solegraphy :: like calligraphy, only better

Things on my mind:

1) No matter what the Britons I spent the afternoon with say, Ethiopian samosas are a very bad idea and I wish I had never ever ever had that one at the bazaar.

2) Hearing said Britons imitate an American accent is amusing as it sounds.

3) I really wish I hadn’t had that samosa.

4) Stupid African Union meetings in Addis which slow down the internet to rediculous proportions.

5) No samosas ever again.

6) The British custom of tea and coffee to fix all ills is absolutely absurd and does not work.

7) Samosas no longer on the “permitted foods for Jessica” list.

And so, obviously, I have decided that samosas are a very bad idea. Sure, I can eat only injera (fermented pancake batter, then made into that nasty tangy bread) for three days straight at exceptionally shady Ethiopian restaurants, but the samosas made at a church bazaar have me wishing I could happily remove my stomach for the rest of my natural life.

Hooray for me.

Moving on. Last Wednesday, I visited the Addis Ababa Fistular hospital. If you have no idea what a fistula is, as my Aussie friends say, “Good on ya.” This particular hospital was written about in a book called “Hospital by the River” and visited by the Oprah show. Of course, where Oprah goes, I must follow.

Life for women in Ethiopia is extremely difficult. I have seen very small women carrying huge sacks of grains on their backs - sometimes the sacks are much bigger than the woman herself. As a result of this manual labor and very poor nutrition, Ethiopian women are extremely petite. Combine this with the facts that there are only one hundred and ten doctors in the whole of Ethiopia and many women are married by the age of fifteen, pregnancy and delivery are life threatening for the majority of Ethiopian women.

I was given a tour through the hospital by one of my student’s mothers. Her husband is the CEO of the hospital and their passion for their work was simply breathtaking. Walking through the gardens of this hospital, smiling “Tanasalin, dananish?” at women who had gone through the most horrific experience of their lives only to become the mother of a stillborn and mutilated for the rest of their lives is simply heartbreaking. Only one hundred and ten doctors for a country of dying women. The vast majority of those doctors are based in Addis and never venture out to the country side.

It makes you wonder why you are so lucky to be born in the West, why you are so lucky to be a member of a culture that values women. With the small number of doctors, it is no wonder that thousands of Africans die every day due to complications from birth, leprosy, malaria, and AIDS. It seems like an impossible task to ward off the impending attack of these diseases which does not inflict the western world so strongly. You can’t help but feel that even if a cure for AIDS was found, there would be no way to save Africa because of the limited resources and the poverty of the people and the ignorance of the rest of the world.

It is truly overwhelming. Although this post has changed from a post about samosa sickness to one a bit less lighthearted, I hope that you wont’s just read through it quickly. Please, stop and pray for Africa’s future. Please pray for a miracle.