Below are my journal entries from Ethiopia. They are backwards, so I numbered them so you can read them in order (1-9). I’ve also posted my photos on my Flickr website, in addition to the ones you can find below. That address is http://www.flickr.com/photos/bncampbell.

Things I Learned in Ethiopia
-When you visit a country where the meanings of names are important, and your name essentially means a type of alcohol, you will be picked on.
-A simple breakfast of barley bread and hibiscus tea with my new Ethiopian friends is the perfect way to start a day.
-Even an Ethiopian personal trainer at the gym can spot me as a “beginner”—especially when I’m sitting backwards at the machine.
-Dehydration means not peeing for 12 hours.
-The only things granted right-of-way on the streets of Addis Ababa are cows and goats.
-Highway lanes are merely suggestions.
-When fruit is marinated, always ask what it’s marinated in. Or suffer the consequences.
-Sticking your head in an Ethiopian toilet is both humbling and disgusting.

March 31, 2007
Today I vomited in three countries. Today I realized that you haven’t truly lived until you’ve had stuck your head in the toilet at the Addis Ababa International airport. Today I christened Ethiopia, Egypt and London in a most unusual way.

I woke up at 2 a.m., a mere three hours before we were to leave for the airport. Before I was even fully awake I was leaning over the toilet. “This cannot be happening,” I thought. But my body insisted otherwise.

I won’t go into the details. I’ll just summarize the experience with the fact that I thought I would die. Or I wished I would die. The details are fuzzy. I insisted that we go to the airport at our appointed time. Our airline only made this flight once a day, and I just wanted to be home.

Seven trips to the bathroom later, I lay curled up on the plane, wondering if my body could somehow survive the nearly 17-hours it would have to spend in the air. My body answered with a definitive “NO!”

But it did survive. And by the time we landed in New York I felt like I just might live. Maybe.

March 30, 2007
Today I left Ethiopia. The streets were once again dark, and the city was quiet. No blaring horns. No children begging at my window. A few hours later I sat on a plane and bumped down the runway, my face pressed against the window. The same streetlights flickered, and cars had begun to fill the streets below. I left Ethiopia in a cloud of dust as our plane lifted into the air.

Now, a long day of travel is finally behind me. A little while ago, our plane descended on New York, and we were herded through customs. I was surprised at the reverse culture shock. I had taken for granted the kindness of the people of Ethiopia. The humble spirits. The kindness to strangers. In New York, I felt none of that. My thank you’s were met with glares instead of quiet nods and whispered you’re welcome’s.

I already miss the musical sound of Amharic voices. The English tongue sounds too loud to me, almost crude. I miss holding the warm hand of a child who has been rescued from poverty. I miss sipping hot bitter coffee as a display of friendship. I miss glass bottles of coke drank together in a cool office. I miss awakening to the sound of birds chirping and dogs barking and the morning prayers of the Orthodox church down the street. I miss the people of Ethiopia. How do you miss something you barely knew?

In a few minutes, I will shower and the last bit of Ethiopian dust will swirl down the drain. When I wash my face, the last Ethiopian kiss will disappear from my cheeks. It saddens me to know that the hibiscus tea that I spilled on my jacket will only be a faint stain after I do my laundry. That when I clean off my shoes, the dried Ethiopian mud will be swept away. I will only be left with a few framed photos, my stories, and a different heart. May it never be the same again.

March 29, 2007
Tonight I sat by the pool, bugs nibbling my ankles, and talked with a brilliant doctor about the reality of AIDS in Ethiopia. Dr. A is passionate and articulate, and his knowledge about this terrible epidemic was more than I could have researched on the web or read in a textbook. Because to Dr. A, AIDS is not just a topic, it is a reality.

Our conversation began the day before as we rode back from Walliso. Dr. A was visibly agitated by some things he learned on the trip, specifically the two mothers at one of the projects who had recently given birth to their babies without telling anybody that they had AIDS.

“It’s like they killed them,” he said sadly, shaking his head. By keeping their secret, they had more than tripled the chances that their infant children would contract this deadly disease. If they had breastfed, the chances tripled again.

“They still believe in this stigma, but it shouldn’t be. Every home has been touched by AIDS,” says Dr. A, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Everyone knows someone with AIDS. Everyone has attended a funeral of a family member or neighbor who died of AIDS. A stigma means it is something rare. I’m sorry to say, AIDS is not rare in Ethiopia anymore.”

We continued our conversation in the moonlight tonight, and Dr. A’s passion had not waned. AIDS is magnified by the poverty of Ethiopia. Malnutrition kills more quickly when a body is already weakened by AIDS. What’s the point of purchasing medicine when there is no money for food? Will a mother choose medical care for one of her children while letting the others starve? Should she?

Dr. A also shared with me that poverty means that the very people who try to stop AIDS are often put in danger. When he was doing his pediatric residency, he was assisting with the labor of a woman whose child would need immediate intervention after he was born. Dr. A asked for gloves, and was told there were none. The mother was HIV-positive. The child would die without his help. What choice did he have? So a few moments later, he held that bloody child in his bare hands and focused on bringing life—while trying to ignore the possibility of his own death.

He told us of a catholic nurse who cut the umbilical cord of a birthing mother with AIDS. A blood vessel ruptured, sending blood spraying, and hitting the nurse in the eye. When Dr. A met her, she was in the very same hospital where she once saved lives, fighting for her own. A simple pair of plastic glasses would have saved her life.

March 28, 2007
Today, I was able to visit a project where we work with school-age children. (As a side note, this was my second visit to this project—the first time my camera refused to work.) The ride to the project was over bone-rattling roads with deep ruts and narrow passageways.

It seemed that some of the children recognized me (I mean seriously, how often do they see a white person with big hair twice in one week!) The older children came up to me boldly, shaking my hand, asking my name.

God, they were beautiful! I don’t even know how to explain it. Such smiles! Such bright eyes! My heart hurt with all of it.

The kindergartners made me laugh. Since most of their eyes were at waist level or below, it took them a moment to get to my face. I could tell the instant the color of my skin dawned on them. Eyes grew wide. Mouths fell open. Some ran away. Others giggled. Three brave ones became my shadow. Each time I turned to look behind me, one would run away, one would cover her eyes and the other froze in his tracks. When I held out my hand to the paralyzed one, he took it shyly and walked with me a few steps. Soon he ran off, probably to tell his friends he had touched the white person!

As we left, a tiny girl approached me. Her face was freshly scrubbed, and as I knelt down to say hello, she kissed my cheek. I returned the gesture on her still damp one. How I wish time would have stopped. Even now, only a few hours later, the memory is already fading. To write it down is to hold it for a few moments longer.