A Message to My Friends in Ethiopia

Nineteen hours. That's how long it took to get me home. Finally back to the hustle and bustle of city life, to the traffic, to the pollution, to the crowds. To pork, pork, and more pork. To malls and supermarkets. To the beaches. To the heat and humidity. To giant Christmas trees and consumerism. To the once-familiar-but-now-strange sights and smells and sounds. Then reality hit me: I have become a stranger in my own country. I am not the same person who left for Ethiopia almost two years ago.

When the plane landed, I honestly felt I could take the next plane back to Ethiopia. It was all strange to me. The flag was different. The language was different. I somehow missed the Amharic chatter that I have become accustomed to. And no "you, you" or "ferenji, ferenji" this time. I have become anonymous once again. Oh, I think I'm just missing Ethiopia and reverse culture shock has set in!

I am, of course, happy to see and be with my family again . . . after almost two long years. In a few days, I will start meeting up with old friends. I'm taking it slow for now, though, as my body has not yet fully acclimatize. I've been sweating like a horse here. The heat is unbearable. Makes me miss the Addis weather, unpleasant as it is. And the humidity is suffocating. My body clock is still working on Ethiopian time, so I sleep at 4 or 5 am until around 10 am when the heat wakes me up.

I was caught in a traffic jam the other day, and I went into panic mode. I almost ran out of the car in the middle of the highway. It was just too overwhelming. Then I went to buy a ticket to use the MRT (subway), but changed my mind at the last minute because I again panicked at the thought of having to push around in a crowd of strangers! Well, to be honest, I also forgot how the system works. Then, I heard Toto's "Africa" playing on the radio, and I felt a lump forming in my throat. Sigh*

So here I am, trying to make the most of my time with family and friends while I'm busy missing Ethiopia and you, my friends, who have become dear to me. Thank you for making my time in Ethiopia memorable and thank you for touching my life in one way or another. I value the bonds I have made, and I hope we all keep in touch. Who knows, our paths might cross again in the future? The world is getting smaller and smaller, and I wouldn't be surprised if I bump into you one of these days. If you happen to be in my part of the world, please do drop me a line or two in my inbox. I will be more than glad to host you. So come visit me. The Philippines is beautiful and the people very warm, but you'll have to see for yourself.

Till we meet again.

Cheers!

Reiza

Taking on a Beautiful Challenge: My experience as a VSO volunteer physiotherapist in Ethiopia

“When someone shares something of value with you and you benefit from it, you have a moral obligation to share it with others” so goes a Chinese proverb. It is for this reason that I have decided to volunteer two years of my time in what was once a strange land thousands of miles away from home. Of course, I have other reasons as well. I volunteer to gain international experience and professional advancement, for the adventure of living in a new and exotic location and immerse myself in a totally different culture, to gain a fresh perspective of my own career, for the sheer satisfaction of being able to say “I did it!”, but most of all, to share my skills and endeavor to change the lives of the people I serve. I volunteer simply because I am a global citizen and it is my responsibility to care for my fellow human beings as they also care for me.

The Challenges

Despite the warm hospitality that was accorded to me by my Ethiopian colleagues and some of the locals, there were some challenges that I needed to deal or cope with if I wanted to make my placement successful.

First, there was the constant bombardment of the eternal question: “How can you volunteer in another developing country when you come from a developing country yourself?” And my answer has always been the same. Why shouldn’t I when I have the ability and the capability to share my skills and change lives? I have lived in a developing country all my life and I know first-hand how it is to survive with limited means. I breathe, I feel, I touch poverty every single day, so how can I not know the developing world better?

Then there was the language and cultural barrier. It was a bit difficult at first to effect even the minutest of changes because of some resistance brought about by ingrained cultural practices. In addition, the language was hard to learn in the beginning. Although my colleagues speak very good English, the main struggle was communicating with the patients who mostly come from rural areas. Slowly, I learned to speak basic Amharic. I have also learned to respect the culture and the fact that culture is dynamic and positive changes can be effected without destroying the cultural identity of the people.

The next challenge was the low status of the profession in the hospital. In the beginning, I was struck by the low status accorded to physiotherapists by senior health professionals, especially medical doctors. Our young physiotherapists often found it difficult to communicate with the medical team; hence they were left out of the treatment and discharge planning of their own patients. Quite often, they went to the wards and found out that their patients were already discharged without their knowledge and permission. Because physiotherapy is still in its infancy in Ethiopia, awareness of the profession is still very poor. Its importance in the prevention of disability is still not generally acknowledged even by policy-making bodies. This issue, I believe, fuels the low morale of local staff who feel underappreciated despite their efforts to be acknowledged as a profession at the same level with nurses, doctors, and other health professionals.

The Achievements

Tackling these challenges, however, was not as painful as I anticipated because of the genuine support shown to me by my local colleagues. Even though most of them were just recently qualified, my young and dynamic colleagues were always willing to learn from me and at the same time share their local expertise. I was able to share my knowledge and skills to them easily because they were always open to new learning. It was very important to me to work alongside local counterparts as it was the most effective way I knew to ensure sustainability of my work as a VSO volunteer, and I knew that building the capacity of the physiotherapy department would take far longer than my two-year placement.

My time at Gondar University was quite an interesting and productive journey. After working closely together with my local colleagues and another VSO volunteer, Joanna Griffin, positive changes in the department began to unfold slowly before our eyes. We have managed to develop service development objectives, which served as an action plan for the year. Under the service development program, standardized assessment and treatment forms were developed, which made it easier for the physiotherapists to keep patient records. The in-service trainings and journal clubs likewise honed the physiotherapists’ clinical knowledge and skills and most importantly their clinical decision-making, which resulted in more thorough assessments and proper treatment planning. This, in turn, lead to more patients being discharged when they should be, hence patient outcomes and satisfaction were improved. This also decreased daily patient traffic in the department, which then made the local physiotherapists less stressful and hence were able to spare some time getting involved in continuous professional development opportunities such as browsing journal articles in the research library and attending in-service trainings and journal club discussion. In addition, we as a department were able incorporate evidence in our practice, improve our patient management skills, enhance our teaching and coaching skills, implement HIV and AIDS mainstreaming activities, conduct the first-ever Physiotherapy Awareness Week, publish and disseminate a monthly e-newsletter, Ethio Physio. The list goes on. The positive changes in the department also boosted the confidence of the local physiotherapists as it showed that by working together as a team towards common goals, they have the capacity to effect positive changes even with limited resources.

These achievements would not have been possible without a supportive environment and willingness of my colleagues to allow my work to develop. And I have been very fortunate to have a placement that gave me the opportunity to maximize the use of my knowledge and skills. There was so much to be done, so many gaps to fill, and so many opportunities for positive input. Despite initial resistance to change, which was expected, my colleagues gave me the support that I needed to do my work effectively and showed enthusiasm and appreciation for all my achievements. This has made me more determined to work harder alongside my local colleagues and effect positive change as much as I can.

Volunteering in Ethiopia has given me a fresh perspective not only about my career, but also about being a responsible global citizen. The ups-and-downs were just brushes that polished my personality. I would like to believe that I have become a different, if not better, person. My dealings with the Ethiopian people has somehow humbled and inspired me, for despite the difficult circumstances that they have to face on a daily basis, they are striving not only to survive but more so, to improve their lives. My young colleagues’ enthusiasm and genuine willingness to learn from me has given me the motivation to go on and share whatever I have to share with them. Unknowingly, in the process, I was also learning from them, and learning a lot about myself. I have learned that life still goes on even if we experience resistance in our work. I have learned that it’s not yet the end of the world when a project fails because there is always another alternative lurking around the corner if we just give ourselves time to reflect about our priorities against the priorities of others, accept that we can’t always do things our way and that common sense is sometimes more effective than knowledge gained from books, and lastly be humble enough to accept our weaknesses and rely on the strengths of our local colleagues.

Working in Ethiopia has been very enriching, both professionally and personally. Overall, I feel that this is an experience that can’t be traded for anything else.

The Donkey's Death Call

For the first time, I heard a donkey cry. This evening, I heard a donkey cry amidst the constant chuckle of car engines in the streets of Addis Ababa. Suddenly, I felt the urge to write about it, not because it was one of my firsts but because it was one of the most honest, emotional, spine-tingling sound I've ever listened to in my whole life. It was like the combined sound of a woman mourning over her husband's sudden death, and a child longing for a mother who just passed away, and a young man whose lover has been snatched away by death, never to return.

Death. That was the message the donkey was trying to convey in a series of guttural moans that seemed to come out after having been kept bottled inside for a long time. I looked around and all I could see was death.

To the beggars and street dwellers, it could be death of their hopes for a warm meal and a dry bed. To the old father standing by the corner store waiting for his young daughter to come home after enjoying the company of a lover, it could be the death of his aspirations for a better life. To the young woman sitting in a taxi who just learned she'd contracted the deadly virus, it could be the death of her ambitions. To the taxi driver who just hit the donkey in the middle of the road, it could be the death of his earnings for the day.

The donkey's cry seemed to tell us that every one of us suffers death every day, in one way or another. I refuse to think about mine, and try to replace these morbid thoughts of goats bleating, cows mooing, dogs barking, and birds chirping in the morning.

Of Blogging and Burglary

I accidentally came across my blog again when I was stalking myself (i.e. Googling my name) for lack of better and more important things to do. I have decided to leave my placement early for reasons I will talk about later, so I am basically just hanging around my workplace these past few days, trying to get my clearance signed. The clearance I'm talking about here is unfortunately still not in my hands. Went to the Human Resource Department today to pick up my clearance form without knowing it's going to be another excruciating one-hour wait and running from one office to the next before they told me that the person in-charge was not around (for some reason only God knows) and that I have to go back some other time. Despite my pleas that I need the form right away because I will be leaving Gondar for good in four days, they just shoved me off and gave me the same "I can't do anything about it" look that I have now become so accustomed to.

Yes, I am leaving before my "due date" mainly because the circumstances I have been in recently has prevented me from doing my work properly and from contributing significantly to the department. A few weeks ago, the house I stayed in for around 18 months has been burglarized in broad daylight. It was a Sunday. My housemate Joanna and I went out to have lunch at another VSO volunteer's house, and when we got back home at around 3:30 PM, we found one of the windows in the living room broken and both our rooms ransacked. Joanna lost all her valuables (laptop, I-pod, external DVD player, watch, digital camera, cellphones, money). I lost a cellphone, my beloved Canon camera, and some money). Strangely, I found my laptop and external DVD drive on one of the couches, though I kept it in my drawer. The thief must have been in a hurry to escape and left my stuff, which is just fortunate because I already lost one laptop to viruses, and I can't afford to lose another one. The local police came, of course, around eight of them, to do some "investigation"---which eventually led to Joanna and I appearing in court, our innocent (at least Joanna and I think so) guard landing in jail, a very good friend having his house searched for the stolen items, and the entire Gondar town knowing about the incident, thanks to the local media.

The incident, unfortunately, has led to a series of unfortunate events---Joanna and I staying in a hotel for a week and getting weird propositions on our hotel phones in the middle of the night, to name a few. I've also had streetlads coming up to me, commanding me to give them my laptop. I guess, there's just too much that I can take. Call me weak, but once you get paranoid about small things, you can never have peace of mind. So I am leaving, for that and for a variety of other reasons. But no regrets. All in all, I've had a wonderful time and a very enriching experience in Ethiopia that I could never trade for anything else. I have learned a lot about the people, the country, and about myself. I have made a bunch of friends, expats and locals alike. I will definitely leave Ethiopia a different, if not better, person.

Life According to a Chewing Gum Boy

The strawberry flavored gum I was chewing since the start of the trip tasted bland against my tongue. Impatience has already crept into me . . . and a certain kind of lightheadedness (and unexplainable mood change) that could only mean a migraine was coming. The early-morning start was certainly not a good idea, I thought, and I was sure I was not going to enjoy my post-Christmas holiday in Bahir Dar after the bumpy three-and-a-half-hour journey. I was looking blankly at Silvester, who was mumbling about something I couldn't even figure out. We should have stayed one more day in Gondar, I thought, as I nodded absently to whatever he was talking about.

When the mini-bus screeched to a halt and the conductor announced we've arrived, I almost threw myself out of the front seat and imagined throwing myself into a hotel bed until it was time to get on another bus to Addis the next morning. Peter and Doreen didn't look so keen on a field trip to the infamous Tis Abay falls either so I was saved the trouble of enduring another excruciating bus ride.

We settled in our rooms and slept and slept until our grumbling stomachs woke us up. The four of us, rejuvenated by sleep but still eaten by boredom, wandered around the town, looking for the bus station and a place to grab some lunch. As we turned in one corner, we didn't know that that was going to turn our otherwise uneventful day into a surreal experience.

He was just another ordinary boy selling chewing gum on the streets. You know, like the ones who tug on your shirt or grab your arm until you get annoyed and buy a piece of overpriced gum, or if you don't, go away with murderous looks and insulting remarks—the ones I'm always wary of and ignore. But he wasn't trying to sell us his goods. He was just asking us if we needed help with something. We replied in a rather rude "no" and he backed off but came back less than five minutes later and started a conversation with me and Silvester, who were walking ahead of the pack. Later, he would tell us that he felt we needed help because we looked as if we didn't have any idea where we're going. Which was true.

As with most casual conversations with strangers in the streets of any town in Ethiopia, he started asking where we're from. Silvester jokingly answered, "Nigeria." And the boy's face lit up and quickly added he knew somebody from Nigeria working in the university. The boy's genuine amusement must have brought a surge of "guilt" to Silvester, so he admitted he's from Uganda. As if not bothered by the white lie earlier, the boy quipped, "Ah, I've met someone from Uganda too." At this time, my paranoid mind was already working overtime and was waiting for him to start telling us some hard luck story, trick us into doing something, and run away with our money.

I tried to quicken my stride as we crossed the street, in a vain effort to lose him. How can I when my companion was already smitten? He was asking for Silvester's name and when he got it, he exclaimed, "Oh Silver, like a necklace!" At this time, I was already smiling. "And what about her?" he motioned at me with his chin. Silvester answered, "Reiza." The boy grinned widely and said with even more energy, "Like rice we eat!" At this time, I was already laughing. His name was Mulu, which means "full". A rather apt name for the full life he's living, as we came to know later.

"Don't listen to people offering help because they cheat, especially ferenjis (foreigners)," Mulu warned us as we were entering the crowded bus station. (We needed to have our tickets refunded—long story.) He then added in a low voice, almost like an afterthought, "People cheat all the time." Then he looked up at Silvester and said, "When I grow up like you, I will be a doctor." Without waiting for us to respond, he said, "I don't want to be in the military like my father. He died fighting. Fighting is not good. Only animals fight. People should love each other."

A lump was already forming in my throat that my question barely escaped my lips, but he heard it anyway, "Where's your mother?" "She's at home because she's sick." "Who takes care of her?" "I do. I'm the only child. I cook her food in the morning before I go to school. And then at lunchtime I go home, eat, read, make my assignments, and then sell chewing gum," he answered nonchalantly, as if he had been asked these question so many times already. "You said your mother is sick, is she taking any medications?" I asked suspiciously, thinking he would eventually ask us for money. "Ah yes, she is. For us poor people it is no problem. The government gives us a paper (what they call a poverty certificate) and then they give us free medicines." He later told us that he went to Gondar Hospital once to get medicines for his mother and went to visit the castles. "They only charge 5 birr for Ethiopians and 50 birr for foreigners," he added with a proud smile, head held high. He was proud he was Ethiopian.

I then walked silently, engrossed in my own thoughts, of how this twelve-year-old boy could carry a heavy burden of taking care of a sick parent without being daunted by it, without even complaining, as if he had already accepted he was born with that responsibility. I then went back to my senses when I heard him ask Silvester boldly, "Is she your girlfriend or wife?" while looking at me with a sheepish grin. Shocked and at the same time amused by the question, I looked from him to the dumbfounded Silvester, curious of where the conversation was going and thankful I was not the one who was put on the spot. After what seems a minute of uncomfortable silence, Silvester answered, "Yes, she is my friend." "Now friend, but later wife." Mulu sounded so sure as he spoke. The now-red faced Silvester could only mutter a timid "maybe". "Don't bear too many children," Mulu advised. "Too many children and your money will be gone. Buy this, buy that. Two is enough. A boy for you"—he pointed at Silvester— "and a girl for her."

To break the awkward moment, Silvester started to talk business. "How much do you earn in day?" Like a real businessman, he said, "It's variable," then added, "but I already have savings of 20 birr. I asked my mother to keep it for me so I can buy my uniform. It costs 150 birr. So I need to earn 130 birr more." He then looked at his precious merchandise in all colors and flavors—his life.

As we were walking down the street toward the center of town, Doreen, who had been suffering from stomach ulcers since that morning, gestured she was already hungry. Mulu quickened his pace and said, "I'll take you to Piassa Restaurant. The food is good and many ferenjis eat there." When we were about to enter the restaurant we decided to give him a generous tip (to cover for his uniform) for showing us around, but he held up his free hand (the other holding his box of chewing gum) and said, "Please, no money." The smile disappeared from his face and stared at each of us with the look of someone who has been insulted. We tried to convince him to take the money "as our gift" but he said, "I don't take money." Perplexed and in awe of the young boy, we decided we'd buy some chewing gum from him instead, which put the smile back on his face.

"Why don't you join us inside, Mulu?" I offered, thinking it was the least we could do to repay his kindness towards us. He willingly followed us in and sat with us on the table. "What would you like to eat? Please order anything you like," I said while handing him the menu. He glanced at the colorful photos of food and quietly said, "Please don't spend your money on me. I will eat whatever is left over of yours." I could feel my chest tightened. At the other side of the table, Doreen was fighting back tears and Peter's jaw dropped. Silvester was silent, trying to focus on the menu, maybe fighting back tears too. "Please, it's Christmas, can you at least have something, a drink?" I pleaded. "Okay, I'll have a Coke."

While we were eating and shoving half of our food on Mulu's plate, Doreen asked him what he wanted someone to do for him, something that will make him happy. He paused and thought for a long time before saying, "A feienji I met last week has promised to buy me a bag. So I don't need a bag. It's also very expensive." "What about notebooks, pens . . . ." "Oh I would need more chewing gum. If you could buy me chewing gum that would be good."

We forgot about the chewing gum for awhile while he talked of things like Obama being Kenya's president because his father is Kenyan and of a dead Philippine president whose face was in the note I eventually gave him. He talked of how his ferenji friends taught him English, and how he watched BBC and CNN from a bar owned by his mother's friend. He bragged about his collection of notes and coins from different countries and proudly told us he was the best student in his class.

He was trying to smoothen a wrinkle on his shirt when I asked him if he took a shower and changed his clothes every day. (I am obsessive-compulsive when it comes to personal hygiene.) "I am not like you rich people who have so many clothes and can afford to buy water every day for washing yourself and your clothes." Filled with guilt and embarrassment, I told him defensively, "I am not rich." Realizing he must have offended me, he quickly said, "No, no, I am not talking about you. I am talking about other people."

When he saw me playing with my leftover rice and fish with the fork, he gently nudged me on my side and asked if he could take our leftovers for his mother. Before I could finish my "of course you can", he had already motioned the waiter to bring a plastic bag for him to put the food in.

We were already standing outside the restaurant when we remembered the chewing gum. Because we had wanted to go back to the hotel to rest, we handed him money as additional capital for his "business". But he gave us the same insulted look and said, "If you want, one of you come with me and we will get the chewing gum from the store. I won't take your money." At this point, some of the street boys were already harassing him, then I understood. Mulu was afraid the money might be taken away from him. Maybe he had been robbed by his fellow street boys a few times already.

"No, it's expensive here," he said, dragging one of us outside when we were entering a rather posh supermarket. He then led us to a small shop that displayed chewing gum in all colors and flavors on the shelves. Like a child, like a real child, his eyes brightened with amazement. He started pointing at the ones he wanted and counting his fingers and arranging his new buys in his box. After we've paid for it, he suddenly fell quiet, almost detached. Was it because he was overwhelmed, or was he embarrassed for asking us to buy him his goods? We would never know because he just stood there so silent that Doreen's friend had to remind him to thank us.

"Thank you." Those were his last words before he turned his back at us, not taking his eyes off his chewing gum box.

"Thanks to you," I mumbled under my breath, as I drank my cappuccino, suddenly mindful of how good it smelled and tasted, and how lucky I was to be there sitting in a cozy café, chatting and laughing with friends.

The Prodigal Blogger

Yes, that's me. I know I've abandoned this blog for quite sometime, and I know I've promised to keep you posted on my escapades here in Ethiopia. Thank you for those who e-mailed to ask about what's happening to me here. And for those who thought I was already eaten by hyaenas, thanks for your concern.

Anyway, the Internet situation here is already improving. Hurrah to globalization! So I might manage to update regularly, though my post will be more of a retrospect already.

Enjoy!

I'm (Unofficially) Back to Blogging!

Not that anybody would care . . . after i "abandoned" my blog for ages. Wow, how time flies! It's actually been six months now since I've visited my own site. When I set foot in Ethiopia last February 1 (yes, for those who didn't know, I made it here), first thing I wanted to do was update you guys about my escapades, of course. You know, the usual how I survived the infamous Immigration officials, how I managed to sneak 13 kilograms more into my luggage, how I resisted the urge to snap photos of the magnificient airport in Dubai (lest I will end up in Philippine television before spending a night in jail), etc., etc. Well, what do you know? Blogspot (along with Skype and others) was/is actually banned here! For what reason, only goodness knows. Tried several times to access it to no avail. But six months after, what do you know, I'm blogging again!

Hope my excitement is not shortlived, though, because, my friend, communication technology in this country is just "state of the art". I actually have no words for it, honestly. I don't know what's the trend now back home, but here broadband and wireless Internet have just been introduced. Forget about cellphone wallet, Internet banking, and stuff like that---they don't exist here. Checking and writing e-mails could be a pain that I've almost given up on it. While Internet cafes are sprouting like mushrooms and while home-based Internet subscriptions are skyrocketing back home, Internet places here are as scarce as dressed chicken. And they charge outrageous rates: 25 Ethiopian birr an hour (106 Philippine pesos). Violent reactions, anyone?

Speaking of outrageous, let's talk about the mobile phone network. Now, since the Internet and mobile network is monopolized by a government-owned company, what do you expect? The network could just misbehave and you'll just have to bear it because there's simply no way you can control it. It reminds me of how "spoiled" we are at home. When an Internet connection slows or a message is not sent, we dial customer service hotlines in a flash, scream at the poor call center guys, and then get refunded for whatever inconvenience they have caused us. Forget it here.

Calling home is always a lottery. Either you get through or you don't. Texting home? Are you kidding me? Since I've been here, I only received two calls from my family (though they've been trying my phone endlessly) and one text message (during my birthday; God is good). Now please don't ask me why I don't call or you will have a tongue lashing, my dearest.

Now the power situation. When I first came here, there was a scheduled power cut one day a week, then it became two days, then it became three...now we have power every other day. Believe me, you cannot underestimate the power of a candle and a good book during no-power nights. The upside is I've caught up on my reading. The downside I'll leave to your imagination.