Things We Take For Granted

 

On the day I left Ethiopia, my first flight was to Istanbul, and seated next to me was a very beautiful, Muslim Ethiopian woman who appeared to be in her late twenties or early thirties. I greeted her in Amharic as she sat down in the middle seat, with nothing but her purse in tow. She smiled, but looked slightly uneasy.

After several moments of staring at and inspecting the metal and fabric in her hand, she turned to me with a slightly embarrassed look, and asked me with her eyes if I could fasten her seatbelt. I smiled in an effort to reassure her that there was no problem, demonstrated with my own seatbelt what she needed to do, then repeated it one more time for her to see. “Wow”, I thought to myself. This woman has never been on a plane!

Once everyone was settled into their seats, the flight attendants came by with little plastic packets of headphones, offering them to each passenger. My seatmate accepted one, and then turned to me, again confused. I pointed to the small tv screen on the back of the seat in front of us, and the small hole in our armrests. I plugged her earphones in and then switched the tv on and then off again. Her eyes widened and she looked over to the woman on her right to see if she could believe this discovery.

Another flight attendant came by, this time delivering a small red pouch for each of us. She hesitantly opened the zipper and removed a small packet of foam ear plugs and stared at them. I tapped her arm, waiting for her to watch as I took my own, rolled one into a spiral, and carefully inserted it into my own ear, unsure if she understood the purpose of this neon yellow cone in my ear.

Next she took the eye mask out of the pouch, and I tried to help her put it on without disturbing the perfectly-placed scarf that covered her hair, which was clearly in a pony tail or a bun underneath. She removed the last item from the pouch, and looked for confirmation from me that those really were socks they had given us. I gave her the thumbs-up sign and we got ready for take-off.

Even if I had sat and thought about what it was like to fly for the first time, I still could not possibly have imagined all the things that were new to this woman, and how incredible it would be for me to witness her experience. She spoke slightly more English than I did Amharic, and we were able to use this limited selection of words to exchange very brief conversation.

At meal time, our trays came complete with a rather nice array of food. She sat without touching her meal, and I wondered if she was praying, but noticed that she seemed to be waiting for something. As I reached for and opened the cardboard packet holding the utensils, I saw a look of recognition on her face, and she reached for her own with her beautifully henna-covered hands.

With about 45 minutes left to our flight, I opened my window shade, and again, her eyes grew wide. We were seated next to the wing, and she asked me if that was a different plane. When she saw the clouds below us, she wanted to know what they were. “Do I draw a picture?” I wondered. She asked where the houses were as we stared from our window to the landscape below us. I tried to explain that we were so high up, that it wasn't possible to see the houses just yet. They would look very, very small.

As we started our descent, she began to grimace and brought her hand to her ear. I wasn't sure how successfully I could explain to her how to plug her nose and blow to release the pressure, so I dug in my backpack and handed her a piece of gum, and also encouraged her to yawn.

I couldn't get over how new this all was, and when I couldn't stand the curiosity anymore, I asked her where she was headed. A big, shy smile came across her face, and she said in a very thick accent, “Norway”, and held up her boarding pass to Oslo. I looked at her, smiling and puzzled by her response. She held up her left hand, showing me her ring finger, and said, “I start a new life.”  

Hanging On to Tradition

It is 2004 according to the Ethiopian calendar. Recently deceased Prime Minister Meles Zenawi's image appears on every television screen, on the back of rickshaws, and memorial cards in the streets. It is even displayed on the walls of the immigration desks in Bole International airport. There are unusually large crowds in the streets, gathering to watch funeral coverage of this man who oppressed the majority of the country's tribes while favoring the Tigray of the north.

Meanwhile, in a village tucked away in the southern Omo Valley, something very different is happening. I am in the good company of Toni, my new traveling companion, and Kalla, a twenty-six year old man from the Hamer tribe who speaks impressively proficient English, and is almost done with his high school education. He is wearing his hair in traditional Hamer corn rows, but his clothing is western. I inquire about this, and he explains that the government insists, “This high school is modern and students are required to wear western clothing, remove their tribal jewelry and cut their hair”. Girls are not allowed to wear their traditional goat skins, nor should their breasts be exposed. Kalla says he wonders what's next, and if the government will soon ask the Hamer to cut their own throats.

We walk for seven or eight kilometers down a dirt path created by the dried-out river, surrounded by trees. Occasionally we pass other Hamers, identifiable by their traditional dress, body painting and ornamentation. We stop under the shade of a tree to talk to three men who are preparing to head up to the village. They are painting their legs and we sit down to join them. Kalla paints his legs first, which only men do, and then paints our faces and arms. “Okay”, he smiles, “Now we are ready. Can you hear them singing?” We listen and nod as we begin to walk.

 

Whips, welts, blood and bells... breasts, body paint... goat skins, gourds, guns and horns. We are attending a Bull Jumping ceremony, and this is NOT intended for tourists. If a Hamer male wishes to be eligible for marriage, he must go through this passage first. He is to be the focus of the entire village starting very early in the day, and the women will start by gathering in a very large huddle and dancing. They wear bells tied to their legs, and as they all jump and flip their head and clay-covered hair from side to side, forward and back, the sound is deafening. They carry sticks, blow horns and chant songs that help prepare the jumper on his big day. These actions are repeated throughout the day until right before sunset when the jumping occurs.

Around 2:00, Toni and I see the women begin to rush away, all in the direction of a small group of men who are coming toward us from a distance. The whippers have arrived. These women bombard the men who arrive very nonchalantly, some of them smiling, others looking very serious. As the men separate, several women surround each of them, pulling on their arms, blocking their path, trying to force their switch into the men's hands...and it begins.

Each man singles out a woman who looks him boldly in the face as he slowly raises his arm behind him and lashes out hard and fast. The switch comes down so quickly on her back that it's over in a blink, leaving a bloody, five to eight inch mark across her back. These women do not yell. They do not cry out. They hardly blink. Friends circulate, putting a special butter on the gash, causing it to become infected and form scar tissue. As I watch this, I now understand why Hamer women's backs are covered in huge, inflamed welts.

We spend the next several hours finding a balance between participation and observation. Some of the Hamer women invite us to dance. I am more worried about saying “no” than about how ridiculous I feel. Later, we sit on a goat hide mat and share Parsi with a few others. Parsi is an alcoholic mix, passed around in a gourd, made of sorgum, honey, water and I don't know what else. It looks just like mud, and as I force my worried, western self to take a sip, I say a little prayer that the water was first boiled. I smile big at Toni and she returns the smile. We are silently laughing together as we know we're sharing the same thought, and pass the gourd on for others to drink.

It is past 6:00 when they round up the bulls. The women are still dancing and singing, horns blowing and bells jingling. There are hundreds of us standing in an expectant circle, and the bull jumper stands disrobed in the middle of it all, surrounded by about fifteen bulls. The other men gradually line the bulls up in one straight row, remaining one at the front and one behind to ensure that they do not run.

The moment is finally here. There is no hush as one might expect. The jumper takes a very short running start, and without using his hands, manages to climb right up the side of the first bull and run straight across all of their backs without missing a beat.

He must do this four times, and will take a beating if he shames his family by falling. He is on his second run when I realize I am holding my breath. I am so nervous for this perfect stranger that I almost cannot hold my camera steady. As he finishes the fourth run and his feet touch the ground, Toni and I find ourselves jumping up and down cheering as the men around him cover him up and congratulate him.

The sun is nearly down, and Kalla grabs Toni's hand and mine and leads us quickly through the crowd. Braids covered in clay, goat skin skirts, rifles, babies on backs – it all whooshes by as we head down the hill, knowing we have an eight kilometer trek ahead of us to do in the dark. Toni and I look at each other, eyes wide, still in disbelief at the day we have experienced. As we walk, I think to myself how fortunate we were to be a part of this Hamer ceremony. Ethiopia is changing rapidly. Just six years ago I visited the southern Omo Valley, and it was a very different place. Tourism is growing, the government is making demands of the tribes, and it is quite possible that in a few short years, the Hamer may cease to practice this custom the way they do today.

Suddenly, I find myself thinking to the future. I imagine myself a grandparent, telling my children's children about this age-old ritual that I witnessed with my own eyes, and I picture them shaking their heads in disbelief, just like Toni and I did. I sure hope I live to tell these stories for generations to come.