Shade
relieves my sun-kissed slightly glistening skin. The kilometer long walk on the
2 o’clock blacktop wasn’t too bad as my friend (a teacher from the preparatory
school) was informing me about historical and geographical features. The
crowded bus where I climbed over an elderly man and no windows were opened, was
enjoyable, as Mohammed (a fifth grader going to Shire) found delight in
speaking to a forengi (foreigner).
The
shock of getting off the bus 10 (?) kilometers past the school was an adventure
when my buddy started to lead me on a path barely marked out in what I never
thought was anything. Turns out it is the entrance for the village called Zero
Zero. On the first dirt path, I had to avoid getting skewered by bulls coming
down. The valley was beautiful until I realized I had to climb up rocks
surroundings it (while in a skirt) to get to the funeral ceremony at the top. Once on
the top I sat in the sun with many teacher buddies before continuing.
The area where the ceremony takes place is as wide as about 50 men, shoulder to shoulder, long and 40
wide. I know this because people are sitting around the outskirts on benches or
tarps in rows.
Those
sitting in the middle and around the opposite side (as the teachers and I am)
appear to have a small bush in front of each of them, constructed from pruned
olive branches. We are sitting on benches constructed by long 2x6’s of alternating
colors propped on small sawhorses like stands. The shade? It is from a canopy
of branches formed by laying logs on cut tree poles, which branches are laid
across. I have to bend to avoid getting hit or disrupting the contraption. My
western mind smiles at the beauty and how wonderful this would be for an
outside wedding reception----if slightly taller.
After
a prayer for the decease, where I only understand the list of saints called
upon and the name of the family, food is distributed. If feeding the five
thousand was as synchronized as this, I am no longer shocked everyone was able
to get food in a short amount of time. Those sitting on the ground spruce up
their small bushes. Teenagers come around and give everyone a folded piece of
injera. My eyes are shifted as other boys and men come around the benches with
cups and plates. I am hesitant about the cups as I saw the barrels of sewa
cracked opened, but am reassured there is water. Sewa is a locally made
alcoholic drink that is used for all traditional ceremonies, but is not something
I prefer. Teachers have eaten with me enough times to know I don’t drink
alcohol but still try to see if I take some. My yellow, plastic plate is soon
covered with teff injera, deep red burbary sauce and a heap of meat (my guess
goat, but it could have been cow). Corn injera comes around to be balanced in a
heap in my left hand as I start to dig into my meal. While I wasn’t able to
prevent an extra piece of corn injera being added to my hand, I am able to
smile to servers and prevent anymore from being added to plate. I finish
everything without getting a drop on my white t-shirt or new Christmas skirt
(thanks Grandma!), but I’m feeling very very full. A walk back to town would be
perfect right about now.
After
washing a hand (only use one to eat with) off in some water and drying with
some leaves, I start to leave with a friend and a couple teachers. Even though
I didn’t have any sewa, I trip and am unbalanced going down the steep rocks. It
didn’t help that there were donkeys, cows, camels, and people carrying injera
on their heads coming up the way. We laugh all the way down and are relieved
when leveled, rock free asphalt is under foot again.
When
I woke up this morning, I had no idea my afternoon would consist of going to a
teskel: a ceremony to celebrate a person after 40-100 days from his/her passing
(this one was 40 days). But that’s the way life goes. As my teacher buddy
mentioned on the way up the mountain: “This is an exchange of culture that
Peace Corps wants you to share.” And my other teacher buddy mentioned on the
way down: “Now, you know a little more about our culture.” Yes. Yes I do. I see
how they value life and commemorate death in ways that are respectful and
heartfelt. As the prayer was weaving through the white cloaked people, a baby
goat was calling frantically and hopping around trying to find its mother. The
vibrate green branches were overhead. The picture of my colleague’s father was on
a table. Life and death together.
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