In Ethiopia I read a LOT of books. It inspired me to write this blog as if it were a novel. Definitely an experiment, but I thought I’d switch it up a bit! Enjoy 🙂
A noisy ambulance interrupts my half attempt at a work out. It shocks me; I didn’t even know they had ambulances here. It’s been two weeks, and the most familiar thing I can get my hands on is popcorn and not the microwavable kind…the I-have-to-really-commit-and-pop-this-from-scratch kind. I decide to call it quits after ten minutes of squatting with a cement block and take a seat on a homemade bench and stare into the ashes and remnants of a birthday bonfire. It was Erika’s birthday, and there isn’t much to do in a rural African village, so we spent the afternoon sawing trees and trying to beat the rain to make a special night. We had already spent our budget on throwing a Halloween bash: the highlight of course would be bobbing for oranges out of the buckets we use to hand wash laundry. Between the road with the ambulance and I sit a couple of sheep, two cows and a friend I made during my workout. We didn’t speak a single word, but I knew she was secretly cheering me on and was disappointed when the crazy white lady stopped providing free entertainment. It baffles me; a year ago I was hopping on the N train at Astoria Boulevard with a triple shot coconut milk latte with earphones in for the forty minute commute to Times Square. Now I am three hours from wifi, living in a dormitory with 35 people I met five months ago on a year long trek across the world.
It’s almost dinner, and I make my way to the common room on the bumpy stone road, the same stone road I stumbled screaming bloody murder, running as fast I could last night to avoid being tagged in capture the flag. I was tagged. It’s funny the things that adults will do to entertain ourselves on this compound. When I look around it often looks like a nursing home. Technically we are volunteering at an orphanage but from a distance it looks like children coming to visit old folks playing ping pong, eating soup, reading or playing cards.
Don’t get me started on playing cards…There is a fiery rage inside of me I never knew existed until playing a competitive game of Spades. It has potential to ruin friendships if you aren’t careful. Best friends who already have bridesmaids pacts have been pinned against each other in savage table talk mostly resulting in a heated argument later laughed about over our high maintenance popcorn.
Abdi stops me and asks me in his broken English to help me set up a ping pong table. It’s homemade, two wooden slabs painted forest green on top of a shaky metal base, but it does the trick. Mescreem screams her high pitch squeal when she sees me and dramatically jumps into my arms, kissing my face. Even though she did the same thing to me twice today, it doesn’t get old to see someone get so excited to see you. She convinces me to play volleyball despite the fact I had an incredible pre-dinner nap on my mind, and I go out to the field we just spent the prior four days cutting down to a reasonable length with machetes. We toss the ball a few times over the net but mostly just retrieve the ball every serve due to a misjudge of strength needed to hit said ball. It’s funny and almost impossible to play anyways as the sun sets and shines in the opposite team’s eyes causing a fit of laughter for the swings and misses.
In the quiet and seemingly meaningless moments there is unexplainable joy. How a city girl working four jobs, completely obsessed with making her instagram jealous-worthy and spending the weekends at rooftop bars and clubs trying to get famous men to buy her drinks ends up completely off the grid with six children braiding her dirty un-straightened hair in the middle of Africa is nothing short of a miracle.
My train of thought is interrupted by Abidi, “You help me with English homework?” I make my way down to the children’s village: basically the North Pole of Africa. There is a little pole and sign in the middle of the mud brick homes and the moment you step foot on the beaten down grass path there is a burst of energy. The older kids are doing laundry on the front porch, the house moms in the kitchen cooking dinner, the younger kids squealing and chasing each other in gleeful abandonment of any responsibility. It’s impossible not to smile when I come into sight and hear their high pitched voices screaming “Kelsey! Kelsey!” And to the house mom’s dismay disrupting the organized chaos. My name was easy for them to memorize as I’ve been reminded several times that the definition is “sock” in their language. After hugs and kisses I encourage the chores to continue and the energy settles.
“My sock, are you ready to make me English teacher one day?” Abidi asks.
“I’ll try my best” I answer. We dive into the hardest fourth grade English homework I have ever seen in my life. How did I pass the fourth grade?
As Abidi unscrambles his English vocabulary my mind wonders. When I was in fourth grade I was taking my first international missions trip to China. My job was to look adorable and distract the airport security from the fact I had 25 illegal Bibles in my backpack. Definitely a normal activity for a nine year old to participate in. As familiar as missions should be to me, I had a difficult time arriving in Ethiopia. I have spent the past four months in various cities across the world working as a missionary and this was the first month that looked like what your “typical missionary base” would look like. When I first arrived, our team dove into cutting the grass, tilling the gardens and the most popular ministry of course: playing with the kids. . As I sat there sneezing from cutting the grass that I was allergic to, I was pretty miserable. I knew my heart wasn’t in Ethiopia, and it seemed like when I looked around everyone else’s was. Our two days off a week went from exploring a nearby volcano and waterfalls to meditation and stillness, and that drove me absolutely nuts. How long can you bask in the Lord’s goodness? We get it-He’s good, now let’s go find cheeseburgers.
“You know this one?” Abdidi snaps me out of my self reflective daze and the letters on the page I was supposed to help unscramble without a word bank or category read “mcnetietre.”
“Hmm…” I stared at it for longer than I am willing to admit before realizing my defeat. “Why don’t I go ask my friends at dinner and I can come back with an answer tomorrow morning?” I reason with him.
“God bless you-okay! Thank you my friend, see you tomorrow!” He squeezes me genuinely grateful for the little help I can offer to this little genius whose plans are to teach English and also become the Ethiopian president.
I walk back to the common room praying that there would be a bowl of soup and a piece of white bread for me. If you are even five minutes late you are jeopardizing your chances of eating a full meal, so my pace quickens. The power is out, so I walk into a dimly lit room, the only light from cellphones under plastic orange cup giving it a very grungy speak-easy feel. I throw down my empty water bottle that I have neglected to fill up all day and instead grab a fresh cup of coffee and the last few scoops of vegetable soup and sit on the couch with a few other late-to-dinner stragglers.
I let my mind wander, realizing this is the first time in my life I haven’t felt the need to start a conversation over dinner. I adore my friends. I watch each of them laugh and tell stories and I can’t believe these people were strangers six months ago. I think about the fact that I have to say goodbye to them someday, that there will be time that comes where we won’t do life together, and it feels impossible. I fear that I’ve grown into an entirely different person that will be unrecognizable to my friends and family back home, that the only people on the planet who can sympathize with this journey are the ones in this dusty room. I also know that in a week I will have to say goodbye to these annoyingly adorable kids who have somehow managed their way past the towering walls I have tried to build into my heart and the thought of that gives me a physical pain in my chest.
As I finish my soup, I return my dish to the sink, grab my sleeping bag and head outside with a few of my friends to lay under the stars, the absolute best way to end a night. Even though my life was so simple and seemingly meaningless it was also so vividly full of purpose even if I don’t accomplish a single task that day which posed an incredible paradox for my brain. I stare into the infinite sky, unpolluted by light that galaxies appear. As I start to drift asleep, I can’t help but feel so profoundly content knowing that out of the billions of places I could have been, I am destined to be right here in this moment and that is enough.
