Gimme-Gimme-Gimme

[backdated: Jan 28th]
This post is a hard one for me to write, particularly since I know how it will portray my character to those I love most, and even to people whom I've never met. However, to write it any differently or less honestly, or not to write it at all, would compromise my authorial integrity, and that is a value I hold dear.

So.. if 'Personal values of mine' was going to be a list, integrity would be pretty high up, but I don't think it would beat compassion out of the top spot. Compassion in others will always win my esteem, and I hope to never grow so cynical (through much-enjoyed re-readings of Catch-22) that I am incapable of compassion.
Respect, however, is a close second to compassion, both self-respect and respect for others, and this is where I have run into trouble in Ethiopia. For me every interpersonal interaction should be characterized by respect - usually in the form of politeness, but not always. In Texan culture we show respect through great friendliness; in Japan I learned to be respectful with specific and stylized manners. Here in Ethiopia, I'm not well-informed about the unique national customs of respect, but I arrived ready to combine politeness with friendliness and the universal catalyst, a big smile.

This attitude (like a few others I've had) was unfortunately a bit naive.

In the 70s and 80s, there was a great deal of attention on Ethiopia's severe problems of poverty and famine, leading to an international surge of aid organizations in the country - which are, it seems, mostly still active. While I have always honored such work as an incredible manifestation of compassion, since arriving in a historically aid-recipient country I have become painfully aware of the ugly underside of this charity - and painfully familiar with the term, "culture of dependency".
It would be unfair to say that Ethiopia has completely acquired a culture of dependency, but that thinking has certainly left its mark, especially with regard to the national attitude towards non-Africans. To be blunt, I have run up against the equation: foreigner = handout.

I might be opening myself here up to charges of racism - but how about the inherent racism in such an equation? A bizarre sort of racism, true, but there nonetheless- that a certain shade of skin incidates 'mondo' (David's word) money, and that any Ethiopian who asks deserves to have their share of it.

It's true I grew up with far more than some of the children who have come running from blocks away at the sight of my skin. And it does bother my conscience not to give them anything. But honestly, I hardly have a chance to reflect on my white guilt because fending off the demands - yes, demands - for money from healthy children who only a moment before were happily playing soccer occupies all of my attention. You don't get a general impresion of desperation, as I would have imagined from the old television ads, but one of entitlement. "You are a walking sack of money, so gimme some."
It's not just money - anything we have is fair game. Carrying a few bananas for our breakfast, David was accosted by a boy who stuck out his hand and declared, "Gimme a banana!" (The former ESL teacher in me was thrilled at such lovely use of the article.) But as his repeated requests had no effect on the beggar-immune David, the boy became quite angry, shocked at our defiance. Couldn't we see that what we had was his for the needing?

I admit I did feel guilty not to give him one; in the U.S., I never give money to people who ask for it, but I give food. And since I never go far without a snack, and sometimes people really are hungry, it's usually a successful interaction. So why did I deny this Ethiopian [read: poor, unfortunate] child?

First off, he wasn't desperate, or homeless: he came running out of a shop upon seeing us, and chased us down the street demanding anything giveable he could see. And frankly, I refuse flat-out to accept that just being Ethiopian makes you needy and automatically in need of charity from strangers. If that's not racism, what is??

Moreover, I know from other experiences that if we had had something else, he would have demanded that instead; in other words, I doubt it was hunger that made him think of the banana. I once had a sweet little girl tell me to give her the shirt I was wearing. (It was the only one I had on, and we were outside of a church, so that didn't get far.) And the pens.. oh, merde, the pens. At some point in the recent past, some foreigner (or perhaps a group working in tandem) came to Ethiopia armed with a metric ton of pens, apparently with the express purpose of distributing them at random among the under-10 population. And every foreigner since then has paid the price. At every turn, David and I are accosted by screaming children who stick out their hands and pull on our clothes, yelling, "PEN! PEN! GIMME PEN!"

While such mobbing is usually (but not always) limited to children, the mindset that prompts it is unfortunately shared by a noticable percentage of the adult population. Hotels, stores, and even museums have prices several times higher for foreigners than for Ethiopians. Arranging transport involves battling the assumption that we are going to cheerfully pay six or seven different parties for the various tasks of getting a seat, keeping a seat, sitting in the seat, having our bags put on top, having our bags tied properly so they don't fall off, and then having our bags taken down again when it's time to inexplicably change buses before departure. (It should go without saying, we are quite cheerfully prepared to pay various parties for several of those privileges, but they do take it a bit far. And the key thing is, none of the locals seem to pay more than once.) Even if we casually ask directions from a 'friendly stranger' on the street, we risk getting charged 'guide fees' for it. On my first afternoon in Ethiopia, I was talking to David in my hotel room when a woman took it upon herself to come right on in and turn on the light.. and then demanded to be paid for it.

What hurts the most is that I've looked for signs that Ethiopians do this to each other as well - hey, perhaps it's just a national custom to tip everyone for everything - but really, they don't. It's the arrival of a foreigner on the scene that turns every frolicking child into a starving beggar in need of pens, every adult into a would-be guide, every establishment into a high-priced affair. I exaggerate. But really, if I thought Japan was bad for making you feel like an outsider, I had another thing coming.

Our apprehension about all this has naturally modified our behavior towards strangers. This once caused an embarassing situation in Lalibela, when a man got up to show us something. David and I both leapt to stop him- "No please don't trouble yourself! We can find it! It's fine!"- at which point he castigated us that we should graciously accept his hospitality, he was helping us, he wasn't going to try to get money from us. I was immediately embarassed (though I couldn't help thinking it funny how he knew exactly what we were afraid of), but shameless David clapped him warmly on the back and laughed, "Well, then you're certainly a bit different from most of your countrymen!"
I couldn't help being a bit secretly pleased at his frankness.

The ironic thing is that Ethiopia is the one nation in Africa that has never been colonized (unless you count Italy's brief and unsuccessful jaunt), and the Ethiopians are the first to say it. Good for them! Ethiopia's got an awesome history, and you have to respect how it's lasted more or less as a healthy, stable unit for thousands of years. But when I'm crowded by people who have come out of the woodwork to beg from me, as a foreigner distributing my munificence, I think horrible thoughts to myself.. For a country that's always proudly enjoyed its independence, you don't really act it..

That same day in Lalibela, there was a bonfire outside our hotel for St. George's Day. Not much of a night person, David declined attending; I too was exhausted, but was equally reluctant to pass up any opportunity for international socializing, especially in a country where I'd been having so little of it. Going down to the fire, I was told to sit at a table full of women. I cheerfully introduced myself and asked their names, only to commence a charade in which the women took turns inventing apparently quite witty monikers in Amharic that set off the rest of the group in hysterics. Having given my own real name, I felt a little embarassed but plunged forth anyway, repeating the false names back at them (amid more laughter) and trying to remember each one. I have learned some Amharic, but after a few minutes, conversation flagged a bit. Mostly they asked whether I already had a 'guide' for the next day (I did). Then they wanted to know who. I was vague. That was it. For some reason, I felt quite awkward and shy. I admit I ended up only waiting out the minimum polite amount of time before I could go to bed.
On the stairs back up to the room, I bumped into one of the women; I was amazed to find that her disdainful manner had turned quite friendly, and then the next minute she was writing her number down so I could call her to meet up the next day. I soon figured out why; she performed the 'coffee ceremony' that Lonely Planet cites as part of the 'siren scam' (invite foreigner over, do coffee ceremony or some other 'cultural activity', charge exorbitant amounts of money at end, etc), and wanted me to come over. Well, mystery of manner-change explained, I suppose, but it didn't exactly make me feel warm and fuzzy climbing back up to bed. I am useful insofar as I am a wallet.

The whole experience came dangerously close to confirming this horrible suspicion I've been fighting, that interacting positively with Ethiopians as a white person is continget upon a flow of money or goods from me to them.. and even then respect has not been won.

It is unfair of me to write off all Ethiopians on a paltry few weeks' tourist experience, however, and I refuse to do it, or to give up on creating positive relationships. So, I have developed perhaps unusual ways of circumventing the impression my skin gives. Most often, I sing. When children run up to me screaming "Money!" or "Pen!" and stick their hands out, I begin to sing to them. We may not have a language in common, and I refuse to perpetuate the fantasy that foreigners are walking ATMs, but it is perhaps a way to share something. Admittedly, I risk looking a little like Maria Von Trapp, walking down the street singing to an entourage of smiling children. However, it's worth it for this former elementary teacher to be able to actually smile at kids, and have them smile back, and then wave goodbye after five minutes' pleasant walk together and walk away happy.