I met my husband at work in a country where I was practically the only Ethiopian, and in an institution where I was one of two Africans (the other one being a North African).

A few months after what must have been the cheapest wedding ever staged in continental Europe, (total cost: US $500, which included the paper work, court fees and lunch at a nice restaurant for 8 adults and 3 children) I took my husband along to ager-bet to introduce him to my family, and to get to know a part of me he had no other way of knowing.

We arrived at Addis Ababa Bole Airport around 11:00 a.m. in August. We went through Immigration and stood in line to go through Customs, where we had to fill out forms indicating how much foreign currency we were bringing in. The Customs lady looked at the form, looked at me, then looked at the form again, then back to me. She looked at my shoes and noticed that I had on a pair of old shera CHama, very old jeans and an old T-shirt. Then, angrily denouncing me as a liar, she barked, "Are you telling me that you have this much money in your purse? Get all the money out and count it here!" (Oh she was rude!!!) Although nothing like this had ever happened to me before, I calmly smiled and asked her whether I looked so poor. She continued angrily, "Stop kidding around and show me the actual money!" My husband, who was struggling with our luggage, came from behind and asked what was going on. The lady then asked whether I was with the ferenji, and before I could answer she said, "Oh, if you are with him then I believe you have that much money -- you don't have to show it to me. Besides, ferenjis never lie." Wow! What could I say to that?

We spent a few days in Addis with my siblings and then got ready to go to Gojjam to visit my parents. Advised not to drive, we flew to Bahir Dar and then took a bus to Andit Ketema the next day. We tried to hire a taxi from Bahir Dar, but the price went up as soon as they saw the ferenji -- it did not matter that I was the person negotiating and arranging it. When I protested, they started accusing me of not caring for my beloved and poor countrymen. They plainly asked me, "Why should you care about the ferenji's money? All ferenjis have a lot of money, so just let us get some of it, sister."

I did not bother to explain to them that his money was mine and vice versa; we just decided to take a bus instead. That, too, was an experience; everybody on the bus wanted to know about the ferenji. Some of the passengers wanted to touch and feel his hair, etc. After many, many stops in all the small towns between Bahir Dar and Andit Ketema, we finally arrived. Two young guys carried our suitcases and we walked for about 25 minutes to my parents' house. The road was muddy as hell -- though my husband fell down twice and got soaked in the mud, it was no problem for me. You see, this is where I grew up and went to elementary and junior high school. I had walked that route two-three times a day, rain or shine, sometimes carrying heavy loads on my back. All along the route, the people of Andit Ketema came out of their homes en masse, alerted by small children who were thrilled to see a very, very tall, very blond ferenji. The children followed us all the way yelling and screaming, "ferenji, ferenji….." -- I protested and asked them to leave us alone, but no success. The guys who carried our suitcases tried to chase some of the kids away. Nope, no luck!

We arrived at my parents' house where we were received with joy. There was fresh Qetema covering the floor, fresh coffee brewing, Qolo (which, by the way, is still my husband's favorite snack), Tela and AreQe served. The many people who came to visit us all brought something, mostly Tela and AreQe. My husband didn't understand the ceremonial greetings, particularly since I hadn't explained any of this to him in advance (I'd forgotten all about it myself). The guests all kissed me on the cheek forcefully, but most were not sure what to do with my husband; some simply kissed him the way they kissed me, but the younger ones bowed to kiss our knees or feet -- we were supposed to pick them up and kiss them on the cheeks. Of course, we had to stand every time people came to the house, as well. Though he didn't like it much, my husband adjusted to this custom quickly.

My favorite neighbors came to visit at the end of the day. She was a remarkable lady who had loved me as a child and truly understood me. I was a rebellious child -- being herself a rebellious woman at heart, she understood and appreciated that part in me. After she became a widow, two years before our visit, she decided to be a menekuse, so she was Emahoy during our visit. I was so glad to see her. She kissed both of us and then she declared that she wanted to sit very close to my husband and look at him carefully. I smiled and did not say anything; basically she was not asking anybody's permission -- she was simply informing us of her intentions. She pulled her chair in front of my husband and looked at him carefully. My husband turned to me and asked, "What is she doing?" I laughed and told him that she just wanted to have a close look at him because she had never seen a white person in her life before. After several minutes of looking him in the eye, touching his arms and neck, etc., she turned to me and to others and declared "Woyine, gud new! Aynu lik yedimet ayin yimeslal. Yayletal? " I laughed hard, but she was not that far off in what she said. His eyes are too blue and strange looking, especially for a person who had never imagined that eyes could be anything other than black or dark brown. Come to think of it, it is not so strange that she wondered whether my husband could really see with his deep blue eyes. I gently kissed her forehead and assured her that he was not blind. When she was done with her examination, she sighed heavily, turned to me and said "Well, you were always different and I am not surprised that you married a ferenji, but at least you chose a ferenji who is not terribly white." My husband's tan from exposure to the tropical sun was the only thing acceptable to this remarkable old woman -- in fact, this was the only "semi-endorsement" I got from anybody in Ethiopia.

Many of the villagers who came to visit asked whether my husband was "Amarican" or "Talian". For them all ferenjis were either American or Italian. They had never heard of anything else. I told them his nationality, but I doubt whether they understood.

When it was dark, we lit a kuraz as there was no electricity. We had a good dinner, but my husband did not like the idea of everybody eating from one big mesob -- he thought it was totally unhygienic. Then he wanted to go to the toilet, but there wasn't any -- not like he was used to. I informed him that he could take the flashlight we brought with us and go to the nearby bush. Then he asked me where he could get some toilet paper. Well, there wasn't any of that, either! He said "Well, what am going to use?" I told him to go to the bush, look around and figure out what the natives or anybody else would use in that situation. He left, unhappy I must add. When he came back, I asked him what he had done. He smiled and informed me that he had used soft leaves. Good! That is exactly what we did growing up.

Then it was bed time. My parents had bought new bed sheets for us, but I removed them and arranged our bed the way it had been when I was a kid. I did not use bed sheets back then -- we would not use them now. We slept on jendi or aguaza (I guess only the Gojjamés know these words -- these are cow or sheep hides). It had been a long day and we were both exhausted. We slept well. However, we discovered in the morning that the hungry fleas had had a field day on my husband's body. He was completely covered with flea bites. It was an incredible sight; I had never seen anything like it. He wanted me to count the big blisters and also to take a picture before they disappeared so that he could report the "big adventure" back to his family in Europe. What good would that do? I thought. As it turned out, neither the pictures nor the count were needed as the blisters stayed in place for about a month! Needless to say, not a single blister appeared on me. Either the fleas knew me all too well and did not want a bite anymore, or my body had already developed immunity after so many years of exposure to the fleas!

We went to the market on Saturday. Both my husband and I love open markets and always visit them wherever we go, buying unusual things from locals and tasting various foods (the only exceptions, at least for me, were foods in the markets of China where practically every crawling or walking animal on the face of the earth is cooked and eaten). Anyway, the Saturday market visit in Andit Ketema was not a success. We were swamped with curious onlookers who wanted to have a close look at this extremely tall and strange looking ferenji -- it was unbelievable. My mother tried to intervene, but had no success. They wanted to touch his hair (the men commented that his hair looked like yemashila chira, i.e. corn silk), his eyes like yedimet ayin (so you see, my dear Emahoy had been right), and comments like "Ayehew? Woy enate, endet loga new! " But looking on the bright side, I am glad we gave them this excitement and something to talk about for few days. My husband was more amused than irritated by all the attention and now, some seven years later, he still talks about it with a big smile on his face.

We took the same route back to Addis three days later. It rained heavily the night before our departure. My husband managed to reach the bus stop without falling down this time, but he was still soaked with mud. Some people complained "Ferenjun minew asekayeshiw? " (I wondered whether they expected me to carry him) We waited in the street for about an hour, the crowd around my husband getting bigger by the minute. Finally the bus for Bahir Dar arrived and people were scrambling to get on the bus since it was obvious there weren't enough seats for everybody. The awtanti pushed the people forcefully away from the door, shouting and insulting the people who pushed back and tried to get on the bus. He screamed and instructed them to let only the ferenji in. He kept on yelling "Come on in, ferenji"; I told my husband what he was saying, and with the help of the awtanti managed to get in, but then awtanti tried to close the door and would not let me in. I shouted back and told him that the ferenji would not go without me!!! Then he opened the door and told the pushing crowd "Lijituan asgebuat! " (Well, here I was an adult woman, a Senior Scientist at an international research organization with a PhD and all sorts of other credentials, but some guy was calling me "lijitua". Oh, these dirty old jeans and old canvas shoes are not helping, are they?). But I got in, whew! We spent one night in Bahir Dar and flew back to Addis the next day.

We walked endlessly all over Addis including, of course, Merkato. The verbal abuse I sustained from strangers in the streets of Addis is a long, long story, and I must tell you that it was always and without exception men who were the abusers. They shouted at me, asking me why I was with a ferenji, how much he had paid me, etc. (I often wonder whether it ever occurs to any of these guys that black and white couples could be madly in love with each other). Interestingly, when we went back to Ethiopia three years later with our baby (my husband always carried our baby on his back everywhere we went in Addis), nobody in the streets uttered a word. It seemed that we had earned their respect just by producing a lovely baby. The only comment I got was "Aye, wondun lij lij asazelshiw! Menew anchi bitaziyat?" I smiled and explained jokingly that I carried the baby for nine months and now it was his turn to carry her.

In short, what I had done was not only introduce my husband to my family, but also to the part of me he had no other way of knowing. I simply wanted him to have some appreciation for my very long march to academic success, for the extreme differences in our respective backgrounds and upbringing, and for my tenacity, hard work and determination, which had gotten me out of Andit Ketema and had made our life together possible.

Each time I go back to Andit Ketema, I revisit the bush where I collected fire wood, visit the river and small stream where I fetched drinking water or washed clothes or took a bath, visit the poor neighbors who gave me so much love and encouragement as a kid, sit under my favorite tree and replay in my head my whole childhood. And each time I come back full of energy and happiness: knowing where I had been, and happy with where I am headed.

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