ps- new photos on facebook- - I am a month behind on all these.
Here is the link : http://willamette.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2014602&l=a62df&id=27500551
Sunday, April 29, 2007
sunday in ghana
2/29/07
I have left the land of Islam and entered “Christendom”. The 4 am morning call to prayer has been replaced by the drums and shouts of local charismatic/evangelical churches.
I attended my first Ghanaian mass today. I do have to admit that there were parts that felt foreign. As in Uganda, however, this was not because of their African origins, but rather because of their English origins. I sometimes feel we have more flexibility and creativity within the American catholic church (at least with regards to English music) than I am finding in these English speaking African countries, which are still using the old catholic hymns. I can understand why people leave the church because it is boring here. There is certainly more to church than music. I believe that community is a strong element of church. I think the sacraments are essential. True worship is important as well, and these other theological ideas remain to be just ideas as it is hard at times to see their physical presence. Take community for example. I think that this is one theological principle that has to be expressed in reality. There are some ways that we try to encourage that in the US. When I mentioned the idea of coffee and doughnuts (or the Ghanaian equivalent of coco and biscuits), as a means of creating a space where people can meet and talk after church. He thought it was a great idea. I was shocked that there was nothing similar to it here! I don’t think this is a difference of cultures, but really there is a problem in the catholic church here that at least could have some preliminary solutions applied to them. I have heard so much about the African principle of community, and I know that this exists in different forms that one would see in the US, but I would like to at least see a few examples of it in the church here!
I have left the land of Islam and entered “Christendom”. The 4 am morning call to prayer has been replaced by the drums and shouts of local charismatic/evangelical churches.
I attended my first Ghanaian mass today. I do have to admit that there were parts that felt foreign. As in Uganda, however, this was not because of their African origins, but rather because of their English origins. I sometimes feel we have more flexibility and creativity within the American catholic church (at least with regards to English music) than I am finding in these English speaking African countries, which are still using the old catholic hymns. I can understand why people leave the church because it is boring here. There is certainly more to church than music. I believe that community is a strong element of church. I think the sacraments are essential. True worship is important as well, and these other theological ideas remain to be just ideas as it is hard at times to see their physical presence. Take community for example. I think that this is one theological principle that has to be expressed in reality. There are some ways that we try to encourage that in the US. When I mentioned the idea of coffee and doughnuts (or the Ghanaian equivalent of coco and biscuits), as a means of creating a space where people can meet and talk after church. He thought it was a great idea. I was shocked that there was nothing similar to it here! I don’t think this is a difference of cultures, but really there is a problem in the catholic church here that at least could have some preliminary solutions applied to them. I have heard so much about the African principle of community, and I know that this exists in different forms that one would see in the US, but I would like to at least see a few examples of it in the church here!
4/26
Three days in Ghana thus far. I have been keeping myself occupied, but not necessarily productive. Such is life typically when I first move into a country. I always have to take some time to orientate myself, both in terms of the quotidian and in terms of the research. I have spent the past few days getting to know my local neighborhood and the community next door. I spent one day trying to figure out Accra, but it was just a little much for me. It is not big really. The capital boasts about 3-4 million people in this greater Accra region. There is quite a bit of sprawl as well. It is more that I haven’t been able to distinguish any sense of the center yet. I think I will convince some friend (yes, I’ve already made a few of those too) to give me a guided tour.
I am currently living at a hospitalers guest house. The hospitalers were one of those groups founded during the crusade (like the knights templar) to secure the road for pilgrims. There are none at this guest house, which is run all by Ghanaian women. I wouldn’t mind having a few around, cause that typically means good food that is typically included in the price, and the potential for some whisky stock. Well, no luck. It seems there might be a curfew here, but I have been told by the Danish girls living in the compound but outside the building that if I show up too late I can always crash in the bathtub. Once things get moving that shouldn’t be a problem, but in the meantime I wouldn’t mind getting to know the local scene.
I have been attending the environmental film festival here these past two days. Today there was quite a moving film about the witch camps in northern Ghana. Like in many parts of Africa, there is a tradition of suspicion of witchcraft. Women here are often accused and beaten until they confess. Then they are taken to these witch camps where they are both “purified” and returned home, or they go to live there forever. As some Ghanaian men whose friend’s wife was sent there said, if they are past child birthing years, they won’t come back. While looking at the situation from a human rights standpoint, we would be moved to shut such camps down, the local culture would make this more difficult. While it might be easy for us to simply say that the people are wrong and these women should return home, that would not reduce conflict at all, but rather it would escalate it. As I see it, these camps serve as a non-deadly outlet for these accusations and suspicions. This may sound terrible to you, but it is coming from the perspective of someone who has lived in Tanzania and heard how people are contract killed because they are accused of being witches. At least here, there is life after accusation. So what is the way forward? There was a Ghanaian female parliamentarian, who, upon seeing the situation in the camps and the inability for the women to go home, recommended further education of the populace. Another man in the film suggested simply an overall improvement of the living conditions in the camp. This requires a comprehensive solution, of course, and I wonder what other traditional reconciliation rituals could be used, but it would seem to me that the first and most important step is to make these living situations for these witches in exile livable. They are, in fact, internally displaced people; they are woman who have been forced from their community by neighbors or family, for the sole accident of being a woman (typically older), around misfortune, and disliked by someone. I wonder if the churches are doing anything to help.
Three days in Ghana thus far. I have been keeping myself occupied, but not necessarily productive. Such is life typically when I first move into a country. I always have to take some time to orientate myself, both in terms of the quotidian and in terms of the research. I have spent the past few days getting to know my local neighborhood and the community next door. I spent one day trying to figure out Accra, but it was just a little much for me. It is not big really. The capital boasts about 3-4 million people in this greater Accra region. There is quite a bit of sprawl as well. It is more that I haven’t been able to distinguish any sense of the center yet. I think I will convince some friend (yes, I’ve already made a few of those too) to give me a guided tour.
I am currently living at a hospitalers guest house. The hospitalers were one of those groups founded during the crusade (like the knights templar) to secure the road for pilgrims. There are none at this guest house, which is run all by Ghanaian women. I wouldn’t mind having a few around, cause that typically means good food that is typically included in the price, and the potential for some whisky stock. Well, no luck. It seems there might be a curfew here, but I have been told by the Danish girls living in the compound but outside the building that if I show up too late I can always crash in the bathtub. Once things get moving that shouldn’t be a problem, but in the meantime I wouldn’t mind getting to know the local scene.
I have been attending the environmental film festival here these past two days. Today there was quite a moving film about the witch camps in northern Ghana. Like in many parts of Africa, there is a tradition of suspicion of witchcraft. Women here are often accused and beaten until they confess. Then they are taken to these witch camps where they are both “purified” and returned home, or they go to live there forever. As some Ghanaian men whose friend’s wife was sent there said, if they are past child birthing years, they won’t come back. While looking at the situation from a human rights standpoint, we would be moved to shut such camps down, the local culture would make this more difficult. While it might be easy for us to simply say that the people are wrong and these women should return home, that would not reduce conflict at all, but rather it would escalate it. As I see it, these camps serve as a non-deadly outlet for these accusations and suspicions. This may sound terrible to you, but it is coming from the perspective of someone who has lived in Tanzania and heard how people are contract killed because they are accused of being witches. At least here, there is life after accusation. So what is the way forward? There was a Ghanaian female parliamentarian, who, upon seeing the situation in the camps and the inability for the women to go home, recommended further education of the populace. Another man in the film suggested simply an overall improvement of the living conditions in the camp. This requires a comprehensive solution, of course, and I wonder what other traditional reconciliation rituals could be used, but it would seem to me that the first and most important step is to make these living situations for these witches in exile livable. They are, in fact, internally displaced people; they are woman who have been forced from their community by neighbors or family, for the sole accident of being a woman (typically older), around misfortune, and disliked by someone. I wonder if the churches are doing anything to help.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Waking up in Ghana
Today, I woke up in Ghana. How do I feel? Hot, sweaty sticky, and furthermore, great! I finally set down here last night and was met at the airport by Fr. Ranjit, a Jesuit priest with whom I had been in contact. I am excited for this new country, new cultures, new people and a chance to reengage the questions that were touching me months ago before my excursion into orthodoxy in northeastern Africa. Just environmentally, everything here feels familiar. The hot humid air, the morning power cut, the local rooster to wake me up ring up memories of my months in Uganda. From what I know already, Ghana will have so much to offer, both in terms of theology and in terms of music and much more. Well, time to leave my room and discover.
Ps- my new number is 0207860120
Ps- my new number is 0207860120
Desert monks
Desert monks
It has been a rough week for me.
Ejected from the airport
Rejected from the monastery
lost my laptop charger (slim chance of recovery, should it be at the airport. now have 41 minutes of battery left for any remaining entires)
lost my flash drive (with no chance of recovery)
and many sleepless nights do to the adventures of those in the square below my room at the hotel.
I even have skipped a few meals simply out of exhaustion (bad idea mike)
Foxes have holes, badgers have dens, but the son of man has nowhere to lay his head. This is certainly how I felt, after being rejected permission to sleep at 3 different monasteries. One cannot typically just show up at a monastery and try and stay there. Here in Egypt, it is necessary to get permission from the cathedral before hand. I, thus, spent the better part of two days waiting for such permission. With surprise on each of their faces, however, I was denied for both the monasteries. Coming to Wadi Natrun, the home to four living monasteries and over 36 ruins, I wondered what might be my luck. It is only an hour from Cairo, but crossing the landscape, one indeed feels that s/he is entering the desert.
I arrived in wadi natrun on Saturday. I would have come on Friday, but the one sure place that could lodge me, was booked until the next day. I never ended up staying there after all anyways.
Every Coptic Christian I have met on my journey to get to here have been quite helpful. The people at the cathedral, failing to secure me permission, went out of there way to find me potential housing. Those on the bus were eager and willing to direct me. Marco, a peer visiting the monastery helped me approach two monasteries to try and get permission, and finally entered town with me to get permission at the church. I never stayed at the potential, expensive lodging in town.
This is beginning to sound a little dull, but the question of housing and monasteries has been on my agenda since Thursday.
In Judaism, they have a tradition, that if you ask a rabbi to become a Jew, you are rejected. If you ask a second time, you are rejected. If you ask a third time, you are rejected. Finally if you ask a fourth time, you are allowed by the rabbi to join the faith. I was hoping, after being rejected nearly four times, that my situation just might be analogous. Finally today, my second day here, I am given permission to come. The Syrian monastery, renamed the monastery of the holy virgin, has opened its doors to me, though they quickly shut behind me. I had to, in fact, enter through the back gate, as the front gate was shut by time I was able to run to town and return with my backpack.
Monastic life is experiencing an amazing revival here. Here in wadi natrun there are four different monasteries. At St. Bishoy alone there are 160 monks. Many of the youngest monks are coming from the universities. I have already met one monk with a degree in agriculture, another with a masters in psychiatric counseling, and a third who has a degree in computer engineering. It certainly would not be uncommon for a monk to have a computer.
The monasteries are large compounds that contain farming areas, workshops, book printing and much more.
"Welcome home." said the elderly monk. I have never desired to become a monk, but upon hearing these words, some of the first words I have heard out of the monk’s mouths since I was welcome to stay here, I was almost ready to drop my book and pick up the cowl. The phrase turned out to be more the product of a person who knew little English, rather than some sort of deep spiritual insight, but its hospitality has been long desired, after being rejected permission to stay at three monasteries (this one included). I was later joined by the brother, aspiring monk, who ran the bookshop, who encouraged me to ask once more to stay at the monastery. We sat outside drinking chai in the calm desert and had a broken conversation about life, Christianity and later about Islam.
I joined the monks for prayer at 4 am, but, as expected, I certainly couldn't understand the language. I quickly set myself back to bed, but within minutes heard the bells again, calling to I don't know what. I stayed in bed.
Following my brief rest and my meal of cheese and hard-boiled eggs, I decided to take a walk, not exactly knowing where I was going. As my path led me around the monastery, I suddenly encountered the stark desert.
I know why now monks and ascetics have continually retreated to the desert to meet God. Having spent the past week in Cairo, the desert was another world. In contrast to the material creations of man, cluttering up any free space, within the desert there is nothing. The sand simply continues, and one's soul is laid bare as s/he is forced to reconcile themselves on this mirrored landscape.
I was only out there for a little over an hour, but the experience left a strong impression on me. Indeed, walking out into the desert was a chance to rediscover myself and what it is that drives me.
I continued from the Syrian on to Boromos monastery. This monastery was one of those whose superior had rejected me permission to visit there. Any hesitation or ill sentiment I might have harbored was quickly dismissed in the face of the kindness and hospitality of these monks. Fr. Macarius, who was my guide through the church, was eager and interested in taking with me about theology, culture and Egypt. He confirmed an observation that I have encountered a number of times, which is the pharonic ancestry still claimed by the Coptic Church.
I have now returned from this monastic life, and experienced another stark contrast, as I met up withal new friend of mine and entreated him to join me for some live music. While it was not my intention to visit such a place, what live music eventually came to mean, was belly dancing. Arriving at about 12:30 am, we were the only two men in the room. I must admit that I felt almost a little scandalous being the only man there. Rather than being an anomyonous observer
Eventually, however, the room filled with rich gulf Arabs.
I finished my trip to Egypt the best way. Packing all my luggage (I'm close to just 30k's these days), I hit the road mid morning. My first stop was the citadel with Muhammad Ali's mosque. Mohammed ali was one of the more important late Arab leaders of Egypt. The mosque was spectacular.
Finishing that and finally picking up my passport, I made my way to Giza, hopped on a horse and road around the pyramids. I had an annoying little boy as my guide who kept mixing up left and right, and thus confusing the hell out of me as he yelled left side all the more urgently as I turned left.
I haven't been on a horse in years, but that experience riding in the desert around has certainly reawakened in me a desire to "explore the west". Too bad there is no more frontier to explore.
Often enough as I have traveled throughout Africa this year, I have wondered what it would have been like to voyage here when the world was a little larger. Even visiting the Wataturu nomads, you felt that "modernity" was just around the corner. You would not be surprised to find a monk of the desert to sport sunglasses and pull out a cell phone from the folds of his robe.
I know there is no such thing as a "pure" culture, but there must be some places in the world where "globalization" hasn't even entered the local lexicon.
Enough musings... here is mike lechevallier, signing off of this blog entry from an airplane somewhere above east Africa.
It has been a rough week for me.
Ejected from the airport
Rejected from the monastery
lost my laptop charger (slim chance of recovery, should it be at the airport. now have 41 minutes of battery left for any remaining entires)
lost my flash drive (with no chance of recovery)
and many sleepless nights do to the adventures of those in the square below my room at the hotel.
I even have skipped a few meals simply out of exhaustion (bad idea mike)
Foxes have holes, badgers have dens, but the son of man has nowhere to lay his head. This is certainly how I felt, after being rejected permission to sleep at 3 different monasteries. One cannot typically just show up at a monastery and try and stay there. Here in Egypt, it is necessary to get permission from the cathedral before hand. I, thus, spent the better part of two days waiting for such permission. With surprise on each of their faces, however, I was denied for both the monasteries. Coming to Wadi Natrun, the home to four living monasteries and over 36 ruins, I wondered what might be my luck. It is only an hour from Cairo, but crossing the landscape, one indeed feels that s/he is entering the desert.
I arrived in wadi natrun on Saturday. I would have come on Friday, but the one sure place that could lodge me, was booked until the next day. I never ended up staying there after all anyways.
Every Coptic Christian I have met on my journey to get to here have been quite helpful. The people at the cathedral, failing to secure me permission, went out of there way to find me potential housing. Those on the bus were eager and willing to direct me. Marco, a peer visiting the monastery helped me approach two monasteries to try and get permission, and finally entered town with me to get permission at the church. I never stayed at the potential, expensive lodging in town.
This is beginning to sound a little dull, but the question of housing and monasteries has been on my agenda since Thursday.
In Judaism, they have a tradition, that if you ask a rabbi to become a Jew, you are rejected. If you ask a second time, you are rejected. If you ask a third time, you are rejected. Finally if you ask a fourth time, you are allowed by the rabbi to join the faith. I was hoping, after being rejected nearly four times, that my situation just might be analogous. Finally today, my second day here, I am given permission to come. The Syrian monastery, renamed the monastery of the holy virgin, has opened its doors to me, though they quickly shut behind me. I had to, in fact, enter through the back gate, as the front gate was shut by time I was able to run to town and return with my backpack.
Monastic life is experiencing an amazing revival here. Here in wadi natrun there are four different monasteries. At St. Bishoy alone there are 160 monks. Many of the youngest monks are coming from the universities. I have already met one monk with a degree in agriculture, another with a masters in psychiatric counseling, and a third who has a degree in computer engineering. It certainly would not be uncommon for a monk to have a computer.
The monasteries are large compounds that contain farming areas, workshops, book printing and much more.
"Welcome home." said the elderly monk. I have never desired to become a monk, but upon hearing these words, some of the first words I have heard out of the monk’s mouths since I was welcome to stay here, I was almost ready to drop my book and pick up the cowl. The phrase turned out to be more the product of a person who knew little English, rather than some sort of deep spiritual insight, but its hospitality has been long desired, after being rejected permission to stay at three monasteries (this one included). I was later joined by the brother, aspiring monk, who ran the bookshop, who encouraged me to ask once more to stay at the monastery. We sat outside drinking chai in the calm desert and had a broken conversation about life, Christianity and later about Islam.
I joined the monks for prayer at 4 am, but, as expected, I certainly couldn't understand the language. I quickly set myself back to bed, but within minutes heard the bells again, calling to I don't know what. I stayed in bed.
Following my brief rest and my meal of cheese and hard-boiled eggs, I decided to take a walk, not exactly knowing where I was going. As my path led me around the monastery, I suddenly encountered the stark desert.
I know why now monks and ascetics have continually retreated to the desert to meet God. Having spent the past week in Cairo, the desert was another world. In contrast to the material creations of man, cluttering up any free space, within the desert there is nothing. The sand simply continues, and one's soul is laid bare as s/he is forced to reconcile themselves on this mirrored landscape.
I was only out there for a little over an hour, but the experience left a strong impression on me. Indeed, walking out into the desert was a chance to rediscover myself and what it is that drives me.
I continued from the Syrian on to Boromos monastery. This monastery was one of those whose superior had rejected me permission to visit there. Any hesitation or ill sentiment I might have harbored was quickly dismissed in the face of the kindness and hospitality of these monks. Fr. Macarius, who was my guide through the church, was eager and interested in taking with me about theology, culture and Egypt. He confirmed an observation that I have encountered a number of times, which is the pharonic ancestry still claimed by the Coptic Church.
I have now returned from this monastic life, and experienced another stark contrast, as I met up withal new friend of mine and entreated him to join me for some live music. While it was not my intention to visit such a place, what live music eventually came to mean, was belly dancing. Arriving at about 12:30 am, we were the only two men in the room. I must admit that I felt almost a little scandalous being the only man there. Rather than being an anomyonous observer
Eventually, however, the room filled with rich gulf Arabs.
I finished my trip to Egypt the best way. Packing all my luggage (I'm close to just 30k's these days), I hit the road mid morning. My first stop was the citadel with Muhammad Ali's mosque. Mohammed ali was one of the more important late Arab leaders of Egypt. The mosque was spectacular.
Finishing that and finally picking up my passport, I made my way to Giza, hopped on a horse and road around the pyramids. I had an annoying little boy as my guide who kept mixing up left and right, and thus confusing the hell out of me as he yelled left side all the more urgently as I turned left.
I haven't been on a horse in years, but that experience riding in the desert around has certainly reawakened in me a desire to "explore the west". Too bad there is no more frontier to explore.
Often enough as I have traveled throughout Africa this year, I have wondered what it would have been like to voyage here when the world was a little larger. Even visiting the Wataturu nomads, you felt that "modernity" was just around the corner. You would not be surprised to find a monk of the desert to sport sunglasses and pull out a cell phone from the folds of his robe.
I know there is no such thing as a "pure" culture, but there must be some places in the world where "globalization" hasn't even entered the local lexicon.
Enough musings... here is mike lechevallier, signing off of this blog entry from an airplane somewhere above east Africa.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Holy week in Ethiopia.
I was fortunate enough, returning from Lalibella, to have been able to catch a flight 2 days early. I enjoyed my stay there, but found the small place well visited in two days. Perhaps it was simply being alone and realizing that I had only one week left in Ethiopia that put a burr in my spur.
Arriving back in Addis Ababa, I was well welcomed, both by my boss, who would leave the next day for the US, and by his and my friend Rick Hodes, the American Jewish Doctor who I had visited every Friday for Shabbat. It being Passover, I joined Rick and almost 50 other travelers, Jews and gentiles alike, to commemorate the passing of the jewish people out of Egypt with a Seder Meal. I have attended two seders before, but it was nice to participate in a personal one, even if all of ricks adopted children are either orthodox or muslim. One of the disadvantages to having such a diverse crowd, with no homogenous experience of Passover, the ritual was not equally carried out. When some read it was rushed, while others seemed to enjoy the more liturgical aspects of Passover. All the same, the food was, as always, great at Ricks house.
This seemed quite an appropriate way to begin my holy week
My days passed quite quickly between Passover and easter Sunday. I used some days to study and record. I had a chance to interview the liturgical expert and overall perceptive French scholar, who certainly gave a critical view of the situation in Ethiopia.
I also celebrated my 23rd birthday. It being holy week, most of the priests around the house were quite busy, and most of the belly dancing halls were closed. This did not keep me, however, from celebrating. I started by heading off to dinner with Fr. Phillip. We visited a nice Armenian restaurant where I filled myself solely with appetizers. Following this, I taxied to the other side of town to the German brew house and met with some friends to enjoy these fine products of the brewers.
My birthday was on Wednesday. Starting Thursday, I began the longest weekend of church of my life. The Ge’ez equivalent of holy week translates literally into the week of pain. While this is referring to the pain and suffering of Christ, ideally one shares in this pain with Christ. Often, starting on holy Thursday, people will begin a true feast, not eating or drinking anything until Easter mass has ended.
On Thursday I attended an orthodox church at Kidest Gabriel. Unlike a catholic service, where 12 people are selected to symbolize the congregation for the feet washing, here, everyone’s feet are washed. This is quite a feat, as perhaps over 1000 feet are washed. It is quite an experience to be in church surrounded by 500 men and women, all wrapped in white cloth, worshiping, chanting and bowing in sync. Preceding the washing of the feet were many different readings from the bible and extra biblical texts. Then, the priest blessed the water and giant drums were taken throughout the crowd and with vine leaves, mass feet washing takes place. The vine leaves are used to connect the institution of the eucharist to the serving action of the washing of the feet. Because these are blessed by the priests, they are considered sacred objects and often are collected by women. After about 2-3 hours of preparation and finally feet washing, we started the mass. A mass in Ethiopia lasts roughly for 3 hours. Believe you me, I thought that after 6 hours of church that I had just plain had enough. Little did I know what I was in store for.
Good Friday.
I spent my good Friday with a friend at a catholic church. This is an Ethiopian rite catholic church, so many of the rituals and liturgies bear a strong resemblance to the orthodox liturgy. I arrived at church at 9 that morning. Good Friday is the day in which we commemorate the death of jesus. Often in the USA we do a stations of the cross service to bring us closer to the sufferings of jesus. In Ethiopia you suffer. We did about 4 sets of 50 prostrations, while praying Kyrie Eliason, which means, Lord have mercy. Interspersing these different sets are progressively readings from the 4 different passion narratives. I was fasting for the day. I thought that would be an issue, but we spent 8 hours within the church, so one did not even have time to think about food.
I finally left church at about 5:30PM. I headed over to ricks for my last Shabbat dinner. Upon arriving, and smelling the soup, I decided to enjoy my cross religious experiment. Shabbat, of course, means Sabbath. The Sabbath as we understand starts on Saturday. The same is true for the jews, but their Saturday starts with sundown. Well, according to jewish standards, my fast ended, and I got to enjoy one final cup of soup with the Hodes family (Rick and his 10 adopted sons) as well as some med student friends of mine volunteering at the Mother Theresa clinic.
Saturday
We started our easter service on Saturday. We arrived at 9 PM, back at St. Gabriels. I had borrowed from the spiritians a Gabi, which are the white cloths that the men wrap around their entire body for the church service. The mass itself does not start until midnight, but given the solemnity of the occasion, it would be impossible to get a seat inside arriving any time earlier. Fr Emmanuel and Fr Phillip are known in this church, so upon arrival, we, the only four non-ethiopians in the church, were led to front of the church to sit in the raised floor portion just before the holy of the holies. This is quite an honor. Indeed, one of our group, a female comboni from italy, having entered into the women’s side, and not being there when we were invited up, decided not to join us. She was not forbidden to because she was a woman, however, for surrounding us were nuns and elderly women. They clearly came prepared, for they had pillow in hand, and sometime into the service they set it onto the floor and fell asleep.
Ethiopian orthodox traditionally don’t kneel when they pray. They pray either standing or in prostration. We saw another young deacon in prostration before an icon. He never arose from this prostration and at some point he fell to his side in what we sometimes call vertical meditation, or more colloquially, sleep.
Front and center of the church, over 30 priests were gathered. Each parish may have this number commonly available, as each church service itself requires at least 3 priests. On this day the mass would be celebrated on two altars. What we would call diocesan priests, have to be married, in fact. They do not want any “loose guns” out there, so the option is to either be a monk-priest or a married priest. Once a priest marries, however, he cannot not have any other wife. Should his wife dies, then he takes vows from the bishop to be a celibate man.
As the mass had not yet begun, these priests were performing the daily office of prayer. This is not a solemn chant as one might find in the latin church, and indeed, they were heralding easter. The prayer itself was intoned with drums and sisturn as around 20 priests (split into groups of 10) would do a form of dance leading forwards and backwards. Not having heard drums in the orthodox church these past 40 days due to lent, the prayer evoked in me the feelings of joy as the beat of the drum seeped into my own prayer. Raised above the rest, I was positioned perfectly to see these event and to record them. The entire congregation became involved as well, clapping as the beats of the drums syncopated. This dancing and praying went on for nearly 3 hours. Indeed, the priests were so involved in it, that when the other priests started to say the mass, interrupting them, they went right on praying the Kidan. There was a mini liturgical struggle, as 3 priests and a microphone tried to intiate a mass over the voices of 30 singing priests. As the service began, the lights were switched off and a flame was passed from person to person on their candles. To see hundreds of people all dressed in white, all carrying these candles, singing together, was quite a sight. The mass itself proceded quite normally (as I could tell, for I do not understand Ge’ez and our expert had to leave to say mass in a catholic parish). At the end of the church service, we also had an opportunity to witness something unique as the priests gathered to sing again. This was a time only for experts, though. As a few of the skilled priests whispered impomtu poems into the ears of one of the talented singing priests, he would incoporate these poetical lines into his own song. We, being exhausted, deemed to leave before all of these proceedings were finished, for it being 3 am and we having attended church for the past 6 evening hours we almost ready to fall where we stood. We finally returned home around 4 am and Fr. Phillip brought out for us some Brie and Sausage from France to help continue the joyous celebration of easter.
I don’t think I will ever forget this easter celebration.
The next day, easter Sunday, I made my way to the catholic service. It was a striking comparison, attending the English church service, which was somehow without a choir this service. There was no one to lead in the songs and only the entrance hymn was familiar to me. As the priest entered, no one was singing. I, feeling that music is an important part of my church experience, raised my voice and led us in the song. By time everyone had joined in, my hands were shaking. Public singing in front of a church is not my forte, my only experience with it being with the inmates at Oregon Penn, who, though being a captive audience, are also quite forgiving. When the next song was to come, everyone looked at me, but I hadn’t had the daftest idea of how the melody went. Eventually one of the choir members went to the front and tried to lead us accapella, and it went fine for a song or two. This was really not the way to celebrate the most important feast of the year. It quite surprised me, for this church was meant to serve the entire international community. Who dropped the ball? That church service, however, signaled the end of my stay in Ethiopia. That evening I caught dinner at a friends house and the next morning, I was on a plane to Egypt.
Arriving back in Addis Ababa, I was well welcomed, both by my boss, who would leave the next day for the US, and by his and my friend Rick Hodes, the American Jewish Doctor who I had visited every Friday for Shabbat. It being Passover, I joined Rick and almost 50 other travelers, Jews and gentiles alike, to commemorate the passing of the jewish people out of Egypt with a Seder Meal. I have attended two seders before, but it was nice to participate in a personal one, even if all of ricks adopted children are either orthodox or muslim. One of the disadvantages to having such a diverse crowd, with no homogenous experience of Passover, the ritual was not equally carried out. When some read it was rushed, while others seemed to enjoy the more liturgical aspects of Passover. All the same, the food was, as always, great at Ricks house.
This seemed quite an appropriate way to begin my holy week
My days passed quite quickly between Passover and easter Sunday. I used some days to study and record. I had a chance to interview the liturgical expert and overall perceptive French scholar, who certainly gave a critical view of the situation in Ethiopia.
I also celebrated my 23rd birthday. It being holy week, most of the priests around the house were quite busy, and most of the belly dancing halls were closed. This did not keep me, however, from celebrating. I started by heading off to dinner with Fr. Phillip. We visited a nice Armenian restaurant where I filled myself solely with appetizers. Following this, I taxied to the other side of town to the German brew house and met with some friends to enjoy these fine products of the brewers.
My birthday was on Wednesday. Starting Thursday, I began the longest weekend of church of my life. The Ge’ez equivalent of holy week translates literally into the week of pain. While this is referring to the pain and suffering of Christ, ideally one shares in this pain with Christ. Often, starting on holy Thursday, people will begin a true feast, not eating or drinking anything until Easter mass has ended.
On Thursday I attended an orthodox church at Kidest Gabriel. Unlike a catholic service, where 12 people are selected to symbolize the congregation for the feet washing, here, everyone’s feet are washed. This is quite a feat, as perhaps over 1000 feet are washed. It is quite an experience to be in church surrounded by 500 men and women, all wrapped in white cloth, worshiping, chanting and bowing in sync. Preceding the washing of the feet were many different readings from the bible and extra biblical texts. Then, the priest blessed the water and giant drums were taken throughout the crowd and with vine leaves, mass feet washing takes place. The vine leaves are used to connect the institution of the eucharist to the serving action of the washing of the feet. Because these are blessed by the priests, they are considered sacred objects and often are collected by women. After about 2-3 hours of preparation and finally feet washing, we started the mass. A mass in Ethiopia lasts roughly for 3 hours. Believe you me, I thought that after 6 hours of church that I had just plain had enough. Little did I know what I was in store for.
Good Friday.
I spent my good Friday with a friend at a catholic church. This is an Ethiopian rite catholic church, so many of the rituals and liturgies bear a strong resemblance to the orthodox liturgy. I arrived at church at 9 that morning. Good Friday is the day in which we commemorate the death of jesus. Often in the USA we do a stations of the cross service to bring us closer to the sufferings of jesus. In Ethiopia you suffer. We did about 4 sets of 50 prostrations, while praying Kyrie Eliason, which means, Lord have mercy. Interspersing these different sets are progressively readings from the 4 different passion narratives. I was fasting for the day. I thought that would be an issue, but we spent 8 hours within the church, so one did not even have time to think about food.
I finally left church at about 5:30PM. I headed over to ricks for my last Shabbat dinner. Upon arriving, and smelling the soup, I decided to enjoy my cross religious experiment. Shabbat, of course, means Sabbath. The Sabbath as we understand starts on Saturday. The same is true for the jews, but their Saturday starts with sundown. Well, according to jewish standards, my fast ended, and I got to enjoy one final cup of soup with the Hodes family (Rick and his 10 adopted sons) as well as some med student friends of mine volunteering at the Mother Theresa clinic.
Saturday
We started our easter service on Saturday. We arrived at 9 PM, back at St. Gabriels. I had borrowed from the spiritians a Gabi, which are the white cloths that the men wrap around their entire body for the church service. The mass itself does not start until midnight, but given the solemnity of the occasion, it would be impossible to get a seat inside arriving any time earlier. Fr Emmanuel and Fr Phillip are known in this church, so upon arrival, we, the only four non-ethiopians in the church, were led to front of the church to sit in the raised floor portion just before the holy of the holies. This is quite an honor. Indeed, one of our group, a female comboni from italy, having entered into the women’s side, and not being there when we were invited up, decided not to join us. She was not forbidden to because she was a woman, however, for surrounding us were nuns and elderly women. They clearly came prepared, for they had pillow in hand, and sometime into the service they set it onto the floor and fell asleep.
Ethiopian orthodox traditionally don’t kneel when they pray. They pray either standing or in prostration. We saw another young deacon in prostration before an icon. He never arose from this prostration and at some point he fell to his side in what we sometimes call vertical meditation, or more colloquially, sleep.
Front and center of the church, over 30 priests were gathered. Each parish may have this number commonly available, as each church service itself requires at least 3 priests. On this day the mass would be celebrated on two altars. What we would call diocesan priests, have to be married, in fact. They do not want any “loose guns” out there, so the option is to either be a monk-priest or a married priest. Once a priest marries, however, he cannot not have any other wife. Should his wife dies, then he takes vows from the bishop to be a celibate man.
As the mass had not yet begun, these priests were performing the daily office of prayer. This is not a solemn chant as one might find in the latin church, and indeed, they were heralding easter. The prayer itself was intoned with drums and sisturn as around 20 priests (split into groups of 10) would do a form of dance leading forwards and backwards. Not having heard drums in the orthodox church these past 40 days due to lent, the prayer evoked in me the feelings of joy as the beat of the drum seeped into my own prayer. Raised above the rest, I was positioned perfectly to see these event and to record them. The entire congregation became involved as well, clapping as the beats of the drums syncopated. This dancing and praying went on for nearly 3 hours. Indeed, the priests were so involved in it, that when the other priests started to say the mass, interrupting them, they went right on praying the Kidan. There was a mini liturgical struggle, as 3 priests and a microphone tried to intiate a mass over the voices of 30 singing priests. As the service began, the lights were switched off and a flame was passed from person to person on their candles. To see hundreds of people all dressed in white, all carrying these candles, singing together, was quite a sight. The mass itself proceded quite normally (as I could tell, for I do not understand Ge’ez and our expert had to leave to say mass in a catholic parish). At the end of the church service, we also had an opportunity to witness something unique as the priests gathered to sing again. This was a time only for experts, though. As a few of the skilled priests whispered impomtu poems into the ears of one of the talented singing priests, he would incoporate these poetical lines into his own song. We, being exhausted, deemed to leave before all of these proceedings were finished, for it being 3 am and we having attended church for the past 6 evening hours we almost ready to fall where we stood. We finally returned home around 4 am and Fr. Phillip brought out for us some Brie and Sausage from France to help continue the joyous celebration of easter.
I don’t think I will ever forget this easter celebration.
The next day, easter Sunday, I made my way to the catholic service. It was a striking comparison, attending the English church service, which was somehow without a choir this service. There was no one to lead in the songs and only the entrance hymn was familiar to me. As the priest entered, no one was singing. I, feeling that music is an important part of my church experience, raised my voice and led us in the song. By time everyone had joined in, my hands were shaking. Public singing in front of a church is not my forte, my only experience with it being with the inmates at Oregon Penn, who, though being a captive audience, are also quite forgiving. When the next song was to come, everyone looked at me, but I hadn’t had the daftest idea of how the melody went. Eventually one of the choir members went to the front and tried to lead us accapella, and it went fine for a song or two. This was really not the way to celebrate the most important feast of the year. It quite surprised me, for this church was meant to serve the entire international community. Who dropped the ball? That church service, however, signaled the end of my stay in Ethiopia. That evening I caught dinner at a friends house and the next morning, I was on a plane to Egypt.
Wednesday, April 04, 2007
For Aunt Jane, on the day of my Birthday:
Today is my birthday, and I would like to remember my aunt Jane, who passed away this past week.
Aunt Jane is, in fact, my great aunt. She is my grandma’s (gram) older sister. Ever since I could remember, Aunt Jane always seemed old. She lived in an older house, a little run down out by rivers edge athletic center. She spent years smoking, so the house always had that particular smell stick to the walls and carpet. You used to find all sorts of things around the house. I remember when she once gave my older sister a whole collection of porcelain nuns, wearing blue or black veils, kneeling in prayer or standing with hands folded. I used to go over there to help clean around the house, cut plants in the back or just visit with my mom. I didn’t always necessarily want to go work there or visit there. I had other things to do in my busy young life, like running through the forest with John and James or playing GI Joes or gathering around John’s Sega Genesis. Her son Don, who lived in the house, helping maintain it and support his mother, would always be our foreman. It was difficult in my youth at times to go over there, but I would because I knew that Aunt Jane loved us.
Throughout the years, on this very day, a phone would ring in our house and my mother would pick it up. “It’s for you,” she would say, and I, quite surprised, would take it. Then in an old, somewhat rough voice, I would hear Aunt Jane singing Happy Birthday to me. I can still recall her graveled voice coming across a staticky phone celebrating my birth. Aunt Jane really loved us.
Aunt Jane had been getting older and older these past few years. At times, being young and inexperienced, it was somewhat difficult to face this aged woman. Seeing her, you were seeing age, weakness and infirmity. You were confronting mortality. She had trouble walking and trouble seeing. You had to speak directly into her ear, and sit as she mumbled to you. She carried her age in her body. Love, however, helped me to overcome these difficulties, and pushed me to go forward and embrace the woman with a hug who had welcomed in so many birthdays for me.
She moved out of her house and into hospice care, and we never really knew how much longer she would last. Out of difficulty traveling, she stopped making appearances at our family events and I have a hard time remembering the last time I saw her.
This last week aunt Jane slipped into a coma and passed away.
On this day of all days, the death of aunt Jane has hit me. I look back with sad disappointment that I wasn’t around to be with her during these past few years. I wish I could say that it was distance of college, the busyness of jobs, or the travels to foreign lands that made it difficult to see here, but that would only be lying to myself. I became simply occupied. Aunt Jane, thus, remained largely outside of my life. Now, having become comfortably close with suffering, illness and death, as I have visited AIDS and TB patients at Mother Theresa’s health clinic and cared for their wounds, I would hope that I wouldn’t hold the same indifference at home. I would hope that I could find it in me to visit and be present with someone even in the face of illness and death.
Now Aunt Jane has passed on, without a whisper of goodbye, and today, I remember her, for so many years of calling on this day to sing to me Happy Birthday. I can’t attend her funeral, and I haven’t received such a call for years, but my memory of her, and the way that she blessed my life with those small moments of celebrating with me will always stick with me and be remembered on this day.
March 26, 2007
Jane Marie Riordan Daron passed away during the night, having slipped into a coma last Thursday. Jane was living in a care facility in Tigard, Oregon.
Jane Marie Riordan Daron (Stephen, Stephen, James) b April 1921, d March 26, 2007, was born in Baker City, OR to Stephen Joseph Riordan II and Grace Mary Conlan. Jane married Donald Ray Daron in Baker City on May 24, 1940. They divorced in 1965. Jane resided in Baker City, Portland, Gresham, Lake Oswego and Tigard, OR.
Jane is survived by her sons Stephan Ray Daron, Donald James Daron and Clifford Michael Daron, 2 granddaughters, 4 great grandchildren and her sister Margaret Riordan Schreiber.
Funeral arrangements are Apr 14, 2007
Aunt Jane is, in fact, my great aunt. She is my grandma’s (gram) older sister. Ever since I could remember, Aunt Jane always seemed old. She lived in an older house, a little run down out by rivers edge athletic center. She spent years smoking, so the house always had that particular smell stick to the walls and carpet. You used to find all sorts of things around the house. I remember when she once gave my older sister a whole collection of porcelain nuns, wearing blue or black veils, kneeling in prayer or standing with hands folded. I used to go over there to help clean around the house, cut plants in the back or just visit with my mom. I didn’t always necessarily want to go work there or visit there. I had other things to do in my busy young life, like running through the forest with John and James or playing GI Joes or gathering around John’s Sega Genesis. Her son Don, who lived in the house, helping maintain it and support his mother, would always be our foreman. It was difficult in my youth at times to go over there, but I would because I knew that Aunt Jane loved us.
Throughout the years, on this very day, a phone would ring in our house and my mother would pick it up. “It’s for you,” she would say, and I, quite surprised, would take it. Then in an old, somewhat rough voice, I would hear Aunt Jane singing Happy Birthday to me. I can still recall her graveled voice coming across a staticky phone celebrating my birth. Aunt Jane really loved us.
Aunt Jane had been getting older and older these past few years. At times, being young and inexperienced, it was somewhat difficult to face this aged woman. Seeing her, you were seeing age, weakness and infirmity. You were confronting mortality. She had trouble walking and trouble seeing. You had to speak directly into her ear, and sit as she mumbled to you. She carried her age in her body. Love, however, helped me to overcome these difficulties, and pushed me to go forward and embrace the woman with a hug who had welcomed in so many birthdays for me.
She moved out of her house and into hospice care, and we never really knew how much longer she would last. Out of difficulty traveling, she stopped making appearances at our family events and I have a hard time remembering the last time I saw her.
This last week aunt Jane slipped into a coma and passed away.
On this day of all days, the death of aunt Jane has hit me. I look back with sad disappointment that I wasn’t around to be with her during these past few years. I wish I could say that it was distance of college, the busyness of jobs, or the travels to foreign lands that made it difficult to see here, but that would only be lying to myself. I became simply occupied. Aunt Jane, thus, remained largely outside of my life. Now, having become comfortably close with suffering, illness and death, as I have visited AIDS and TB patients at Mother Theresa’s health clinic and cared for their wounds, I would hope that I wouldn’t hold the same indifference at home. I would hope that I could find it in me to visit and be present with someone even in the face of illness and death.
Now Aunt Jane has passed on, without a whisper of goodbye, and today, I remember her, for so many years of calling on this day to sing to me Happy Birthday. I can’t attend her funeral, and I haven’t received such a call for years, but my memory of her, and the way that she blessed my life with those small moments of celebrating with me will always stick with me and be remembered on this day.
March 26, 2007
Jane Marie Riordan Daron passed away during the night, having slipped into a coma last Thursday. Jane was living in a care facility in Tigard, Oregon.
Jane Marie Riordan Daron (Stephen, Stephen, James) b April 1921, d March 26, 2007, was born in Baker City, OR to Stephen Joseph Riordan II and Grace Mary Conlan. Jane married Donald Ray Daron in Baker City on May 24, 1940. They divorced in 1965. Jane resided in Baker City, Portland, Gresham, Lake Oswego and Tigard, OR.
Jane is survived by her sons Stephan Ray Daron, Donald James Daron and Clifford Michael Daron, 2 granddaughters, 4 great grandchildren and her sister Margaret Riordan Schreiber.
Funeral arrangements are Apr 14, 2007
Lalibela
Lalibela
Turning through rock hewn corridors, I came across one of the most marvelous sights I have ever seen. Free standing and pillared, the church of…. Seemed to blot out the sun. It almost appeared out of nowhere as we twisted. This rock hewn church, carved supposedly by angels during the reign of king Lalibela. Some of these churches are over 15m high. With 11 churches in the city alone and over 600 ordained priests in the area, the town of Lalibela breathes religion in and out. Yet, this has somehow remained unknown and uncommercialized. While you encounter quite a few tourist shops, there certainly is not the ubiquitous groups of youth hawking their religious wares that is ever present in Axum.
Just as spectacular as the works of man in and around the country, is also the work of God: mountain upon mountain, carved away by rain, hill, valley and canyon interlacing each other. Flying over land to reach the town, I sat with my eyes glued to the window in disbelief at the extensive, finely molded Ethiopian highlands.
The remoteness of this ancient town, hidden away in this geographic fortress only adds to the magic of this place.
King Lalibela reigned in the 12 century. He is reported to have built all 11 churches within a span of 11 years. Regardless of names and dates, the skill involved in the carving of these churches and the determination to construct these monolithic churches is quite impressive.
Highlights of the churches include a pillar in bet Maryam that has remained covered since the 16th century. It supposedly is covered with engravings that describe how the entire complex was built. It supposedly glowed at that time as well, until the priests deemed it too dangerous to look at, and it was covered. Most of the churches of Lalibela are carved directly out of the rock. There are trenches and tunnels that connect everyone of them.
Bet Giyorgis is the famous cross church of Lalibela, measuring close to 15m high. It is the only church not covered by scaffolding.
I attended palm Sunday starting at 4:30 am in Bet Medhane Alem, the largest monolithic church in the world (800 m squared). This is the first time that I have heard drums in an orthodox church, as the entire time that I have been here has been lent, a period of fasting and symbolic mourning.
On palm Sunday I also made my way to two churches outside of the city. These were Yemrehana Chistos and Bibilla Chirkos. Yemrehana christos is an Axumite style church built in a cave. I slept through most of the hour and a half journey to get there, as I was quite exhausted from the previous nights tej (local brew) tasting and early morning church.
Upon hearing that there was a monastery in the area, I convinced my Belgian touring companions to join me up the hill. We never came across the monastery (in fact, it no longer exists), but we did meet a large grop of people at the top of the hill, all sitting around a smaller group of people with colorfully dressed horses. It took me some time and some terrible Amharic exchanges (2 months have left barely a dent on my primitive language skills), but I finally realized that it was a funeral I was watching. Scolding the boy who kept asking me for money during the funeral, I moved to the side to express my condolences to those around me and to observe the funeral. It was quite unlike anything I have ever seen. The ceremony that I had a chance to witness involved the mourning family circling around with the horses while wailing. A man leading the donkeys would intermittently blow a horn. Spotting the group were also other various church liturgical items like drums, robes and liturgical umbrellas. I wish I could have stayed for the whole thing, but driver and Belgians were waiting.
Our next stop was some local lunch and bibillia chirkos, another ancient semi-monolithic church with a very pleasant priest and a beautiful painting of Mary on the pillars…..
I will try to post some photos soon enough, but a Google search of Lalibela should be promising.
Turning through rock hewn corridors, I came across one of the most marvelous sights I have ever seen. Free standing and pillared, the church of…. Seemed to blot out the sun. It almost appeared out of nowhere as we twisted. This rock hewn church, carved supposedly by angels during the reign of king Lalibela. Some of these churches are over 15m high. With 11 churches in the city alone and over 600 ordained priests in the area, the town of Lalibela breathes religion in and out. Yet, this has somehow remained unknown and uncommercialized. While you encounter quite a few tourist shops, there certainly is not the ubiquitous groups of youth hawking their religious wares that is ever present in Axum.
Just as spectacular as the works of man in and around the country, is also the work of God: mountain upon mountain, carved away by rain, hill, valley and canyon interlacing each other. Flying over land to reach the town, I sat with my eyes glued to the window in disbelief at the extensive, finely molded Ethiopian highlands.
The remoteness of this ancient town, hidden away in this geographic fortress only adds to the magic of this place.
King Lalibela reigned in the 12 century. He is reported to have built all 11 churches within a span of 11 years. Regardless of names and dates, the skill involved in the carving of these churches and the determination to construct these monolithic churches is quite impressive.
Highlights of the churches include a pillar in bet Maryam that has remained covered since the 16th century. It supposedly is covered with engravings that describe how the entire complex was built. It supposedly glowed at that time as well, until the priests deemed it too dangerous to look at, and it was covered. Most of the churches of Lalibela are carved directly out of the rock. There are trenches and tunnels that connect everyone of them.
Bet Giyorgis is the famous cross church of Lalibela, measuring close to 15m high. It is the only church not covered by scaffolding.
I attended palm Sunday starting at 4:30 am in Bet Medhane Alem, the largest monolithic church in the world (800 m squared). This is the first time that I have heard drums in an orthodox church, as the entire time that I have been here has been lent, a period of fasting and symbolic mourning.
On palm Sunday I also made my way to two churches outside of the city. These were Yemrehana Chistos and Bibilla Chirkos. Yemrehana christos is an Axumite style church built in a cave. I slept through most of the hour and a half journey to get there, as I was quite exhausted from the previous nights tej (local brew) tasting and early morning church.
Upon hearing that there was a monastery in the area, I convinced my Belgian touring companions to join me up the hill. We never came across the monastery (in fact, it no longer exists), but we did meet a large grop of people at the top of the hill, all sitting around a smaller group of people with colorfully dressed horses. It took me some time and some terrible Amharic exchanges (2 months have left barely a dent on my primitive language skills), but I finally realized that it was a funeral I was watching. Scolding the boy who kept asking me for money during the funeral, I moved to the side to express my condolences to those around me and to observe the funeral. It was quite unlike anything I have ever seen. The ceremony that I had a chance to witness involved the mourning family circling around with the horses while wailing. A man leading the donkeys would intermittently blow a horn. Spotting the group were also other various church liturgical items like drums, robes and liturgical umbrellas. I wish I could have stayed for the whole thing, but driver and Belgians were waiting.
Our next stop was some local lunch and bibillia chirkos, another ancient semi-monolithic church with a very pleasant priest and a beautiful painting of Mary on the pillars…..
I will try to post some photos soon enough, but a Google search of Lalibela should be promising.
Monday, March 26, 2007
holy water fears
Sunday I attended mass at one of the local orthodox parishes. It was quite interesting. This church is currently being built to replace a parish church that was located inside a prison. The church was popularly known as imprisoned Michael. The prison, which was in the center of the city located right next to the African Union., was torn down along with its church. This new church is not yet opened, so in this case, the entire church compound became the church. I don’t think I have ever more fully felt the symbolism of the sunrise liturgy as here, for often enough, the simple experience of sunrise is lost on me within churches that have no windows. Filling the entire compound and pouring out into the street were people wrapped in thin white shawls. I was in a living church, despite the fact that the church was not yet built.
Without any place to sit nor a translator for the liturgy, I followed a group of men and chose a discreet spot next to the holy water spring.
I was invited by a man who did not seem altogether with it to enjoy this sacred water. It is quite uncommon for Ethiopians to take Eucharist, so the ultimate sign of participation is this self anointing with the holy water. People were lining p outside the church to collect this miraculous water. I stood to the side, not knowing if there was a more appropriate time than another to take this. I was later approached by a man who did not seem all together there. His Amharic, which I did not understand to begin with, wsa quite broken. He mimed to me, however, that I should partake. I felt overcome with gratitude at this invitation. He came by minutes later with a can filled with water. I took it and threw part of it over my face and anointed my legs, but he signaled that I should drink it. You can understand my hesitation, but in a leap of faith, I took quite a big swallow. I must admit, I did posess a certain fear the rest of the day, that somehow this holy water would lead me to another temple made of porcelain. My fears, however, remained unfulfilled.
besides standing for the next hour, the service proceded quite normally, which is to say, exotic and ancient.
Without any place to sit nor a translator for the liturgy, I followed a group of men and chose a discreet spot next to the holy water spring.
I was invited by a man who did not seem altogether with it to enjoy this sacred water. It is quite uncommon for Ethiopians to take Eucharist, so the ultimate sign of participation is this self anointing with the holy water. People were lining p outside the church to collect this miraculous water. I stood to the side, not knowing if there was a more appropriate time than another to take this. I was later approached by a man who did not seem all together there. His Amharic, which I did not understand to begin with, wsa quite broken. He mimed to me, however, that I should partake. I felt overcome with gratitude at this invitation. He came by minutes later with a can filled with water. I took it and threw part of it over my face and anointed my legs, but he signaled that I should drink it. You can understand my hesitation, but in a leap of faith, I took quite a big swallow. I must admit, I did posess a certain fear the rest of the day, that somehow this holy water would lead me to another temple made of porcelain. My fears, however, remained unfulfilled.
besides standing for the next hour, the service proceded quite normally, which is to say, exotic and ancient.
Wound dressing at mother Theresa’s
Warning: graphic blog below
Before you continue reading, be warned that the description below is a bit graphic. I wrote it as a purging activity to get the images and smells of the clinic out of my mind.
A few days back, I caught a ride with phillip to Siddest Kilo. As a last decision I decided to make my way to the mother Theresa clinic. I have 4 jesuit novice friends who I know from Arusha who have been living there over the past two months. I have made my way there probably four times before now and each and every one offers its own challenges and surprises. I have already written about my experience with those children with mental handicaps the other day. This day, I was back to dressing wounds.
Upon arrival, I met another American third year med school student named Thomas, who had become connected to the clinic through Dr. Rick. He is just another tribute to how many people get connected to this clinic through rick.
The first patient brought in was a boy who had a tumor in his head. It had pushed his entire eyeball outside of his head. It is continuing to grow and the only thing that we can do in the meantime is protruding eyeball to at least prevent infection. I have no idea how the doctors might handle the situation in the US. Leaving most of the actual cleaning work to the med school student who faces this every morning, Paul (my Jesuit friend from Uganda) held his legs down, while Thomas braced the screaming boys head. I stood to the left, handing over gauze and the cleaning liquids. Even thinking back to the experience I cringe. As desensitized as I have become in my few visits there, it is still difficult to hear the suffering of one who is so young. Sadly, he will probably not live another few months.
From there, Thomas, Paul and I moved to the TB ward to dress bed sores. Bed sores are caused from one laying in one position too long. Often these are quite deep. One of the first men that we treated was paralyzed from the waste down due to TB, so he didn’t have to suffer as we cleaned the wound on his backside. The true surprise was when we expected the wound closer only to find that within it there were whit maggots. Defying my own expectations, this is not such a bad sign, because they dispose of the dead flesh. All throughout the dressing, the room was filled with the sound of one man whose cough sounded far to substantial to be anything but TB entering into the lungs.
Another man proved to be quite difficult.
When arriving in one of the normal wards, we were directed over to this man by the other patients. He had covered his head with the blanket and even upon shaking him, he wouldn’t wake. We proceeded to cut off the bandage covering the exposed flesh on the side of his knee. I had to hold him still to prevent him from being harmed in the process. He never regained full lucidity, but he was nevertheless quite forceful in his unconciousness, and it took two of us to hold him down while Paul addressed the wound. Paul had to remove some of the flesh that had died. After seeing him remove two pieced merely by pulling (which typically works, but not this time) I fetched a blade to cut the dead flesh. At one point, I am quite certain the man passed his bowels as the smell distinctly cut through the scene. It was strange seeing such a wound, but his reaction, while certainly honest, was greater than some of the other wounds that we have treated that were certainly in worse condition. All the same, the tendons, muscles and flesh facing us was a difficult site to see. At that point however, you just have to plug your nose and dive into the situation….
I wish indeed I did have a free hand to plug my nose. Long after I leave the mission, what sticks to the roof of my mouth is the smells. A few weeks ago, as paul and I were dressing wounds together, a man entered into the dressing room to have his calf addressed. It was slightly swollen and the moment paul took off the bandage, the stench of rotting flesh filled the room. This man’s leg was gangrene, and thus rotting away. When I was last working at mother Theresa’s, the smell of latex gloves stuck to my hand for the entire day. This continued to provoke in my mind the smell of the TB ward, the clinic, and the wounds. Following our morning of dressing wounds, Thomas (a med student from Vermont) and I discussed with some incredulity the wounds that we had seen that day. I even treated the Jesuits to a beer, solely for the opportunity to purge the smell from my system. I wish I could say that it worked, even four hours and a cold shower later, the smell still stuck with me. I do not, however, want to over dramatize my experience there. There is still some amazing capacity within those of us who work there, while on the spot, to do what needs to be done and leave the reflecting till later. Perhaps, however, it is as my friend Paul says to me: Some things are best left forgotten.
Before you continue reading, be warned that the description below is a bit graphic. I wrote it as a purging activity to get the images and smells of the clinic out of my mind.
A few days back, I caught a ride with phillip to Siddest Kilo. As a last decision I decided to make my way to the mother Theresa clinic. I have 4 jesuit novice friends who I know from Arusha who have been living there over the past two months. I have made my way there probably four times before now and each and every one offers its own challenges and surprises. I have already written about my experience with those children with mental handicaps the other day. This day, I was back to dressing wounds.
Upon arrival, I met another American third year med school student named Thomas, who had become connected to the clinic through Dr. Rick. He is just another tribute to how many people get connected to this clinic through rick.
The first patient brought in was a boy who had a tumor in his head. It had pushed his entire eyeball outside of his head. It is continuing to grow and the only thing that we can do in the meantime is protruding eyeball to at least prevent infection. I have no idea how the doctors might handle the situation in the US. Leaving most of the actual cleaning work to the med school student who faces this every morning, Paul (my Jesuit friend from Uganda) held his legs down, while Thomas braced the screaming boys head. I stood to the left, handing over gauze and the cleaning liquids. Even thinking back to the experience I cringe. As desensitized as I have become in my few visits there, it is still difficult to hear the suffering of one who is so young. Sadly, he will probably not live another few months.
From there, Thomas, Paul and I moved to the TB ward to dress bed sores. Bed sores are caused from one laying in one position too long. Often these are quite deep. One of the first men that we treated was paralyzed from the waste down due to TB, so he didn’t have to suffer as we cleaned the wound on his backside. The true surprise was when we expected the wound closer only to find that within it there were whit maggots. Defying my own expectations, this is not such a bad sign, because they dispose of the dead flesh. All throughout the dressing, the room was filled with the sound of one man whose cough sounded far to substantial to be anything but TB entering into the lungs.
Another man proved to be quite difficult.
When arriving in one of the normal wards, we were directed over to this man by the other patients. He had covered his head with the blanket and even upon shaking him, he wouldn’t wake. We proceeded to cut off the bandage covering the exposed flesh on the side of his knee. I had to hold him still to prevent him from being harmed in the process. He never regained full lucidity, but he was nevertheless quite forceful in his unconciousness, and it took two of us to hold him down while Paul addressed the wound. Paul had to remove some of the flesh that had died. After seeing him remove two pieced merely by pulling (which typically works, but not this time) I fetched a blade to cut the dead flesh. At one point, I am quite certain the man passed his bowels as the smell distinctly cut through the scene. It was strange seeing such a wound, but his reaction, while certainly honest, was greater than some of the other wounds that we have treated that were certainly in worse condition. All the same, the tendons, muscles and flesh facing us was a difficult site to see. At that point however, you just have to plug your nose and dive into the situation….
I wish indeed I did have a free hand to plug my nose. Long after I leave the mission, what sticks to the roof of my mouth is the smells. A few weeks ago, as paul and I were dressing wounds together, a man entered into the dressing room to have his calf addressed. It was slightly swollen and the moment paul took off the bandage, the stench of rotting flesh filled the room. This man’s leg was gangrene, and thus rotting away. When I was last working at mother Theresa’s, the smell of latex gloves stuck to my hand for the entire day. This continued to provoke in my mind the smell of the TB ward, the clinic, and the wounds. Following our morning of dressing wounds, Thomas (a med student from Vermont) and I discussed with some incredulity the wounds that we had seen that day. I even treated the Jesuits to a beer, solely for the opportunity to purge the smell from my system. I wish I could say that it worked, even four hours and a cold shower later, the smell still stuck with me. I do not, however, want to over dramatize my experience there. There is still some amazing capacity within those of us who work there, while on the spot, to do what needs to be done and leave the reflecting till later. Perhaps, however, it is as my friend Paul says to me: Some things are best left forgotten.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Bringing MEW to mother theresa
Yesterday I spent the afternoon in the mother Theresa Clinic. When I have gone before, I have always just tagged along with the Jesuits or the med students dressing wounds, but as that is a morning duty, I was able to get assigned to another area. I was encouraged by the Jesuits, who were technically still on retreat and thus not working, to head up to the disturbed children's ward on the women's side. After getting permission from the sister on duty, i made my way in, introducing myself to the children. They are really quite precious. There is one child, who pushes herself along and grabs forcefully to your legs, hands, whatever is in reach to pull herself up to her feet. She will keep a tight grip and won't let you set her on her rump, so this, ideally, is a situation to be avoided. I kept her occupied instead by singing the opening lines from an old MEW song we did called Pie R Pie. The song would simply begin with basic beebop words: budum way, bu way bu way doo. budum way, bu way bu way doo...." and i would then make up the rest. This kept her thoroughly mesmerized. I also met a young beautiful girl in a wheel chair, who with her frail hands, simply held my hand and smiled when i talked to her. Another girl approached me the moment i came in and just grabbed my hand. She was all smiles. It is wonderful to be somewhere where one can just be present. Their presence is also quite healing for me. Encountering suffering and poverty daily, I feel as if i put up shields so as to protect my own sanity. I fear sometimes that this leads me to have a cold heart. Being with these children was rejuvenating for me, awakening my own heart, and allowing me to share it with them.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Dhadim: out of addis and into the land of Abraham
Dhadim: out of addis and into the land of Abraham
My first introduction to Borana land and Borana culture came by way of a book launch fir the aadaa boraanaa cultural dictionary, written by Fr. Ton Leus, a Spiritan priest form Holland. The book launching took place on Tuesday night. Joining us at the book launching as special guests of honor were six elders from the Borana community down in Dhaddim and Yabello. They were there in their full cultural dress. The wife of one of the male elders present was wearing a full leather dress made out of goat. They began the ceremony with the lighting of the new fire. This requires 7 first born males who are elders. After returning to the Spiritan community house and enjoying a few glasses of whisky, I was invited to join Ide, another spiritan priest from Borana, to head down south.
On the way down to Borana land we had to spend two days in Awasa awaiting news on Ide’s broken car. The oil had not been changed in the car, and on his way up to Addis Ababa, the engine seized. We spent a two relaxing days there, enjoying the local scenery and talking about the church in Ethiopia.
After a 3 day journey south, I finally made my way to Dhaddim, a small mission town about 32 kilometers away from the main town of Yabello, and about 7 kms away from possible cell network. I had stepped out of the modern city life and into the ancient world of the bible. I felt as if I suddenly had entered into the tribe of Abraham with all of the intricacies of ancient life there.
I do not mean to say that there did not exist some of the regular modern amenities of life. The cultural landscape, however, changed suddenly from the modern urban life of the city, to the life of the pastoralist. The Borana are a pastoral people living in the southern part of Ethiopia and the northern part of Kenya. The Borana have
The Borana language is a southern dialect of the larger oromotic language group. The Borana people are considered to be, however, part of the original ethnic group from which all other Oromo derive. They still today maintain many of their own traditional customs and are considered, somewhat, to be a “pure” culture. That of course is a debatable term, but the truth behind the perception that the Borana are a people who have strongly held to their traditional culture remains true. As Fr. Ton Leus put at the book launching, globalization is not a word that has entered into their vocabulary.
The Borana are a pastoral society. Walking away from the town of Dhaddim, one can see in the distance large herds of cattle. Since the famine in 1985, the Borana have also started farming. All the same, this pastoral aspect of their society has broadly shaped their culture and customs. Anaani is their general word for milk. They have, however, over 20 different words for all the different varieties of milk. Milk serves as the main diet for the Borana people.
The spiritans were some of the first missionaries to leave the towns and enter Borana land. It was refreshing to enter an area that did not have the “missionary baggage” that many of the other countries I have visited exhibit. It was really an opportunity to see what a Vatican II era mission might look like. Hearing Ide’s tales of his early days among the Borana were quite interesting. He had spent the previous 10 years in Tanzania among the Catholics in the moshi area. Moving to the Borana area, he encountered a people with whom he shared no frame of reference.
The Borana, while believing in God, God is the blue sky and remains far from their daily life. In addition to that, death means death for the Borana, and there is no consideration for anything beyond it. The only afterlife there might be is the continual existence within the lives of your children and their children, for your name lives on in them. This is one of the reasons for the practical polygamy of the Borana. If a girl is born, it is immediately known that one day she will leave and no longer be a part of the family. This is strictly held, with attached customs, and when visiting the village for sharing in the coffee ceremony (see below) I witnessed one such way this strict separation between the wife’s family and the husband are held. The son in law is not allowed to see the mother in law. Now this might be practical in avoiding conflict, but it is certainly mystifying to see in person. We were in a small two-room hut with about 15 people within it, waiting for the Morning Prayer and coffee ceremony to begin. The mother in law was about to enter the room, so the other Borana grabbed a sarong and covered over the son while she passed into the second room. She spent the entire morning on the other side of the doorway, just around the corner from her son in law, but out of site. This happened once more with another Borana man and his mother in law. Were they to meet on the road, they would turn in opposite directions, one going one way, the other going the other. Never shall their paths cross.
The woman goes to join the husband's family, so it is only through sons that a man can live on. I don’t know what this would mean with regards to women. Because bearing children is so important, a woman is valued or judged based on how many children she has. If a woman is unable to bear children or to bear sons (which in traditional Borana culture is the same thing), he will marry a second woman. You are not allowed to divorce within Borana culture. When a man and woman marry it is for both their whole lives. If a man dies, a woman is not allowed to remarry. This does not mean, however, she will stop bearing children. She is in fact encouraged to do so, as each child, even though not biologically from the dead husband, will still bear his name. Thus a dead husbands brother might inherit a wife. This woman, however is never to marry again. Thus, there is also a strong “lovers system” present among the Borana. This can be evidenced by the fact that they have a specific name for the person who is the biological father, but not the contractual father. This lovers system is also encouraged by the fact that Borana do not view it possible for a man to live without a wife. Thus a man of 80 might take on another wife after his first had died. Often it is preferred that she is of the same family as the first wife, and, by circumstance and perhaps by custom, she is also younger (15). I say by circumstance, because it is not common to find an older woman who has not been married.
The missionaries here have had to deal with all these various issues of culture like polygamy, the lover system and the strict notions of gender roles. They have also found ways to include various cultural religious practices like everyday blessings, rites of forgiveness, rites of peace and many other rituals into the catholic life. I had a chance to partake in two such rituals: the Eucharist and the Morning Prayer led by the catechist.
The Eucharist church service was similar to the western church service in all ways but one. At one point during the mass, the community came forward and passed their hands over the Eucharist. This is a sign of participation and a prayer for internal cleansing. The same gesture is done over a goat that might be sacrificed.
The other ceremony was the Morning Prayer. This was my last morning in Dhaddim and I was invited by the catechist to join him in one of the local villages to partake in this. We gathered at the house of one of the members of the Small Christian Community, and soon all the adults of the village (Christian and non-Christian alike were there. The catechist at one point left the hut and with the bible raised over his head, he re-entered the hut proclaiming that this was the good news. Then, following a reading from the scriptures and a song, he led everyone in a morning prayer. After this action the traditional coffee ceremony began. Each person was passed a handful of coffee beans and we cracked the ends of them in our mouths. Then the coffee beans were roasted in oil. Normally this is done in butter, but as it is the dry season, there is not an abundance of milk to make such butter. After the beans had been roasted, the coffee beans were added to milk and the oil was distributed for self-anointing. This is the ultimate sign of participation within the prayer and I happily applied this oil, to the joy of my companions, to my face and feet. Following this gesture, the eldest of the community took the bowl of “coffee” (buna) and blessed it, praying for peace among the family, the village, the larger community, all the Borana and the world. Then the cups were distributed amongst the males from eldest to youngest (me) and then to the women. This was crunchy coffee, as the beans were never ground. You instead were encouraged to take a few of these beans (still in their cracked shell) and to chew them in your mouth. At that point it did indeed taste like I was eating coffee grounds. This coffee ceremony signifies a sharing of peace amongst the Borana. I remember Abba Ide telling me that if Christ had been born among the Borana their coffee would likely have been the species by which the Eucharist was shared.
My week in Borana can hardly do the culture and society justice, but I am so grateful for my experience there.
My first introduction to Borana land and Borana culture came by way of a book launch fir the aadaa boraanaa cultural dictionary, written by Fr. Ton Leus, a Spiritan priest form Holland. The book launching took place on Tuesday night. Joining us at the book launching as special guests of honor were six elders from the Borana community down in Dhaddim and Yabello. They were there in their full cultural dress. The wife of one of the male elders present was wearing a full leather dress made out of goat. They began the ceremony with the lighting of the new fire. This requires 7 first born males who are elders. After returning to the Spiritan community house and enjoying a few glasses of whisky, I was invited to join Ide, another spiritan priest from Borana, to head down south.
On the way down to Borana land we had to spend two days in Awasa awaiting news on Ide’s broken car. The oil had not been changed in the car, and on his way up to Addis Ababa, the engine seized. We spent a two relaxing days there, enjoying the local scenery and talking about the church in Ethiopia.
After a 3 day journey south, I finally made my way to Dhaddim, a small mission town about 32 kilometers away from the main town of Yabello, and about 7 kms away from possible cell network. I had stepped out of the modern city life and into the ancient world of the bible. I felt as if I suddenly had entered into the tribe of Abraham with all of the intricacies of ancient life there.
I do not mean to say that there did not exist some of the regular modern amenities of life. The cultural landscape, however, changed suddenly from the modern urban life of the city, to the life of the pastoralist. The Borana are a pastoral people living in the southern part of Ethiopia and the northern part of Kenya. The Borana have
The Borana language is a southern dialect of the larger oromotic language group. The Borana people are considered to be, however, part of the original ethnic group from which all other Oromo derive. They still today maintain many of their own traditional customs and are considered, somewhat, to be a “pure” culture. That of course is a debatable term, but the truth behind the perception that the Borana are a people who have strongly held to their traditional culture remains true. As Fr. Ton Leus put at the book launching, globalization is not a word that has entered into their vocabulary.
The Borana are a pastoral society. Walking away from the town of Dhaddim, one can see in the distance large herds of cattle. Since the famine in 1985, the Borana have also started farming. All the same, this pastoral aspect of their society has broadly shaped their culture and customs. Anaani is their general word for milk. They have, however, over 20 different words for all the different varieties of milk. Milk serves as the main diet for the Borana people.
The spiritans were some of the first missionaries to leave the towns and enter Borana land. It was refreshing to enter an area that did not have the “missionary baggage” that many of the other countries I have visited exhibit. It was really an opportunity to see what a Vatican II era mission might look like. Hearing Ide’s tales of his early days among the Borana were quite interesting. He had spent the previous 10 years in Tanzania among the Catholics in the moshi area. Moving to the Borana area, he encountered a people with whom he shared no frame of reference.
The Borana, while believing in God, God is the blue sky and remains far from their daily life. In addition to that, death means death for the Borana, and there is no consideration for anything beyond it. The only afterlife there might be is the continual existence within the lives of your children and their children, for your name lives on in them. This is one of the reasons for the practical polygamy of the Borana. If a girl is born, it is immediately known that one day she will leave and no longer be a part of the family. This is strictly held, with attached customs, and when visiting the village for sharing in the coffee ceremony (see below) I witnessed one such way this strict separation between the wife’s family and the husband are held. The son in law is not allowed to see the mother in law. Now this might be practical in avoiding conflict, but it is certainly mystifying to see in person. We were in a small two-room hut with about 15 people within it, waiting for the Morning Prayer and coffee ceremony to begin. The mother in law was about to enter the room, so the other Borana grabbed a sarong and covered over the son while she passed into the second room. She spent the entire morning on the other side of the doorway, just around the corner from her son in law, but out of site. This happened once more with another Borana man and his mother in law. Were they to meet on the road, they would turn in opposite directions, one going one way, the other going the other. Never shall their paths cross.
The woman goes to join the husband's family, so it is only through sons that a man can live on. I don’t know what this would mean with regards to women. Because bearing children is so important, a woman is valued or judged based on how many children she has. If a woman is unable to bear children or to bear sons (which in traditional Borana culture is the same thing), he will marry a second woman. You are not allowed to divorce within Borana culture. When a man and woman marry it is for both their whole lives. If a man dies, a woman is not allowed to remarry. This does not mean, however, she will stop bearing children. She is in fact encouraged to do so, as each child, even though not biologically from the dead husband, will still bear his name. Thus a dead husbands brother might inherit a wife. This woman, however is never to marry again. Thus, there is also a strong “lovers system” present among the Borana. This can be evidenced by the fact that they have a specific name for the person who is the biological father, but not the contractual father. This lovers system is also encouraged by the fact that Borana do not view it possible for a man to live without a wife. Thus a man of 80 might take on another wife after his first had died. Often it is preferred that she is of the same family as the first wife, and, by circumstance and perhaps by custom, she is also younger (15). I say by circumstance, because it is not common to find an older woman who has not been married.
The missionaries here have had to deal with all these various issues of culture like polygamy, the lover system and the strict notions of gender roles. They have also found ways to include various cultural religious practices like everyday blessings, rites of forgiveness, rites of peace and many other rituals into the catholic life. I had a chance to partake in two such rituals: the Eucharist and the Morning Prayer led by the catechist.
The Eucharist church service was similar to the western church service in all ways but one. At one point during the mass, the community came forward and passed their hands over the Eucharist. This is a sign of participation and a prayer for internal cleansing. The same gesture is done over a goat that might be sacrificed.
The other ceremony was the Morning Prayer. This was my last morning in Dhaddim and I was invited by the catechist to join him in one of the local villages to partake in this. We gathered at the house of one of the members of the Small Christian Community, and soon all the adults of the village (Christian and non-Christian alike were there. The catechist at one point left the hut and with the bible raised over his head, he re-entered the hut proclaiming that this was the good news. Then, following a reading from the scriptures and a song, he led everyone in a morning prayer. After this action the traditional coffee ceremony began. Each person was passed a handful of coffee beans and we cracked the ends of them in our mouths. Then the coffee beans were roasted in oil. Normally this is done in butter, but as it is the dry season, there is not an abundance of milk to make such butter. After the beans had been roasted, the coffee beans were added to milk and the oil was distributed for self-anointing. This is the ultimate sign of participation within the prayer and I happily applied this oil, to the joy of my companions, to my face and feet. Following this gesture, the eldest of the community took the bowl of “coffee” (buna) and blessed it, praying for peace among the family, the village, the larger community, all the Borana and the world. Then the cups were distributed amongst the males from eldest to youngest (me) and then to the women. This was crunchy coffee, as the beans were never ground. You instead were encouraged to take a few of these beans (still in their cracked shell) and to chew them in your mouth. At that point it did indeed taste like I was eating coffee grounds. This coffee ceremony signifies a sharing of peace amongst the Borana. I remember Abba Ide telling me that if Christ had been born among the Borana their coffee would likely have been the species by which the Eucharist was shared.
My week in Borana can hardly do the culture and society justice, but I am so grateful for my experience there.
shabbat dinner in ethiopia
Here is a blog that should have been written a while ago:
I’ve recently had the opportunity to meet and spend some time with Dr. Rick Hodes. Dr. Rick is a Jewish American doctor who has been working in Ethiopia off and on for the past 20 years. He works for the American Jewish Federation with a group of African Jews indigenous to Ethiopia called the Falashas. The Falashas historical have “mythically” traced their roots back to king Solomon. Up until the 3rd century there were prominent Jewish communities in Ethiopia. At that time, the ruling king of what later became the Axumite kingdom converted to Christianity due to the work of Abba Salama
Since that time the country has largely remained under the domination of Christianity, with the exception of a brief period when a Jewish warrior queen took over.
Anyways, almost all of the Falashas were airlifted out to Israel during the great famine, but there are also a group of people who are claiming to be Falashas who at some point and time converted to Christianity. They are also demanding the right of return. Dr. Rick helps with their medical issues.
He has also played quite a prominent role over at the Missionaries of Charity clinic here, dealing with his own special projects of cancer patients, etc. He is even the personal doctor of the mother superior of the missionaries of charity, the successor to Mother Theresa. That is what I call interfaith work.
Dr Rick’s work these past 20 years has also included a one-man operation of securing funds to transport children with polio of the spine to foreign countries to undergo surgery. Apparently the best spine surgeon in the world is currently living in Ghana.
Dr Rick is a practicing Jew and was once a Watson candidate. I became connected to him through Gerry Jones, who I volunteer under over at CNEWA.
Attending Rick’s Shabbat dinner two weeks ago was quite an enjoyable experience. There were perhaps over 50 people within his house.
Every male has to wear some sort of hat, as this is a Jewish prayer ceremony. We did not wear, however, the typical Kippah. Instead Rick passes around an assortment of hats. One short elderly Ethiopian man was wearing perhaps the largest cowboy hat I have ever seen. Another man from the Israeli embassy was wearing what would seem to be a giant sponge. I was handed a hat that was made out of the same material as our local Santa Claus hats. It was blue, and on top was a giant fabric menorah. Then, to call everyone to prayer, Rick began singing “If I had a hammer,” the 70’s folk song once made popular by Peter Paul and Mary. Rick also led in the traditional Hebrew prayers, a reading from scripture in both Hebrew and English and the traditional breaking of bread, which was then thrown to you across the room. Rick regularly has about 10 children living at his house recovering from various surgeries. In addition, he has his two boys who he has adopted as a single father. Many of these children will well versed in both the 70’s folk song and the Hebrew prayer. When I asked him why “If I had a hammer”, he simply replied because we like it. The prayer is followed by excellent kosher vegetarian soup. It really was quite an extraordinary experience.
I’ve recently had the opportunity to meet and spend some time with Dr. Rick Hodes. Dr. Rick is a Jewish American doctor who has been working in Ethiopia off and on for the past 20 years. He works for the American Jewish Federation with a group of African Jews indigenous to Ethiopia called the Falashas. The Falashas historical have “mythically” traced their roots back to king Solomon. Up until the 3rd century there were prominent Jewish communities in Ethiopia. At that time, the ruling king of what later became the Axumite kingdom converted to Christianity due to the work of Abba Salama
Since that time the country has largely remained under the domination of Christianity, with the exception of a brief period when a Jewish warrior queen took over.
Anyways, almost all of the Falashas were airlifted out to Israel during the great famine, but there are also a group of people who are claiming to be Falashas who at some point and time converted to Christianity. They are also demanding the right of return. Dr. Rick helps with their medical issues.
He has also played quite a prominent role over at the Missionaries of Charity clinic here, dealing with his own special projects of cancer patients, etc. He is even the personal doctor of the mother superior of the missionaries of charity, the successor to Mother Theresa. That is what I call interfaith work.
Dr Rick’s work these past 20 years has also included a one-man operation of securing funds to transport children with polio of the spine to foreign countries to undergo surgery. Apparently the best spine surgeon in the world is currently living in Ghana.
Dr Rick is a practicing Jew and was once a Watson candidate. I became connected to him through Gerry Jones, who I volunteer under over at CNEWA.
Attending Rick’s Shabbat dinner two weeks ago was quite an enjoyable experience. There were perhaps over 50 people within his house.
Every male has to wear some sort of hat, as this is a Jewish prayer ceremony. We did not wear, however, the typical Kippah. Instead Rick passes around an assortment of hats. One short elderly Ethiopian man was wearing perhaps the largest cowboy hat I have ever seen. Another man from the Israeli embassy was wearing what would seem to be a giant sponge. I was handed a hat that was made out of the same material as our local Santa Claus hats. It was blue, and on top was a giant fabric menorah. Then, to call everyone to prayer, Rick began singing “If I had a hammer,” the 70’s folk song once made popular by Peter Paul and Mary. Rick also led in the traditional Hebrew prayers, a reading from scripture in both Hebrew and English and the traditional breaking of bread, which was then thrown to you across the room. Rick regularly has about 10 children living at his house recovering from various surgeries. In addition, he has his two boys who he has adopted as a single father. Many of these children will well versed in both the 70’s folk song and the Hebrew prayer. When I asked him why “If I had a hammer”, he simply replied because we like it. The prayer is followed by excellent kosher vegetarian soup. It really was quite an extraordinary experience.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
the visit north, the trip south
I am now heading south to visit missionaries amongst the semi-nomadic tribe, the boraana people. Once again, lady luck has rolled the dice, and a group of spiritan fathers arrived from the south, inaugurating a cultural dictionary that they put together. I will be back in contact around the 15th.
It seems I have been slacking on my blog again. I will fill you in on the details of the final part of my trip through the north.
On Monday we began our journey out of axum. On the roadside we saw a caravan of camels. These camels were carrying bricks of salt. Important to know is that salt used to be the currency of the day in Ethiopians history. Salt bricks, mined in the denkil region, were carried by camel by a people called the afhar (recently infamous from the kidnappings). The afhar are known to be quite an aggressive bunch, and up until the 1920’s there were still reported cases of them cutting off men’s testicles who entered their lands. Seeing this salt caravan is just as historical as seeing an ancient 6th century church ruin.
Before reaching axum, we stopped off for a bite to eat and some drinks. When we finished, the woman asked us if we would like some coffee. In Ethiopia, the home of this wonderful drink, you don’t refuse this act of hospitality, if only because it will be the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had.
She then went through the entire process of making the coffee. She roasted the beans over a coal stove, shaking regularly her hand held pan to get a thorough cook. After having roasted the beans, she carried the pan around the room, allowing us to smell the aroma.
She then hand ground the beans in a gourd with a piece of wood. next she placed the grounds with hot water in a ceramic kettle, specially made for coffee. Finally, placing a piece of plant in the spout of the kettle to filter the beans, she poured us each a hot cup of coffee. It was excellent. The whole process took about 30 minutes, and it was given to us free, as a gift of hospitality from the restaurant.
An hour away from axum, we stopped in a small town that held the ruins of Yeha. In this town were the ruins of an ancient temple, that was at one point converted and rearranged for the purposes of a chrisitan church. The temple is attributed to the sabeans, a group of people who traveled from the Saudi Arabia peninsula to Ethiopia. The temple thus predated Christianities entrance into Ethiopia. Walking around the temple, I felt like a real archeologist. We were, in our own amateur way, making observations about the temple, what it might have looked like before the Christians adjusted it, and even how it might have been used as a Christian church. The stones had been rearranged at some point in the south eastern corner to create a baptistery. There were also several holes purposively cut into the walls, for some unknown purpose. Inside the church, the floor had tracts cut into it. From this, one might assume that it didn’t have a roof and the inlaid gutters served to transport water outside of the church. The main exit point for this water was a hole in the middle of the south side. This was blocked over by rocks that we had to move in order to get our photo. Walking around the structure, I also noticed that the base of the temple extended out slightly. It was thus sitting on a slight podium base. This is an influence that was carried through to axumite structures. The sabeans had intermixed with the indigenous people there and slowly became absorbed into local culture.
Returning to the other side of the water spout from the temple, we noticed that it was covered by a sheet here. Behind this sheet, within the walls, we noticed melted wax. It would seem that this ancient non-christian is being used for equally obscure purposes today. From the exterior, we also noticed a gargoyle protruding (architecturally, meaning a spout extending from the wall). I traced this to the interior and found the corresponding block. I surmised that there must have been some sort of additional level. One can always guess. We spent a good amount of time examining the structure. I never thought I could have so much fun staring at stones.
Entering into the museum of the monastery, we were shown very well made, but relatively recent drawings in books. We also were shown ancient artifacts that might have been a part of the temple. On one incense altar were inscribed sabean script that tied the temple to them. On this altar was a horseshoe symbol with a circle inside. This represents the moon and Venus, the ancient symbol of the god of the sabeans. This same symbol would later change my life, or rather, the size of my wallet.
We arrived in axum, ready for hot showers and nice beds to wash off the dust from the road. I have probably been covered by more dust on this trip than even the most ancient of grandfather clocks. After cleaning up, we drove around the town, seeing by car the ancient sites of axum. Axum is a city that was very influential in Ethiopia starting from the 6th century. Today it is one of the most important religious sites in Ethiopia. It is, in fact, illegal to even build a mosque there. The town houses, supposedly, the ark of the covenant.
Axum is an ancient city in the northern part of Ethiopia that once had an empire stretching from red sea to the lakes in the south. Visiting the small museum here, I began to appreciate just how ancient ethiopia’s tradition is and how interconnected the ancient world was. We saw coins that were dating back to pre Christian times. Christianity arrive in Ethiopia in the 3rd century. These ancient coins have pictures of the king on both faces. Sometimes the kings head is bordered by pieces of grain. This is to symbolically tie the prosperity of the land to the king. As Christianity became the state religion, one can see how these symbols become newly appropriated, and the cross now replaces the king surrounded by the grain. On the other side of the coin, the king sits in profile, holding the cross scepter. We also saw ancient greek pottery vessels that would likely of held olive oil. The world was much smaller than we might think.
We visited an ancient stylite field. These are giant, monolithic obelisks, used to mark the graves of ancient kings. We later visited the area where they were quarried. It is difficult to imagine how these monstrous stylites were transported almost 15 kms. When the Italians stole the smallest one during their occupation, they cut it into three pieces to carry it to italy. It was only just returned within the past few years.
We also drove on to visit the ancient tombs of Kaleb and Gabral. Father and son were both part of the Christian dynasty. We saw the very sarcophaguses where they and their family would have been buried. It was odd to walk in such an ancient and sacred place. It
In Gondar, we entered into a new era of ethiopia’s history. It was here where the country was almost split apart by the well-intentioned, misguided and arrogant missionary work of the Jesuits. It would be unfair to make such a generalization, as the first Jesuit here was quite a genius and was doing good work. He was followed by a prouder sort, however, whose efforts to sway the king led the country nearly to civil war.
We visited the ancient castles of gondar. At this point, I would not have minded having a guide to explain the history of these dynasties. The people who pose themselves as guides, however, would be much better at fiction writing than history. Their accounts are often simple (due to the language barrier) and false.
More impressive than the castles, was an 18th century church, whose interior was completely covered by icons. It would be wonderful to capture each and every icon. The messages hidden behind these ancient paintings are quite fascinating. For example, there was one icon that was above the entrance to the church on the inside that revealed a very large glorious mary. Surrounding mary were many people falling in prostrate, the king david, ancient priests of Ethiopia, and mohammed. Mohammed led by a demon, arms tied, sitting on a donkey, looking towards mary. We asked the priest the meaning behind it, and he said that ti was from an apparation of mary in Egypt where even the muslims saw her. The church was the perfect example of the function of Ethiopian iconography however. Every wall was covered with icons. Even the ceiling was painted with over 100 faces of cherubs.
We visited the baths built by king…..
While I am sure there is great historical merit to this location, I enjoyed it purely for the scenery. I felt as if I could be in central park during the autumn. The leaves were dry and falling in the empty pool. As the wind blew, the leaves rustled across the ground. Not having seen much by way of seasons since I have arrived here, dry dead leaves were a welcome sight.
On our way to Bahidar, we got in a car accident. I already spoke of it, so I will spare the details of that, but I will recount an experience I just had over the weekend. I was driving with phillip again and a group of sisters down to Sodo to see an ordination. We were overtaken by another priest from the region. 10 minutes later, we arrived on the scene of an accident. We saw a group of some 50 road workers on the road and a truck that had fallen into a ditch that dropped some 20-30 feet. Upon arriving on the scene, one of the sisters realized that it was in fact the priests car. More surreal, however, everyone around was wailing. A man had walked in front of the car and had been hit. Seeing another accident, which included life threatening injuries, I began to realize just how lucky I was so many weeks back. It was also strange to compare the way that we mourn. I was so struck by this wailing, I felt as if I had stepped into another world.
Arriving in bahidar after the accident, we found the first hotel we could. The next day, we searched for cheaper venues. We stayed at the Ghion hotel, located right on the lake. We were in bird paradise. There were beautiful giant trees with purples flowers filling the courtyard. Inhabiting these trees were black horn billed tucans.
I finished up my visit of the lake with a tour of 3 monasteries located on islands on the lake. While we had a completely inadequate “guide”, my experience with emmanuel served me well in understanding the church structures and icons. I happily shared this knowledge with my comrades on the boat.
Well, I’ve run out of time to recount more as I now need to catch a taxi to the distant south. Hot weather and nomadic tribes, here I come.
It seems I have been slacking on my blog again. I will fill you in on the details of the final part of my trip through the north.
On Monday we began our journey out of axum. On the roadside we saw a caravan of camels. These camels were carrying bricks of salt. Important to know is that salt used to be the currency of the day in Ethiopians history. Salt bricks, mined in the denkil region, were carried by camel by a people called the afhar (recently infamous from the kidnappings). The afhar are known to be quite an aggressive bunch, and up until the 1920’s there were still reported cases of them cutting off men’s testicles who entered their lands. Seeing this salt caravan is just as historical as seeing an ancient 6th century church ruin.
Before reaching axum, we stopped off for a bite to eat and some drinks. When we finished, the woman asked us if we would like some coffee. In Ethiopia, the home of this wonderful drink, you don’t refuse this act of hospitality, if only because it will be the best cup of coffee you’ve ever had.
She then went through the entire process of making the coffee. She roasted the beans over a coal stove, shaking regularly her hand held pan to get a thorough cook. After having roasted the beans, she carried the pan around the room, allowing us to smell the aroma.
She then hand ground the beans in a gourd with a piece of wood. next she placed the grounds with hot water in a ceramic kettle, specially made for coffee. Finally, placing a piece of plant in the spout of the kettle to filter the beans, she poured us each a hot cup of coffee. It was excellent. The whole process took about 30 minutes, and it was given to us free, as a gift of hospitality from the restaurant.
An hour away from axum, we stopped in a small town that held the ruins of Yeha. In this town were the ruins of an ancient temple, that was at one point converted and rearranged for the purposes of a chrisitan church. The temple is attributed to the sabeans, a group of people who traveled from the Saudi Arabia peninsula to Ethiopia. The temple thus predated Christianities entrance into Ethiopia. Walking around the temple, I felt like a real archeologist. We were, in our own amateur way, making observations about the temple, what it might have looked like before the Christians adjusted it, and even how it might have been used as a Christian church. The stones had been rearranged at some point in the south eastern corner to create a baptistery. There were also several holes purposively cut into the walls, for some unknown purpose. Inside the church, the floor had tracts cut into it. From this, one might assume that it didn’t have a roof and the inlaid gutters served to transport water outside of the church. The main exit point for this water was a hole in the middle of the south side. This was blocked over by rocks that we had to move in order to get our photo. Walking around the structure, I also noticed that the base of the temple extended out slightly. It was thus sitting on a slight podium base. This is an influence that was carried through to axumite structures. The sabeans had intermixed with the indigenous people there and slowly became absorbed into local culture.
Returning to the other side of the water spout from the temple, we noticed that it was covered by a sheet here. Behind this sheet, within the walls, we noticed melted wax. It would seem that this ancient non-christian is being used for equally obscure purposes today. From the exterior, we also noticed a gargoyle protruding (architecturally, meaning a spout extending from the wall). I traced this to the interior and found the corresponding block. I surmised that there must have been some sort of additional level. One can always guess. We spent a good amount of time examining the structure. I never thought I could have so much fun staring at stones.
Entering into the museum of the monastery, we were shown very well made, but relatively recent drawings in books. We also were shown ancient artifacts that might have been a part of the temple. On one incense altar were inscribed sabean script that tied the temple to them. On this altar was a horseshoe symbol with a circle inside. This represents the moon and Venus, the ancient symbol of the god of the sabeans. This same symbol would later change my life, or rather, the size of my wallet.
We arrived in axum, ready for hot showers and nice beds to wash off the dust from the road. I have probably been covered by more dust on this trip than even the most ancient of grandfather clocks. After cleaning up, we drove around the town, seeing by car the ancient sites of axum. Axum is a city that was very influential in Ethiopia starting from the 6th century. Today it is one of the most important religious sites in Ethiopia. It is, in fact, illegal to even build a mosque there. The town houses, supposedly, the ark of the covenant.
Axum is an ancient city in the northern part of Ethiopia that once had an empire stretching from red sea to the lakes in the south. Visiting the small museum here, I began to appreciate just how ancient ethiopia’s tradition is and how interconnected the ancient world was. We saw coins that were dating back to pre Christian times. Christianity arrive in Ethiopia in the 3rd century. These ancient coins have pictures of the king on both faces. Sometimes the kings head is bordered by pieces of grain. This is to symbolically tie the prosperity of the land to the king. As Christianity became the state religion, one can see how these symbols become newly appropriated, and the cross now replaces the king surrounded by the grain. On the other side of the coin, the king sits in profile, holding the cross scepter. We also saw ancient greek pottery vessels that would likely of held olive oil. The world was much smaller than we might think.
We visited an ancient stylite field. These are giant, monolithic obelisks, used to mark the graves of ancient kings. We later visited the area where they were quarried. It is difficult to imagine how these monstrous stylites were transported almost 15 kms. When the Italians stole the smallest one during their occupation, they cut it into three pieces to carry it to italy. It was only just returned within the past few years.
We also drove on to visit the ancient tombs of Kaleb and Gabral. Father and son were both part of the Christian dynasty. We saw the very sarcophaguses where they and their family would have been buried. It was odd to walk in such an ancient and sacred place. It
In Gondar, we entered into a new era of ethiopia’s history. It was here where the country was almost split apart by the well-intentioned, misguided and arrogant missionary work of the Jesuits. It would be unfair to make such a generalization, as the first Jesuit here was quite a genius and was doing good work. He was followed by a prouder sort, however, whose efforts to sway the king led the country nearly to civil war.
We visited the ancient castles of gondar. At this point, I would not have minded having a guide to explain the history of these dynasties. The people who pose themselves as guides, however, would be much better at fiction writing than history. Their accounts are often simple (due to the language barrier) and false.
More impressive than the castles, was an 18th century church, whose interior was completely covered by icons. It would be wonderful to capture each and every icon. The messages hidden behind these ancient paintings are quite fascinating. For example, there was one icon that was above the entrance to the church on the inside that revealed a very large glorious mary. Surrounding mary were many people falling in prostrate, the king david, ancient priests of Ethiopia, and mohammed. Mohammed led by a demon, arms tied, sitting on a donkey, looking towards mary. We asked the priest the meaning behind it, and he said that ti was from an apparation of mary in Egypt where even the muslims saw her. The church was the perfect example of the function of Ethiopian iconography however. Every wall was covered with icons. Even the ceiling was painted with over 100 faces of cherubs.
We visited the baths built by king…..
While I am sure there is great historical merit to this location, I enjoyed it purely for the scenery. I felt as if I could be in central park during the autumn. The leaves were dry and falling in the empty pool. As the wind blew, the leaves rustled across the ground. Not having seen much by way of seasons since I have arrived here, dry dead leaves were a welcome sight.
On our way to Bahidar, we got in a car accident. I already spoke of it, so I will spare the details of that, but I will recount an experience I just had over the weekend. I was driving with phillip again and a group of sisters down to Sodo to see an ordination. We were overtaken by another priest from the region. 10 minutes later, we arrived on the scene of an accident. We saw a group of some 50 road workers on the road and a truck that had fallen into a ditch that dropped some 20-30 feet. Upon arriving on the scene, one of the sisters realized that it was in fact the priests car. More surreal, however, everyone around was wailing. A man had walked in front of the car and had been hit. Seeing another accident, which included life threatening injuries, I began to realize just how lucky I was so many weeks back. It was also strange to compare the way that we mourn. I was so struck by this wailing, I felt as if I had stepped into another world.
Arriving in bahidar after the accident, we found the first hotel we could. The next day, we searched for cheaper venues. We stayed at the Ghion hotel, located right on the lake. We were in bird paradise. There were beautiful giant trees with purples flowers filling the courtyard. Inhabiting these trees were black horn billed tucans.
I finished up my visit of the lake with a tour of 3 monasteries located on islands on the lake. While we had a completely inadequate “guide”, my experience with emmanuel served me well in understanding the church structures and icons. I happily shared this knowledge with my comrades on the boat.
Well, I’ve run out of time to recount more as I now need to catch a taxi to the distant south. Hot weather and nomadic tribes, here I come.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Accident on the road
Accident on the road
Our journey north has become somewhat interrupted, as today (Friday), we have gotten in a car accident. I was sitting silently, head covered by my sweater, headphones on, when I heard our horn blaring and felt the car swerving. I opened my enclosure, only to see an old man dashing in front of our car, and our vehicle swerving to the right. We then hit the side of the road, which encountered a ditch and turned. The car rolled itself into the ditch. Fortunately none of us were physically damaged, but Denny, Phillips father was quite emotionally shocked. I acted with cold blood, exiting the car, and securing our items.
We were fortunate, in that quickly behind us arrived medicin sans frontiers. The woman in the car was actually a water specialist (a fact only learned later), but at the time, it was just comforting to know we were with people missioned to help.
I feel a little sore on my side, but this is a great excuse to see if there are any good masseuse. It might be beyond their skill, however, for I think I have bruised my ribs.
It was the strangest of events, hearing the recounting of the whole incident by the rest of the car. This man was on the side of the road. Emmanuel blared the horn, but this old man began to walk out. Emmanuel blared again and started to swerve. The old man ran back to where he came from, and then back across. What does one do? We did our best, and avoided him, but found ourselves in a ditch. It seems that there have been many accidents within 200 meters of this accident site.
Remembering back, all I can recall from the beginning, was this fleeting image of an old man with a walking stick, blanket flailing, flying like a madman away from our vehicle. He was not there when we finally exited the car through the broken windows. We were lucky. I am now relaxing in front of beautiful copper tone lake tarna, infamous source of the blue nile.
Our journey north has become somewhat interrupted, as today (Friday), we have gotten in a car accident. I was sitting silently, head covered by my sweater, headphones on, when I heard our horn blaring and felt the car swerving. I opened my enclosure, only to see an old man dashing in front of our car, and our vehicle swerving to the right. We then hit the side of the road, which encountered a ditch and turned. The car rolled itself into the ditch. Fortunately none of us were physically damaged, but Denny, Phillips father was quite emotionally shocked. I acted with cold blood, exiting the car, and securing our items.
We were fortunate, in that quickly behind us arrived medicin sans frontiers. The woman in the car was actually a water specialist (a fact only learned later), but at the time, it was just comforting to know we were with people missioned to help.
I feel a little sore on my side, but this is a great excuse to see if there are any good masseuse. It might be beyond their skill, however, for I think I have bruised my ribs.
It was the strangest of events, hearing the recounting of the whole incident by the rest of the car. This man was on the side of the road. Emmanuel blared the horn, but this old man began to walk out. Emmanuel blared again and started to swerve. The old man ran back to where he came from, and then back across. What does one do? We did our best, and avoided him, but found ourselves in a ditch. It seems that there have been many accidents within 200 meters of this accident site.
Remembering back, all I can recall from the beginning, was this fleeting image of an old man with a walking stick, blanket flailing, flying like a madman away from our vehicle. He was not there when we finally exited the car through the broken windows. We were lucky. I am now relaxing in front of beautiful copper tone lake tarna, infamous source of the blue nile.
The more that came!
The more that came!
Our third day in wukro, we headed for abreha Astebah. This is one of the great rock hewn churches. It’s plan is mimicked by many others in the region. The church was covered with beautiful paintings on the inside.
Abreha Astebah
Emmanuel, our expert guide arrived by plane on our third day in wukoro.
Driving back to wukro, we stopped at the ruins of a nameless axum church from the 4th century. As we walked around this basic frame, I began to get a taste for what the rest of this journey would be like. With just the outline of the walls remaining, he deciphered for me the probable structure of the building and its liturgical functioning. This has all been very reminiscent of an earlier journey I took through southern france examining the architecture of monasteries. There is an old phrase in the church that says lex orandi, lex credendi, which loosely means, as the church prays, the church believes. This maxim is preserved much more in practice in the eastern churches.
Miriam behera
It took us a long time to find the route to Miriam Behera. We asked a number of people, carried 3 separate guides in our car for short periods of time, turned around twice and forded a dry river.
This church is seldom visited by tourists, so the first thing they asked for was a letter of recommendation. We, of course, didn’t have one, so emmanuel took the lead in negotiating for us. When it was all said and done, we were given entrance to the church. We couldn’t have had better luck, however. The church was being renovated, so the tabot (the representation of the ark of the covenant) was out of the church and we were able to visit the entire church. This church, also hewn into the rock, was less exact than the other churches. Emmanuel dated it earliest at the 16th century, which, he explained, is practially just yesterday. There were excellent paintings covering the columns. In the process of “restoration”, a term I would use very loosely throughout Ethiopia, they had whitewashed the walls, and in the process, spotted and damaged these ancient paintings. There is, of course, a completle different frame of mind for those restoring the churches. These are living sites of worship, and so the concern for preserving the historical is not as present. Furthermore, there are certain ideas of what a church “should” look like and how it “should” be restoried. This often involves a lot of concrete and white paint. It could even involve complete demolition and the builidnig of something complelty new, which seemed all to common during the reign of Haille Selassie.
Even the altar, a product of the 17th or 18th century, was not spared. There was a section cut directly through the middle to create a more common altar, and in the process baby jesus was hewn right out of mary’s hands.
We spent over 3 hours in the church, measuring, photographing and exploring. More exciting for me was to see the interest that the Ethiopians there took in our little project as we raced around the room. Emmanuel and Phillips passion seemed contagious, as members of the church, joined us in trying to decipher ancient Ge’ez and search for the remenants of paintings no longer evident.
Degum
Finished with Miriam Behera, we traveled to a church much closer to wukro and much more familiar to emmanuel and phillip. Indeed, the priest greeted them as an old friend when he saw them. Degum is an ancient church of the 11th or 12 century. We were unable to step into the former part of the church, as the altar has been moved from its original place to what would have been the center of the nave. The priest was willing, however, to pull the curtain aside. Emmanuel at that point, clarified the liturgical function of the church.
Mikael barka
On our 4th day in Wukro, a Sunday, we took a chance and visited some more rock hewn churches. Typically a church is closed for an entire day after mass is held there. The tigray region is a particularly conservative region when it comes to such matters in religion so we feared the worst. To our fortune, however, the churches were open.
We were greeted at the first church by the guardian monk of mikael barka. He was unmoving in showing us what lies behind the curtains of the church, but he was otherwise a pleasant man. We once again played detective, as we found traces and remnants of more fuller paintings on the walls. I even did a split manouever between two pillars to catch a better picture of the potential dormition of mary.
Wukro christos
Wulkro christos was the last church we visited in wukro. When it’s floor was being restored, emmanuel and phillip flew up here and spent time examining all the different holes in the floor. These represented where things were changed or moved over the past 500 years. The church had, unfortunatley, suffered from a fire at some earlier point by a muslim warlord, but the sandstone carvings in wall and ceiling were exquisite. This church was by far the most vast of all the churches we visited.
Coming soon: On the road to axum, stylites and tombs, 16th century gonder, mishap on the road, and life in bird paradise.
Our third day in wukro, we headed for abreha Astebah. This is one of the great rock hewn churches. It’s plan is mimicked by many others in the region. The church was covered with beautiful paintings on the inside.
Abreha Astebah
Emmanuel, our expert guide arrived by plane on our third day in wukoro.
Driving back to wukro, we stopped at the ruins of a nameless axum church from the 4th century. As we walked around this basic frame, I began to get a taste for what the rest of this journey would be like. With just the outline of the walls remaining, he deciphered for me the probable structure of the building and its liturgical functioning. This has all been very reminiscent of an earlier journey I took through southern france examining the architecture of monasteries. There is an old phrase in the church that says lex orandi, lex credendi, which loosely means, as the church prays, the church believes. This maxim is preserved much more in practice in the eastern churches.
Miriam behera
It took us a long time to find the route to Miriam Behera. We asked a number of people, carried 3 separate guides in our car for short periods of time, turned around twice and forded a dry river.
This church is seldom visited by tourists, so the first thing they asked for was a letter of recommendation. We, of course, didn’t have one, so emmanuel took the lead in negotiating for us. When it was all said and done, we were given entrance to the church. We couldn’t have had better luck, however. The church was being renovated, so the tabot (the representation of the ark of the covenant) was out of the church and we were able to visit the entire church. This church, also hewn into the rock, was less exact than the other churches. Emmanuel dated it earliest at the 16th century, which, he explained, is practially just yesterday. There were excellent paintings covering the columns. In the process of “restoration”, a term I would use very loosely throughout Ethiopia, they had whitewashed the walls, and in the process, spotted and damaged these ancient paintings. There is, of course, a completle different frame of mind for those restoring the churches. These are living sites of worship, and so the concern for preserving the historical is not as present. Furthermore, there are certain ideas of what a church “should” look like and how it “should” be restoried. This often involves a lot of concrete and white paint. It could even involve complete demolition and the builidnig of something complelty new, which seemed all to common during the reign of Haille Selassie.
Even the altar, a product of the 17th or 18th century, was not spared. There was a section cut directly through the middle to create a more common altar, and in the process baby jesus was hewn right out of mary’s hands.
We spent over 3 hours in the church, measuring, photographing and exploring. More exciting for me was to see the interest that the Ethiopians there took in our little project as we raced around the room. Emmanuel and Phillips passion seemed contagious, as members of the church, joined us in trying to decipher ancient Ge’ez and search for the remenants of paintings no longer evident.
Degum
Finished with Miriam Behera, we traveled to a church much closer to wukro and much more familiar to emmanuel and phillip. Indeed, the priest greeted them as an old friend when he saw them. Degum is an ancient church of the 11th or 12 century. We were unable to step into the former part of the church, as the altar has been moved from its original place to what would have been the center of the nave. The priest was willing, however, to pull the curtain aside. Emmanuel at that point, clarified the liturgical function of the church.
Mikael barka
On our 4th day in Wukro, a Sunday, we took a chance and visited some more rock hewn churches. Typically a church is closed for an entire day after mass is held there. The tigray region is a particularly conservative region when it comes to such matters in religion so we feared the worst. To our fortune, however, the churches were open.
We were greeted at the first church by the guardian monk of mikael barka. He was unmoving in showing us what lies behind the curtains of the church, but he was otherwise a pleasant man. We once again played detective, as we found traces and remnants of more fuller paintings on the walls. I even did a split manouever between two pillars to catch a better picture of the potential dormition of mary.
Wukro christos
Wulkro christos was the last church we visited in wukro. When it’s floor was being restored, emmanuel and phillip flew up here and spent time examining all the different holes in the floor. These represented where things were changed or moved over the past 500 years. The church had, unfortunatley, suffered from a fire at some earlier point by a muslim warlord, but the sandstone carvings in wall and ceiling were exquisite. This church was by far the most vast of all the churches we visited.
Coming soon: On the road to axum, stylites and tombs, 16th century gonder, mishap on the road, and life in bird paradise.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Trip north- blog
Day 2- Wokoro
I have spent the past two days driving north with pere phillipe, a French spiritan, and his parents. It was quite an amazing drive. On day 1 we ascended by car up to 3000 meters. There we stopped to have a look at the view. First we were approached by a man who wanted to sell us wool caps with baboon hair pointing out the top.
Hold out and let me explain that last part.
We walked on and all the sudden I noticed some monkeys climbing the ledge. They appeared quite small. Then, at the ledge, we were overtaken by quite an amazing site. It was a baboon with flong volumiounous hair that was about 4 inches long. He would be the Fabio of baboons. As he hurtled up the cliff face, the hair bounced gracefully up and down. The beauty of his hair and the ferocity of his stature were quite striking comparisons.
I later bought one of these hats for 30 bir. I thougjt I was finished, but then the man offered to trade me a hat for one of my t shirts. I happly obliged.
The Italians occupied Ethiopia for about six years during mussoloni’s reign. While they did not have the same cultural effect as colonizers in other countries, they certainly had their own influence on the transport infrastructure. Across the country the transport still heavily relies on the bridges that were built by the Italians. Leaving the baboons, we quickly crossed through the Mussolini tunnel, which still bears his name at the north end of it.
Crossing the mountains, I felt as if I was transported into a different world. All the sudden we were surrounded by green. It seems that moisture rises from the red sea and these clouds are halted by the mountains. It is truly stunning. Across the landscape I saw green fields spotting the terrain.
As we headed north, the thatch huts were slowly replaced by stone houses. We are now in Wukoro, staying at the white fathers residence. They are running an agriculture school as well as a secondary and primary school. Fr. Angelo, a basque Spanish priest, was explaining to me how they also care for over 1000 orphans. Most of these children lost their parents during the Eritrean/Ethiopian war during the 90’s.
The landscape here is quite barren. Stones seem to scatter the land. Amongst the mountains in this region are very many rock hewn churches, some of which that date back to the 10th century. The three that we have seen so far have truly been spectacular.
Day 7 Gonder
I have certainly been less faithful to the blog than I intended. Waking up early, spending a whole day on my feet hiking in the sun to reach ancient churches and having large spicy meals leaves one a little tired at the end of the day. Even if I stay up reading, I have a tough time sitting down to write.
Here are some random observations I have had over the past week.
It seems whenever we reach the highland countries, it all the sudden becomes cool to have a cane. Young men with large blankets wrapped around their chests and otherwise normal, if somewhat dirty clothes, sport the cane like some people in the US sport cell phones. Really more
I have added one more skill to my skills list, which is I have learned how to shave with a pocket knife. I didn’t bring a razor of any sort with me on this trip, as I now have a beard and can usually go a few days on the neck without a problem. Traveling with a car full of French people, encouraged me, however, to give shaving a go to look just a hair more presentable. In the absence of an actual razor, I pulled out my mini leatherman and shaved my neck.
While I can entertain children for a short time with hand play antics, animal faces and animal sounds, they will still get ask me for money or pens and still get angry when I refuse. They sometimes even throw rocks.
I do not want to generalize any group of people, but I really am curious what has made Ethiopia so different in terms of begging than every other country I have gone to. It seems everywhere we go, we are asked for a pen or money. Even as we drive along, people stick out their hands asking for money. At least for the personal encounters, perhaps I am merely more senisitive to it because of the language barrier. In other countries, I can easily break the “tension” of such moments because of my facility with the language. Traveling to the north, we traveled out of amharinga speaking land and into tigrinia speaking land. I couldn’t even use the few Amharic words I had learned to defer the regular seeker of bills and coins. Also, it was pointed out to me by a Zambian white father priest, that the life is indeed much harsher here than many other areas in east Africa. The land is rugged and dry. The fields are only harvested for wheat in the north at least, once a year. In Uganda there seemed to be such an abundance of food that it was hard to believe that people had problems
Anyways, here is an account of the trip thus far.
Churches
On Thursday we visited three churches. The first was mikael imba, which means Michael on the hill. It was located on the top of a little hill, with steep walls. A mushroom of sorts. We were told earlier by a young boy that the priest was not there and no one had the keys. Sensing better, we drove on. We were met by an old nun. No priest was there, but she had the keys. Walking around as she tried to reach the priest, we walked to a place where the ancient church used to be. It was circular and freestanding. Having completed mikael imba, they tore this structure down. We also saw the cistern where the water was collected.
Deny tried to take a phote of some flowers, but phillip called him back, telling him it was forbidden to go behind the eastern corner of the church.
We entered the church after finally negotiating the price down to 20 bir. Everisto, a white father priest from zambia did the negotioationg for us. The exterior of the church itself is quite impressive. It is a 3/4ths church, meaning that 3/4ths of the church is exposed. The other part is carved into, but not out of the mountain.
The exterior door had been recently repainted and an arch from an interior chancellory that had fallen was added to the exterior door. All the same, the wood carving on the door was very finely carved. It formed intricate geometric crosses.
The narthex immediately displayed the lined sandstone that makes up this mountain.
Inside, it was hard to believe that the entire immense structure had been hewn out of the rock.
There were no paintings on the interior walls.
Phillip pointed out to us the structure of the church. This church in particular had 3 tabots, so both the sacrestums had altars and a holy of holies. Wherever there is a tabot there is a holy of holies. The tabot is a replica of the ark of the covenant.
I was quite impressed right from the start with this rock hewn church. It was hard to imagine that all of this had been carved directly out of the rock
Mikael debra salam
The second church we visited was mikael debra salam. It took us a good amount of time to get to the location, and upon nearing the mountain, we found the peasants in the area had blocked the road. Apparently they were unhappy that the government cut through their fields. We were quickly surrounded by 8 children who wanted to accompany us up the mountain. This is a ploy for them to get money. If they carry your bag, hold your hand or even just walk quietly beside you, they will later ask for money for the service rendered. We also heard from the priest at the top of the mountain that they sometimes steal things from visiting tourists. More on the urchins later….
Finally arriving at the upper side of the mountain, we entered the church grounds. I could still see the vestiges of ancient hermit structures carved into the mountain above the church.
We negotiated the price to 20 bir on the condition that we could actually enter the church. There had been a cement structure built around the church to protect it from the elements. The church is located next to a holy spring of some sorts.
After fully examining the exterior paintings, we made our way to enter the church. At this point, we, and the accompanying priest, were impeded by one of the young monks (14 yrs old). He was a terribly suspicious fellow, and was afraid to even allow us to put our feet into the church. There was a curtain covering the main part of the church, and he was even unwilling to part that for us. We finally were able to get the curtain open, but we had to view everything from the footstep of the church.
There are a few ways that an Ethiopian church is set up. They can be rectangular, cross shaped and round churches. The round churches are a development of the 16th century and the rectangular and cross shape date back to axumite times (6th century). There are often two entrances for each gender. The churches are always set up east to west, with the sanctuary always being in the east. This is to signify Christ as the coming son. This is a model that used to be followed in the latin west and is often exhibited in pre-reformation churches. Ethiopian church services often start at 6am on Sundays. Why? Once again, they are practicing a symbolism that has long been in the church, Christ as the sun. there Eucharistic celebrations are thus done in parallel with the sunrise.
Within the most eastern part of the church is the sacristy and the holy of holies. The holy of holies is where the most important consecrations are done, where the altar is located and on this altar, where the tabot is at. The tabot is a representation of the ark of the covenant, or more specifically, the tablets of the ark of the covenant. This is a very revered item, unique to the Ethiopian tradition. The ark and the entire history behind it plays a strong role in the identity of semitic speaking Ethiopians. The belief is that the queen of sheba, who was from the region of axum, visited king Solomon and bore him a son named menelik. When menelik was old enough, he went to visit his farther in Jerusalem. The elders in Jerusalem had asked Solomon to send menelik away, for they feared the favor he bestowed on him, so he agreed, but on the condition that they sent their eldest sons with him. The son of the chief priest had a dream that he should take with him the ark, and so he did, unbeknownst to menelik or Solomon. When menelik found out, he said that it must be god’s will if they were able to take it away as such. Ethiopians still claim today to have the ark of the covenant in axum, but only one monk is allowed to see it. There has been a long standing tradition of the solomonic dynasty and even Emperor haile selassie claimed that solomonic blood ran through his own.
Regardless of the verity of the story, it plays a prominent role in ttraditional Ethiopian identity and liturgy. The tabot is venerated much like the tabernacle is within the latin catholic church. When the tabot is in a church, there is no possibility for an unordained to approach and enter the holy of holies. This in part put fear into the young monk who would not allow us to enter.
On our route down, Phillips mother, christain, twisted her ankle.
All the way down, surrounded by young children, I taught them the English equivalents to the natural world around us.
When we returned to the car, now surrounded with 20 children, they all started asking for money. Even the young monk who refused us entry into the church expected 2 bir for himself. I had joked with them telling them that I was the school teacher here, so they should be giving me bir for school feees. The joke was not well received. While Christian did give a pen and a bir to the young man who helped her up and down the mountain, we were not about to pay the demanding lot for merley the grace of their presence. As we drove away, some of the kids started throwing stones. We nearly had a riot on our hands, if you can believe it. It was not pretty, and certainly not the best way to visit churches.
Our third church that day was unfortunately locked. We had climbed in the rain up a mountain to get there. With the help of a local farmer, we opened some of the windows to view in the church. I was not about to break into a church, but the thought did cross my mind. This church would have been one of the earliest rock hewns, dating to the 10th century BC.
More to come…
Day 2- Wokoro
I have spent the past two days driving north with pere phillipe, a French spiritan, and his parents. It was quite an amazing drive. On day 1 we ascended by car up to 3000 meters. There we stopped to have a look at the view. First we were approached by a man who wanted to sell us wool caps with baboon hair pointing out the top.
Hold out and let me explain that last part.
We walked on and all the sudden I noticed some monkeys climbing the ledge. They appeared quite small. Then, at the ledge, we were overtaken by quite an amazing site. It was a baboon with flong volumiounous hair that was about 4 inches long. He would be the Fabio of baboons. As he hurtled up the cliff face, the hair bounced gracefully up and down. The beauty of his hair and the ferocity of his stature were quite striking comparisons.
I later bought one of these hats for 30 bir. I thougjt I was finished, but then the man offered to trade me a hat for one of my t shirts. I happly obliged.
The Italians occupied Ethiopia for about six years during mussoloni’s reign. While they did not have the same cultural effect as colonizers in other countries, they certainly had their own influence on the transport infrastructure. Across the country the transport still heavily relies on the bridges that were built by the Italians. Leaving the baboons, we quickly crossed through the Mussolini tunnel, which still bears his name at the north end of it.
Crossing the mountains, I felt as if I was transported into a different world. All the sudden we were surrounded by green. It seems that moisture rises from the red sea and these clouds are halted by the mountains. It is truly stunning. Across the landscape I saw green fields spotting the terrain.
As we headed north, the thatch huts were slowly replaced by stone houses. We are now in Wukoro, staying at the white fathers residence. They are running an agriculture school as well as a secondary and primary school. Fr. Angelo, a basque Spanish priest, was explaining to me how they also care for over 1000 orphans. Most of these children lost their parents during the Eritrean/Ethiopian war during the 90’s.
The landscape here is quite barren. Stones seem to scatter the land. Amongst the mountains in this region are very many rock hewn churches, some of which that date back to the 10th century. The three that we have seen so far have truly been spectacular.
Day 7 Gonder
I have certainly been less faithful to the blog than I intended. Waking up early, spending a whole day on my feet hiking in the sun to reach ancient churches and having large spicy meals leaves one a little tired at the end of the day. Even if I stay up reading, I have a tough time sitting down to write.
Here are some random observations I have had over the past week.
It seems whenever we reach the highland countries, it all the sudden becomes cool to have a cane. Young men with large blankets wrapped around their chests and otherwise normal, if somewhat dirty clothes, sport the cane like some people in the US sport cell phones. Really more
I have added one more skill to my skills list, which is I have learned how to shave with a pocket knife. I didn’t bring a razor of any sort with me on this trip, as I now have a beard and can usually go a few days on the neck without a problem. Traveling with a car full of French people, encouraged me, however, to give shaving a go to look just a hair more presentable. In the absence of an actual razor, I pulled out my mini leatherman and shaved my neck.
While I can entertain children for a short time with hand play antics, animal faces and animal sounds, they will still get ask me for money or pens and still get angry when I refuse. They sometimes even throw rocks.
I do not want to generalize any group of people, but I really am curious what has made Ethiopia so different in terms of begging than every other country I have gone to. It seems everywhere we go, we are asked for a pen or money. Even as we drive along, people stick out their hands asking for money. At least for the personal encounters, perhaps I am merely more senisitive to it because of the language barrier. In other countries, I can easily break the “tension” of such moments because of my facility with the language. Traveling to the north, we traveled out of amharinga speaking land and into tigrinia speaking land. I couldn’t even use the few Amharic words I had learned to defer the regular seeker of bills and coins. Also, it was pointed out to me by a Zambian white father priest, that the life is indeed much harsher here than many other areas in east Africa. The land is rugged and dry. The fields are only harvested for wheat in the north at least, once a year. In Uganda there seemed to be such an abundance of food that it was hard to believe that people had problems
Anyways, here is an account of the trip thus far.
Churches
On Thursday we visited three churches. The first was mikael imba, which means Michael on the hill. It was located on the top of a little hill, with steep walls. A mushroom of sorts. We were told earlier by a young boy that the priest was not there and no one had the keys. Sensing better, we drove on. We were met by an old nun. No priest was there, but she had the keys. Walking around as she tried to reach the priest, we walked to a place where the ancient church used to be. It was circular and freestanding. Having completed mikael imba, they tore this structure down. We also saw the cistern where the water was collected.
Deny tried to take a phote of some flowers, but phillip called him back, telling him it was forbidden to go behind the eastern corner of the church.
We entered the church after finally negotiating the price down to 20 bir. Everisto, a white father priest from zambia did the negotioationg for us. The exterior of the church itself is quite impressive. It is a 3/4ths church, meaning that 3/4ths of the church is exposed. The other part is carved into, but not out of the mountain.
The exterior door had been recently repainted and an arch from an interior chancellory that had fallen was added to the exterior door. All the same, the wood carving on the door was very finely carved. It formed intricate geometric crosses.
The narthex immediately displayed the lined sandstone that makes up this mountain.
Inside, it was hard to believe that the entire immense structure had been hewn out of the rock.
There were no paintings on the interior walls.
Phillip pointed out to us the structure of the church. This church in particular had 3 tabots, so both the sacrestums had altars and a holy of holies. Wherever there is a tabot there is a holy of holies. The tabot is a replica of the ark of the covenant.
I was quite impressed right from the start with this rock hewn church. It was hard to imagine that all of this had been carved directly out of the rock
Mikael debra salam
The second church we visited was mikael debra salam. It took us a good amount of time to get to the location, and upon nearing the mountain, we found the peasants in the area had blocked the road. Apparently they were unhappy that the government cut through their fields. We were quickly surrounded by 8 children who wanted to accompany us up the mountain. This is a ploy for them to get money. If they carry your bag, hold your hand or even just walk quietly beside you, they will later ask for money for the service rendered. We also heard from the priest at the top of the mountain that they sometimes steal things from visiting tourists. More on the urchins later….
Finally arriving at the upper side of the mountain, we entered the church grounds. I could still see the vestiges of ancient hermit structures carved into the mountain above the church.
We negotiated the price to 20 bir on the condition that we could actually enter the church. There had been a cement structure built around the church to protect it from the elements. The church is located next to a holy spring of some sorts.
After fully examining the exterior paintings, we made our way to enter the church. At this point, we, and the accompanying priest, were impeded by one of the young monks (14 yrs old). He was a terribly suspicious fellow, and was afraid to even allow us to put our feet into the church. There was a curtain covering the main part of the church, and he was even unwilling to part that for us. We finally were able to get the curtain open, but we had to view everything from the footstep of the church.
There are a few ways that an Ethiopian church is set up. They can be rectangular, cross shaped and round churches. The round churches are a development of the 16th century and the rectangular and cross shape date back to axumite times (6th century). There are often two entrances for each gender. The churches are always set up east to west, with the sanctuary always being in the east. This is to signify Christ as the coming son. This is a model that used to be followed in the latin west and is often exhibited in pre-reformation churches. Ethiopian church services often start at 6am on Sundays. Why? Once again, they are practicing a symbolism that has long been in the church, Christ as the sun. there Eucharistic celebrations are thus done in parallel with the sunrise.
Within the most eastern part of the church is the sacristy and the holy of holies. The holy of holies is where the most important consecrations are done, where the altar is located and on this altar, where the tabot is at. The tabot is a representation of the ark of the covenant, or more specifically, the tablets of the ark of the covenant. This is a very revered item, unique to the Ethiopian tradition. The ark and the entire history behind it plays a strong role in the identity of semitic speaking Ethiopians. The belief is that the queen of sheba, who was from the region of axum, visited king Solomon and bore him a son named menelik. When menelik was old enough, he went to visit his farther in Jerusalem. The elders in Jerusalem had asked Solomon to send menelik away, for they feared the favor he bestowed on him, so he agreed, but on the condition that they sent their eldest sons with him. The son of the chief priest had a dream that he should take with him the ark, and so he did, unbeknownst to menelik or Solomon. When menelik found out, he said that it must be god’s will if they were able to take it away as such. Ethiopians still claim today to have the ark of the covenant in axum, but only one monk is allowed to see it. There has been a long standing tradition of the solomonic dynasty and even Emperor haile selassie claimed that solomonic blood ran through his own.
Regardless of the verity of the story, it plays a prominent role in ttraditional Ethiopian identity and liturgy. The tabot is venerated much like the tabernacle is within the latin catholic church. When the tabot is in a church, there is no possibility for an unordained to approach and enter the holy of holies. This in part put fear into the young monk who would not allow us to enter.
On our route down, Phillips mother, christain, twisted her ankle.
All the way down, surrounded by young children, I taught them the English equivalents to the natural world around us.
When we returned to the car, now surrounded with 20 children, they all started asking for money. Even the young monk who refused us entry into the church expected 2 bir for himself. I had joked with them telling them that I was the school teacher here, so they should be giving me bir for school feees. The joke was not well received. While Christian did give a pen and a bir to the young man who helped her up and down the mountain, we were not about to pay the demanding lot for merley the grace of their presence. As we drove away, some of the kids started throwing stones. We nearly had a riot on our hands, if you can believe it. It was not pretty, and certainly not the best way to visit churches.
Our third church that day was unfortunately locked. We had climbed in the rain up a mountain to get there. With the help of a local farmer, we opened some of the windows to view in the church. I was not about to break into a church, but the thought did cross my mind. This church would have been one of the earliest rock hewns, dating to the 10th century BC.
More to come…
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Ethiopia: Week 1
Week 1 in Ethiopia.
It is hard to believe that I have now spent 1 week in Ethiopia. I arrived last Friday. By Monday I was getting some headway with the city, buying language books, visiting the Jesuit novices, and making my way to CNEWA, the Catholic Near East Welfare Association, where I am volunteering part time. On Monday evening, I met abuna meussié, an Ethiopian capuchin bishop, who has a great interest in inculturation. He told me about a symposium that is just touching on this topic as it addresses the role of religious life within the Ethiopian context. For this past week, I have been completely absorbed by this symposium, learning all about Ethiopian spirituality, monastic life and the particular situation of catholic religious here and a way forward. It was fascinating. I feel like I have been able to condense one month of experiences into one week. We finished the week with a pilgrimage to the birthplace of a famous Ethiopian monk. This monk, Abuna, Takla Haymanot, stood for 22 years praying in one spot. After that time, somehow one of his legs fell off. So he stood 7 more years on one leg praying. Then he died. This is the legend concerning this priest. I really feel as if I was able to start off my research here on the right foot, somewhat like Abuna takla…. Sorry, terrible joke. My experience so far has really enlightened me to the situation that is going on right here on the ground, both in the Catholic Church and in the orthodox church.
For the catholic church, Ethiopia is still very much a missionary church. This is, in part, the dilemma of the catholic church here. The catholic church fully recognizes the Ethiopian orthodox church. The majority of the converts, however, are coming from the orthodox church. The whole country, according to the Vatican, is supposed to be operating under the Ethiopian rite. Only 3 diocese conform to this. Certainly if one measures the faith by numbers, it would appear that it is best for the church to celebrate mass in the Latin rite. In becoming Catholic, they, as one priest critically put it, become half Italian. This serves to alienate those who become Catholics from Ethiopians, severing them from their own Christian tradition, their own culture.
One older nun recounted to me what it felt like after she had converted some 40 years ago. The catholic missionaries had not regarded her as a real Christian when she was an orthodox and the orthodox, upon finding out that she was a catholic, also regarded her as a traitor. She felt called, however, to live the religious life of the catholic church, with its special charism of working with the poor. She has since left the Franciscan sisters and started her own congregation, living amongst the poor, fighting abject poverty. She told me about how at this point in her life, she is rediscovering her religious identity within the context of being both a catholic and an Ethiopian.
Saturday
Today I volunteered at the Mother Theresa House in Siddest Kilo. I was invited the night before by two med students from George Washington university. Oddly enough, they are currently in school with Andrew Goldberg, who I had wrestled with back in high school. I had already planned on making my way out there to visit the Jesuits, but I didn’t have any intention of actually dealing with patients. It was, however, one of the opportunities I have been anticipating.
Some weeks ago, after church, a woman sat on the steps, with her swollen foot sitting out on the steps. The wound was about the size of a pancake and the muscles was exposed. There were flies on it. I had a hard time looking at it. I had a hard time even standing near her as my roommate and I waited for the priest to finish up confessions so that he could drive her to the hospital. My stomach retreated to my feet and I, squeamishly, stood at watch, a safe distance away, for the priest.
Today, I confronted just as many terrible wounds, but this time with nothing but compassion and concern. I cleaned wounds with high powered sprays from syringes. I dabbed bleeding abrasions with gauze, rubbing on antibiotic creams. I dressed wounds with bandages. Not once did my stomach turn, not once did I turn in discomfort. I cannot explain how I reacted so differently to these two situations. Perhaps, it was simply the fact that here, I could do something to be of help. Here, I set aside any emotions or distaste, for there it is of no help, and I just cheerfully trudged forward.
I was so happy to be taken in under the wing of these med students and actually taught a practical skill. I have continually expressed a desire throughout this trip to take a course in basic first aid so I could be of assistance in just such a way. I hope to continue to volunteer with the missionaries of charity, helping where I may.
It is hard to believe that I have now spent 1 week in Ethiopia. I arrived last Friday. By Monday I was getting some headway with the city, buying language books, visiting the Jesuit novices, and making my way to CNEWA, the Catholic Near East Welfare Association, where I am volunteering part time. On Monday evening, I met abuna meussié, an Ethiopian capuchin bishop, who has a great interest in inculturation. He told me about a symposium that is just touching on this topic as it addresses the role of religious life within the Ethiopian context. For this past week, I have been completely absorbed by this symposium, learning all about Ethiopian spirituality, monastic life and the particular situation of catholic religious here and a way forward. It was fascinating. I feel like I have been able to condense one month of experiences into one week. We finished the week with a pilgrimage to the birthplace of a famous Ethiopian monk. This monk, Abuna, Takla Haymanot, stood for 22 years praying in one spot. After that time, somehow one of his legs fell off. So he stood 7 more years on one leg praying. Then he died. This is the legend concerning this priest. I really feel as if I was able to start off my research here on the right foot, somewhat like Abuna takla…. Sorry, terrible joke. My experience so far has really enlightened me to the situation that is going on right here on the ground, both in the Catholic Church and in the orthodox church.
For the catholic church, Ethiopia is still very much a missionary church. This is, in part, the dilemma of the catholic church here. The catholic church fully recognizes the Ethiopian orthodox church. The majority of the converts, however, are coming from the orthodox church. The whole country, according to the Vatican, is supposed to be operating under the Ethiopian rite. Only 3 diocese conform to this. Certainly if one measures the faith by numbers, it would appear that it is best for the church to celebrate mass in the Latin rite. In becoming Catholic, they, as one priest critically put it, become half Italian. This serves to alienate those who become Catholics from Ethiopians, severing them from their own Christian tradition, their own culture.
One older nun recounted to me what it felt like after she had converted some 40 years ago. The catholic missionaries had not regarded her as a real Christian when she was an orthodox and the orthodox, upon finding out that she was a catholic, also regarded her as a traitor. She felt called, however, to live the religious life of the catholic church, with its special charism of working with the poor. She has since left the Franciscan sisters and started her own congregation, living amongst the poor, fighting abject poverty. She told me about how at this point in her life, she is rediscovering her religious identity within the context of being both a catholic and an Ethiopian.
Saturday
Today I volunteered at the Mother Theresa House in Siddest Kilo. I was invited the night before by two med students from George Washington university. Oddly enough, they are currently in school with Andrew Goldberg, who I had wrestled with back in high school. I had already planned on making my way out there to visit the Jesuits, but I didn’t have any intention of actually dealing with patients. It was, however, one of the opportunities I have been anticipating.
Some weeks ago, after church, a woman sat on the steps, with her swollen foot sitting out on the steps. The wound was about the size of a pancake and the muscles was exposed. There were flies on it. I had a hard time looking at it. I had a hard time even standing near her as my roommate and I waited for the priest to finish up confessions so that he could drive her to the hospital. My stomach retreated to my feet and I, squeamishly, stood at watch, a safe distance away, for the priest.
Today, I confronted just as many terrible wounds, but this time with nothing but compassion and concern. I cleaned wounds with high powered sprays from syringes. I dabbed bleeding abrasions with gauze, rubbing on antibiotic creams. I dressed wounds with bandages. Not once did my stomach turn, not once did I turn in discomfort. I cannot explain how I reacted so differently to these two situations. Perhaps, it was simply the fact that here, I could do something to be of help. Here, I set aside any emotions or distaste, for there it is of no help, and I just cheerfully trudged forward.
I was so happy to be taken in under the wing of these med students and actually taught a practical skill. I have continually expressed a desire throughout this trip to take a course in basic first aid so I could be of assistance in just such a way. I hope to continue to volunteer with the missionaries of charity, helping where I may.
Monday, February 05, 2007
Some first impressions of Ethiopia
05/02/06
Some first impressions of Ethiopia
Cold and wet….. I guess it is the little wet season, which certainly didn’t seem so little as the rain came down in torrents for about two hours today. Who knew that besides kili, I would still be wishing I had trucked around my wool socks. I seemed to have lost my hat as well. Perhaps it is still in the pocket of my rental jacket. It seems that I do a good job of simplifying my life on accident by losing things.
Good local wine. It is sweeter than my preferred cab, but is certainly welcome after being mostly dry of wine for the past 5 months.
Excellent food. While it can be spicy, there are enough varieties where hot is not all you are stuck with.
Amharic is very difficult…. It is a semiotic language with 27 different letters and 7 different forms of each letter to make a total of 189 characters.
It’s really cold here.
The capuchins who I live have a decidedly Italian influence. Why do I say this? They eat Italian chocolate cakes for breakfast.
Some first impressions of Ethiopia
Cold and wet….. I guess it is the little wet season, which certainly didn’t seem so little as the rain came down in torrents for about two hours today. Who knew that besides kili, I would still be wishing I had trucked around my wool socks. I seemed to have lost my hat as well. Perhaps it is still in the pocket of my rental jacket. It seems that I do a good job of simplifying my life on accident by losing things.
Good local wine. It is sweeter than my preferred cab, but is certainly welcome after being mostly dry of wine for the past 5 months.
Excellent food. While it can be spicy, there are enough varieties where hot is not all you are stuck with.
Amharic is very difficult…. It is a semiotic language with 27 different letters and 7 different forms of each letter to make a total of 189 characters.
It’s really cold here.
The capuchins who I live have a decidedly Italian influence. Why do I say this? They eat Italian chocolate cakes for breakfast.
Saturday, February 03, 2007
Alive in Ethiopia
Warning: I just caught up on some information gaps, so there are two long posts below. i am alive and safe in ethiopia. here is my new cell# +251912127651
Today I attended my first amheric masss. This was done in the ethopian rite. As a daily mass it lasted for 1 hour.
As the chants rolled high and in a semi-arabic fashion trilled and flipped my soul elated. Having been attending only meagerly Africanized masses over the past 6 months, it was somewhat spectacular to be surrounded by a completely different and historical authentic “African” mass. Granted, the “African” mass of here is completely different than the “African” mass of the countries I have visited. All the same, for me it was tremendous. I felt as if I had stepped into a whole other world.
Is Ethiopia a success of inculturation. I am not sure. While it has its own freedom from the western tradtion, by the same force that makes it unique it is also chained. If there is one thing that I have learned, culture is dynamic and changing. One cannot conceive of inculturation as merely a hanging on to the past. Nor is it an adoption of merely local trends. It is a reflection by people concerning their faith in their context, culturally, socially, economically. This is best confirmed, as Joe Healey’s discussion with me reminded me, in the life of youth in urban culture. The world of IT has broadened this coming generations conception of what is and what should be. Where is the Catholic church in this process. Already defined by its own limitations, does our catholic church impose these boundaries on its practicants. The somewhat vauge ecclesiology of Vatican II leaves certainly a lasting impression that the church is the people of God. How is it that people can be conscientisized into realizing that this indeed is their role. They are the Christian church and they have the ability of self direction.
Talking with a seminarian here, he relayed to me that this desire of the youth is present here in Ethiopia. Unlike so many other African countries, the imposing force of orthopraxy origionates origionally from inside the country and culture itself.
This is happening particularly in the southern part of Ethiopia. He explained to me that the church has directed this desire for dynamic church services into charismatic churches. He also expressed that often these youth still end up leaving the church for protestant sects deeming that the priest and the eucharist are not necessary.
Should these examples lead us to say that a contexualization of the faith for the youth should not happen???
Contextualization is a term that was introduced to me by Joe Healey. While I feel it might be weaker theologically, it doesn’t fall into the same trap of traditional ideas of culture as inculturation does.
Attending this first Ethiopian mass was exciting for me. It was like a breath of fresh air. I can recognize in some sense though, that this renewal from the service is in part due to my position as a foreigner. This service was almost exotic. Would Ethiopians, who themselves are from over 30 different cultural groups, feel the same way? Ultimately, the same questions must continue to be asked here. Inculturation is never a finished project as one interviewee reminded me, but it is always a dynamic process. This is a process necessary for the US, for Europe, for Asia, for every congregation of the world.
So what is my role? Perhaps my own broad experience of this topic can help illuminate the question and the necessity of asking it. It can help provide the theological and social impetus for the discussion. It can help provide a sense for what inculturation is and what it is not.
Obesrvations from the day:
ethiopia is a much different country than any other i've already visited. the gov has a strong grip here. they own the cell phone network and after some strifes in 2005 they banned text messaging.
At the restraunt we went to, they had two different options on the Menu. The fasting food and the non-fasting food. I have entered chritiandom.
To disengage from beggars, you say zarestaing, which is used to say thank you, but literally means, God will give you.
White people here are called Ferenji (almost Ferengi, which would have set historical precedent to the seperation of species in startrek). Ferenji is a derivative of the word French, which of course was used to lable the French people. They couldn’t tell the difference however between French people and anyone else. This is a similar incident to the origins of the Swahili word Mzungu, which is derived from a word that means English speaker.
Écarta means I am sorry.
I also learned there is no way I can really learn Amheric here, since it has a complteley different alphabet.
Weeuhyet- the word for taxi is the same as the word for conversation. It certainly means there is a historical precedent for “matatu theology”
Ethiopians use Explosive k’s and T’s. nothing too important about this linguistic fact, I just think the word explosive T is pretty cool.
Today I attended my first amheric masss. This was done in the ethopian rite. As a daily mass it lasted for 1 hour.
As the chants rolled high and in a semi-arabic fashion trilled and flipped my soul elated. Having been attending only meagerly Africanized masses over the past 6 months, it was somewhat spectacular to be surrounded by a completely different and historical authentic “African” mass. Granted, the “African” mass of here is completely different than the “African” mass of the countries I have visited. All the same, for me it was tremendous. I felt as if I had stepped into a whole other world.
Is Ethiopia a success of inculturation. I am not sure. While it has its own freedom from the western tradtion, by the same force that makes it unique it is also chained. If there is one thing that I have learned, culture is dynamic and changing. One cannot conceive of inculturation as merely a hanging on to the past. Nor is it an adoption of merely local trends. It is a reflection by people concerning their faith in their context, culturally, socially, economically. This is best confirmed, as Joe Healey’s discussion with me reminded me, in the life of youth in urban culture. The world of IT has broadened this coming generations conception of what is and what should be. Where is the Catholic church in this process. Already defined by its own limitations, does our catholic church impose these boundaries on its practicants. The somewhat vauge ecclesiology of Vatican II leaves certainly a lasting impression that the church is the people of God. How is it that people can be conscientisized into realizing that this indeed is their role. They are the Christian church and they have the ability of self direction.
Talking with a seminarian here, he relayed to me that this desire of the youth is present here in Ethiopia. Unlike so many other African countries, the imposing force of orthopraxy origionates origionally from inside the country and culture itself.
This is happening particularly in the southern part of Ethiopia. He explained to me that the church has directed this desire for dynamic church services into charismatic churches. He also expressed that often these youth still end up leaving the church for protestant sects deeming that the priest and the eucharist are not necessary.
Should these examples lead us to say that a contexualization of the faith for the youth should not happen???
Contextualization is a term that was introduced to me by Joe Healey. While I feel it might be weaker theologically, it doesn’t fall into the same trap of traditional ideas of culture as inculturation does.
Attending this first Ethiopian mass was exciting for me. It was like a breath of fresh air. I can recognize in some sense though, that this renewal from the service is in part due to my position as a foreigner. This service was almost exotic. Would Ethiopians, who themselves are from over 30 different cultural groups, feel the same way? Ultimately, the same questions must continue to be asked here. Inculturation is never a finished project as one interviewee reminded me, but it is always a dynamic process. This is a process necessary for the US, for Europe, for Asia, for every congregation of the world.
So what is my role? Perhaps my own broad experience of this topic can help illuminate the question and the necessity of asking it. It can help provide the theological and social impetus for the discussion. It can help provide a sense for what inculturation is and what it is not.
Obesrvations from the day:
ethiopia is a much different country than any other i've already visited. the gov has a strong grip here. they own the cell phone network and after some strifes in 2005 they banned text messaging.
At the restraunt we went to, they had two different options on the Menu. The fasting food and the non-fasting food. I have entered chritiandom.
To disengage from beggars, you say zarestaing, which is used to say thank you, but literally means, God will give you.
White people here are called Ferenji (almost Ferengi, which would have set historical precedent to the seperation of species in startrek). Ferenji is a derivative of the word French, which of course was used to lable the French people. They couldn’t tell the difference however between French people and anyone else. This is a similar incident to the origins of the Swahili word Mzungu, which is derived from a word that means English speaker.
Écarta means I am sorry.
I also learned there is no way I can really learn Amheric here, since it has a complteley different alphabet.
Weeuhyet- the word for taxi is the same as the word for conversation. It certainly means there is a historical precedent for “matatu theology”
Ethiopians use Explosive k’s and T’s. nothing too important about this linguistic fact, I just think the word explosive T is pretty cool.
leading up to departure
Day 1 in ethiopia.
I have now moved countries. Already arriving at the guest house I have gotten a much different feeling that my last location in Dar. In dar, I was living with the Jesuit community. These were wonderful men who were very encouraging and hospitable. We’ll see how Ethiopia treats me.
I feel as if these past few weeks I have inadequately recorded my experiences. I have been living out of a rucksack hanging out with really wonderful people. This started the moment I left Mwanza. From my 18 hour journey to Arusha began the roller coast ride that finally ended here in Addis Abbas. I can’t say that it was terribly uncomfortable moving around from port to port. In part this is because the people I have been with have been so great. Right away in Arusha at the novice house I had a sense of fitting in with both the senior priests and with the novices. Down in morogoro I had a real chance to have fellowship with my former school mate Daniel Hendrickson and his friend Stephanie. I also met a Jesuit there from OR named Bart. Climbing Kili I was once again surrounded by great people.
I made my way from moshi to Dar last week Saturday. The moment I arrived I was filled with a sense of hospitality. Although my typical evangelical Oregonian line about Portland being the brew capital of the world ruffled some feathers with a german Jesuit, I was wholly welcome there. Kizito, the Jesuit guest master who received me at the bus station, is an outrageous Ugandan. Edmund is a mildmannered Tanzanian. Gabriel and Charles were both novices who I met earlier in Arusha. Then there is Fr. Don from from Penn. Fr. Don has longer hair, wears high waters with converse shoes, and would fit right in at Eugene. He was so affirming of me as an Oregonian. Everytime some unexpected circumstance was solved in an unexpected way by me, he said, well of course you would, your and Oregonian. Having been telling so many people how great Oregon is, it was wonderful to meet a man who in fact evangelized me in my Oregonianness!
I also had a wonderful time meeting the Scoobie Doo Gang, the JVI’s. Kate, Billy and Susan make a wonderful and fun community of people.
Zanzibar.
Last week I went to Zanzibar. I was dropped off by Kizito, a Jesuit from Uganda, at around 7 AM. I was to board at 7:30 and be off by 8AM. Waiting in line I got to talking to an Arabic Tanzanian man who was born on Pemba island. I also met a colimbian fellow. In the midst of all this conversation, time passed and the line moved nowhere. It seems there was a problem with the boat. Not knowing what to do, I just waited longer. Optimistic man that I am, I just figured it would be fixed in no time and we would be on our way. African transportation leads one to a different experience however. While walking around, I heard two American accents. I asked these two men where they were from. They said Oregon! Can you believe it. They explained to me that they were only going to Zanzibar for a day and that their driver was going to see if the ferry was working. I asked them what city they were from and they said seaside. My family and I vacation in seaside every year. My mind, which always seeks to make relationships between events reminded me that I had met a Fr. Nicholas in Seaside who is in fact from Tanzania. I told these gentleman about this Tanzanian priest, and they exclaimed to me that Fr. Nick is their driver here! The world is small! Their parish is twinned with Fr. Nick’s parish in the Moshi region and they had raised money to help build a youth center. In 3 months they had raised 50,000 dollars. Michael owns subways up and down the coast, as well as the elephant ear shop in downtown Seaside. Dave owns a holiday inn express in Seaside.
It turns out that the ferry wouldn’t be running, so we refunded our tickets and started looking into other boat means, when Michael and Dave were approached by a fellow trying to get us to take a plane. Having had enough experience of Africa, we were a little suspicious, but upon looking into it, the company seemed legitimate, so we picked up our feet and left for the airport.
I spent the next few hours with these three gentlemen exploring the food and architecture of Stone town.
That night I checked into the karibu inn and was lucky enough to get a cheap dormitory all to myself. I hit up the town and found a regular “impromtu” fish market that gets set up every night. You select your fish and they fry it up for you. I had lobster, king fish, squid, and octopus. I also met another Oregonian from Eugene!
A Danish fellow (Skull!) came and sat next to me and after chatting for sometime, we headed to a local bar with a finnish girl. You always get an odd assortement at Zanzibar bars. The island is 99% muslim, so any local in the bar is bound to be one of those who “departs from the norm”. One such fellow came up to me, shook my hand, and said Superpower. I misunderstood and thought that he had somehow traced my nationality and sputteringly tried to defuse a potentially tense situation. It turns out, however, that his name is, in fact, Alisparrow superpower. He is a nutty man, short in stature and Rastafarian in his heart. He no longer has the rastafari hair as he had a colony of bugs in it. There I came across a half breed Canadian/Oregonian. Somehow in 1 day I ran into more Oregonians than I have seen in my whole trip. What an experience going to a tourist spot!
At 8 am I grabbed a hotel taxi to cross the island and hit up the beach. It might be easy to say that one doesn’t need to go to the beach, as there are plenty of those in the US, but that person would have a hard time turning away from the white sand and pristine Indian ocean. Wow. It was gorgeous. With limited time, I just decided to get off at the first beach I came across, which just so happened to be Jambiani beach town. I had met a great gay couple (Dave and Chris) in the bus who also chose this town because it was quieter than the other cities. I just heard from the driver, with whom I had been enganging in what has been called Matatu theology, and he said if you want to go snorkeling, this is the spot. The first two hotels got filled up by our little bus, so I started to ask the locals if I could stay in their houses. Apparently it’s illegal and my driver coaxed me back into the car, promising cheaper pickings ahead. With only two of us left in the car besides the driver, I saddled up next to the giant sun glass decked british traveler in the vehicle. Her name is Marissy and she works in music production for the rough guide. That is a job of which I am certainly jealous. Marissy told the hotel guy she would only pay 15$. He finally came close to acceding and assuming that we were traveling together, he also gave me a similar rate. After some excellent seafood, with the great gay couple who seem to travel for one year out ever five, Marissy and I got in a local Dow and while she enjoyed a conversation with the captain about local music, I went snorkeling for two hours. Wow! I saw fish of every color. I saw bright blue fish, yellow striped fish with pointy “lips”, green fish that sparkeled, long fish that looked like sausages and even a sting ray! Just going out in the sail boat, however, was an experience that was rejeuvenating. For dinner we got back together with Dave and Chris and enjoyed a night of good conversation on the beach side. I could have spent weeks exploring that island. Alas, the next morning I had to catch a bus back to stone town for one more tourist attraction before boating back to dar.
Catching the morning spice tour I learned all about the spices and fruits grown in Zanzibar. One fruit, which is reputed to smell like hell and taste like heaven, had the consistency of pizza dough and would have gone great with a bottle of wine and some crackers.
The day after making my way back to Dar I was able to purchase plane tickets for the following day and arrange an interview with Joe Healey, proverb collector and author of various books including “towards an African Narrative Theology.”
Ethiopia requires that you have a ticket for an onward destination to get a tourist visa. My plans, ever fluid, were somewhat in a turmoil since my sister wants to meet me in Tunisia, but there are no direct flights there. What did I do? Hedge my bets on either my sister changing my mind or a better airline in another country and I purchased a ticket that leave the day after easter for Egypt! Regardless of whether grace meets me there or not, I get to see the pyramids!! As Daniel reminded me in Morogoro, this is where the boy the Alchemist goes to find his personal treasure. Maybe mine will be there too!
On the way to meet Joe I got in a great conversation with a muslim man on the Dala Dala about the nature of humanity, language, culture and religion. These are not easy topics for me to cover in Swahili, but we had a great time all the same. Joe and I spent a few hours chatting about the state of the catholic church and he gave me some well needed reminders about the dangerous use of language. Finally getting back to the Jesuits, I enjoyed a good dinner with the JVI’s and prepared for my next day departure.
I have now moved countries. Already arriving at the guest house I have gotten a much different feeling that my last location in Dar. In dar, I was living with the Jesuit community. These were wonderful men who were very encouraging and hospitable. We’ll see how Ethiopia treats me.
I feel as if these past few weeks I have inadequately recorded my experiences. I have been living out of a rucksack hanging out with really wonderful people. This started the moment I left Mwanza. From my 18 hour journey to Arusha began the roller coast ride that finally ended here in Addis Abbas. I can’t say that it was terribly uncomfortable moving around from port to port. In part this is because the people I have been with have been so great. Right away in Arusha at the novice house I had a sense of fitting in with both the senior priests and with the novices. Down in morogoro I had a real chance to have fellowship with my former school mate Daniel Hendrickson and his friend Stephanie. I also met a Jesuit there from OR named Bart. Climbing Kili I was once again surrounded by great people.
I made my way from moshi to Dar last week Saturday. The moment I arrived I was filled with a sense of hospitality. Although my typical evangelical Oregonian line about Portland being the brew capital of the world ruffled some feathers with a german Jesuit, I was wholly welcome there. Kizito, the Jesuit guest master who received me at the bus station, is an outrageous Ugandan. Edmund is a mildmannered Tanzanian. Gabriel and Charles were both novices who I met earlier in Arusha. Then there is Fr. Don from from Penn. Fr. Don has longer hair, wears high waters with converse shoes, and would fit right in at Eugene. He was so affirming of me as an Oregonian. Everytime some unexpected circumstance was solved in an unexpected way by me, he said, well of course you would, your and Oregonian. Having been telling so many people how great Oregon is, it was wonderful to meet a man who in fact evangelized me in my Oregonianness!
I also had a wonderful time meeting the Scoobie Doo Gang, the JVI’s. Kate, Billy and Susan make a wonderful and fun community of people.
Zanzibar.
Last week I went to Zanzibar. I was dropped off by Kizito, a Jesuit from Uganda, at around 7 AM. I was to board at 7:30 and be off by 8AM. Waiting in line I got to talking to an Arabic Tanzanian man who was born on Pemba island. I also met a colimbian fellow. In the midst of all this conversation, time passed and the line moved nowhere. It seems there was a problem with the boat. Not knowing what to do, I just waited longer. Optimistic man that I am, I just figured it would be fixed in no time and we would be on our way. African transportation leads one to a different experience however. While walking around, I heard two American accents. I asked these two men where they were from. They said Oregon! Can you believe it. They explained to me that they were only going to Zanzibar for a day and that their driver was going to see if the ferry was working. I asked them what city they were from and they said seaside. My family and I vacation in seaside every year. My mind, which always seeks to make relationships between events reminded me that I had met a Fr. Nicholas in Seaside who is in fact from Tanzania. I told these gentleman about this Tanzanian priest, and they exclaimed to me that Fr. Nick is their driver here! The world is small! Their parish is twinned with Fr. Nick’s parish in the Moshi region and they had raised money to help build a youth center. In 3 months they had raised 50,000 dollars. Michael owns subways up and down the coast, as well as the elephant ear shop in downtown Seaside. Dave owns a holiday inn express in Seaside.
It turns out that the ferry wouldn’t be running, so we refunded our tickets and started looking into other boat means, when Michael and Dave were approached by a fellow trying to get us to take a plane. Having had enough experience of Africa, we were a little suspicious, but upon looking into it, the company seemed legitimate, so we picked up our feet and left for the airport.
I spent the next few hours with these three gentlemen exploring the food and architecture of Stone town.
That night I checked into the karibu inn and was lucky enough to get a cheap dormitory all to myself. I hit up the town and found a regular “impromtu” fish market that gets set up every night. You select your fish and they fry it up for you. I had lobster, king fish, squid, and octopus. I also met another Oregonian from Eugene!
A Danish fellow (Skull!) came and sat next to me and after chatting for sometime, we headed to a local bar with a finnish girl. You always get an odd assortement at Zanzibar bars. The island is 99% muslim, so any local in the bar is bound to be one of those who “departs from the norm”. One such fellow came up to me, shook my hand, and said Superpower. I misunderstood and thought that he had somehow traced my nationality and sputteringly tried to defuse a potentially tense situation. It turns out, however, that his name is, in fact, Alisparrow superpower. He is a nutty man, short in stature and Rastafarian in his heart. He no longer has the rastafari hair as he had a colony of bugs in it. There I came across a half breed Canadian/Oregonian. Somehow in 1 day I ran into more Oregonians than I have seen in my whole trip. What an experience going to a tourist spot!
At 8 am I grabbed a hotel taxi to cross the island and hit up the beach. It might be easy to say that one doesn’t need to go to the beach, as there are plenty of those in the US, but that person would have a hard time turning away from the white sand and pristine Indian ocean. Wow. It was gorgeous. With limited time, I just decided to get off at the first beach I came across, which just so happened to be Jambiani beach town. I had met a great gay couple (Dave and Chris) in the bus who also chose this town because it was quieter than the other cities. I just heard from the driver, with whom I had been enganging in what has been called Matatu theology, and he said if you want to go snorkeling, this is the spot. The first two hotels got filled up by our little bus, so I started to ask the locals if I could stay in their houses. Apparently it’s illegal and my driver coaxed me back into the car, promising cheaper pickings ahead. With only two of us left in the car besides the driver, I saddled up next to the giant sun glass decked british traveler in the vehicle. Her name is Marissy and she works in music production for the rough guide. That is a job of which I am certainly jealous. Marissy told the hotel guy she would only pay 15$. He finally came close to acceding and assuming that we were traveling together, he also gave me a similar rate. After some excellent seafood, with the great gay couple who seem to travel for one year out ever five, Marissy and I got in a local Dow and while she enjoyed a conversation with the captain about local music, I went snorkeling for two hours. Wow! I saw fish of every color. I saw bright blue fish, yellow striped fish with pointy “lips”, green fish that sparkeled, long fish that looked like sausages and even a sting ray! Just going out in the sail boat, however, was an experience that was rejeuvenating. For dinner we got back together with Dave and Chris and enjoyed a night of good conversation on the beach side. I could have spent weeks exploring that island. Alas, the next morning I had to catch a bus back to stone town for one more tourist attraction before boating back to dar.
Catching the morning spice tour I learned all about the spices and fruits grown in Zanzibar. One fruit, which is reputed to smell like hell and taste like heaven, had the consistency of pizza dough and would have gone great with a bottle of wine and some crackers.
The day after making my way back to Dar I was able to purchase plane tickets for the following day and arrange an interview with Joe Healey, proverb collector and author of various books including “towards an African Narrative Theology.”
Ethiopia requires that you have a ticket for an onward destination to get a tourist visa. My plans, ever fluid, were somewhat in a turmoil since my sister wants to meet me in Tunisia, but there are no direct flights there. What did I do? Hedge my bets on either my sister changing my mind or a better airline in another country and I purchased a ticket that leave the day after easter for Egypt! Regardless of whether grace meets me there or not, I get to see the pyramids!! As Daniel reminded me in Morogoro, this is where the boy the Alchemist goes to find his personal treasure. Maybe mine will be there too!
On the way to meet Joe I got in a great conversation with a muslim man on the Dala Dala about the nature of humanity, language, culture and religion. These are not easy topics for me to cover in Swahili, but we had a great time all the same. Joe and I spent a few hours chatting about the state of the catholic church and he gave me some well needed reminders about the dangerous use of language. Finally getting back to the Jesuits, I enjoyed a good dinner with the JVI’s and prepared for my next day departure.
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