heritage site like Aksum) where she is hoping to set up a community radio channel run by street kids. She’ll keep you posted.
|
07:47 
