Love me, love my friends

Dear friends and family,

There are 57 other volunteers that are going through training with me. There is one wonderful volunteer that has compiled a list of all our blogs. Check it out, they are all pretty awesome.

As an added bonus, you'll get pictures that I, myself, am terrible at posting on any timely basis.

Small Victories

Every time I fart and no poop comes out.
Every time I make it to the shintbet without someone asking me "where are you go?"
Actually making the shintbet hole without splashing on myself.
Remembering not to wear my inside shoes outside.
Effectively avoiding eye contact with the crazy rubbing his nipples while I drink my juice.
Filling my water bucket before water is turned off for the weekend.
Having the correct ratio of wat and injera on my plate.
Remembering to take my malaria medication.

These, and many more, are small victories I encounter at least once a week.

And so it begins . . .

Being here makes you English diminish rapidly. For example, it took me several minutes to write that first sentence and I'm pretty sure there is still something off about it. I also spelled "example" "examply" and today I wrote the word "effeckins." Please, for the love of god, somebody tell me what "effeckins" are because I sure don't know. On Friday, (this examply is one that I am exceedingly embarrassed about) I was teaching vegetable words to third graders. It took actual thinking energy to know how to spell "potato" and "tomato." And I still got it wrong. Seriously, what is happening to me?
            I suppose I can't help it. I spend two hours every morning learning a new language. After that I spend a few hours incessantly saying "hello, how are you?" in that language to dozens of people I've never met. And, in order to communicate with the few people who do know some conversational English, I have to simplify my English. Which means "where are you go" and "how do you find Butajira" (which means "how do you like Butijira.") have become common phrases in my vernacular.
            So I apologize to my readers. I am still going to try and make interesting posts and practice being a writer that's worth reading, but I can't promise any steller prose. (Or spelling stellar right) On the contrary, I'm pretty sure we can all look forward to some pretty boring straightforward posts. That or I will just do pictures.

Hello, my name is Julia Bruce Paul

            People in Ethiopia don't have last names. If you see a second name listed for an Ethiopian, what you are really seeing is that person's name followed by their father's name.

            When I went to the hospital the other day, they asked for my father's name I looked around. I looked at Almaz. I looked at the receptionist. I looked at the monkey footprint in  the cement. I squinted one eye and said, "B-bruce?"
            "And your grandfather's name?"

            "Is that really necessary?"

            "Yes."

            "My father's father?"

            "Yes."

            "Paul?"

           
Names in Ethiopia also have meanings. My new sisters' names are Kalkidan and Walela, meaning promise and sweet respectively. My father's name, Tadese, means new. My mom's name, Etagu, means sister, and my brother's name is out of the bible; Mikyas.
            My doctor asked me what my name meant.
            "Um, what it means? I don't know. Nothing?"

            "You didn't ask your parents?"

            "It doesn't mean anything. It's just a name."

            "Oh," he was surprised. "In Ethiopia, all names have meanings."

As of this moment, official medical documents, including a med-card and prescription in my pocket, have my name listed as Julya Burrus Paul which means, "nothing something and that one dude from the bible."

Here's the monkey footprint. It's forever encased in cement. 

I've been placed!

Today we had a site placement ceremony. Yes, today. I posted this rather soon. Assume your shocked faces. It was a really great ceremony that started out with dancing and contained a lot of nerves.

A little about my site: Its name is Deneba and it is a 5 hour bus ride from the capital (I'm going to die!) There is no post office but I still expect mail. If my closest neighbor town (30 minutes away) doesn't have one I will open one in my hub town (1 1/2 hours away). So, basically, I still expect mail. When I open up my PO box, you will be informed.

There is CDMA (wireless) capabilities as well as cell service which is really only applicable to my parents because I don't expect people to pay 10 dollars for a 30 minute phone call. There is a clinic but no hospital so I better not get deathly ill. I will be teaching at Deneba primary school. I will not have my own class because my assignment is all about building the English teacher's capabilities. I will do model teaching, teacher trainings and running English clubs for all ages. I will also be expected to promote gender equality (which will be hard because I am sooooo not passionate about that.) Expect info about GLOW camps!

I don't have a site mate but I am close to a few people. Some are training with me and a few are current PCVs.

Basically, I am really excited.

And now for pictures.

Tesfaye setting up the maps for the site placement ceremony.

All of us waiting to be placed.



The important people. From left, Dan Baker (badass), Greg Engle (country director), Merre Engle, and DT is lurking in the shadows.



Greg Engle and wife, Merre, both former PCVs, giving us some advice and encouragement.



Daniel (Education Coordinator) tell us how he and others made the placements.

 

Avak -- the first to be placed.

A few of us pinning our site placements on the map. In order from top, Kyrie, Kat, Khadijah, Brittany, Richard and me!

Last but not least, Helena is placed in our training site in Butajira.





As I've said, I'm in Deneba. Can you tell I'm a little excited/nervous?

Those going to Tigrey.



Those going to Amhara with me.



Those going to Oromia.



Those staying in SNNPR.



Tigrey.



They're all centered around the capitol, Mekele.




Amhara.



My closest neighbors. Sarah is closest, Micheal is above my head and Deshantel is to the east.



Oromia



SNNPR spread all over the place.

Walk Safe and Watch Out for Jïb

In my family you can't leave anybody's house without hearing, "drive safe and watch out for deer." More importantly, never let anyone leave your presence without saying "drive safe and watch out for deer." Not saying this necessary phrase is the equivalent of saying, "fuck you, I hope you die tomorrow."

Even if you are living in the city, say it. Deer will take a taxi, if need be, just to get in front of your car. Miles into town, they will still kamikaze your car, just to destroy your prized automobile. It's true, ask my mother.

But what do I say here? None of us PCTs (Peace Corps trainees – make note of the acronyms, they're frickin' everywhere) are allowed to have a car and there are no deer.

You've probably figured out the answer by the title of this post:

Walk safe and watch out for jïb.

Jïb is Amharic for hyena.

Seriously, watch out for jïb.