Day 2 Ethiopia: Coffee Ceremony

An American's idea of a good cup of coffee is rolling through a Starbucks drive-thru and ordering an overpriced cafe latte.  Don't get me wrong, I love lattes as a treat once in awhile - cinnamon dolce to be exact.  Andy and I also drink at least two cups each of home brewed coffee every morning.  I always prepare it the night before, adding water and heaping spoonfuls of ground coffee, then set the timer so that it will be freshly brewed by the time I wake up at 5:45 am.  We love coffee.

But our coffee, whether Starbucks or home brewed, is absolutely no match for the buna (coffee) of an Ethiopian coffee ceremony.  Every Ethiopian knows how to prepare a coffee ceremony, and we had the privilege of experiencing one yesterday in Korah, one of the poorest sections of Addis. 

You smell Korah long before you see it.  As you get closer, you see the piles of trash emerging from the landscape like mountains, dotted with people and stray animals and discarded furniture and old vehicles.  The smell alone brought back memories for me of a college missions trip to Mexico where we served the people who lived in the dumps of Matamoros and Reyes.  Similar to that, Korah is a community built around garbage - and its people depend on it for food, employment, and housing.

After driving by the actual dump, we turned down a side alley lined with shanties, bumped along a dirt road, and slowed down just long enough to pick up Amasale.  Wearing a long, flowing skirt and a bright red head scarf, she jumped in our van and started chatting happily with our translators.  In another minute we stopped and there was Alem waiting for us, huge grin on her face and arms open in welcome.  "Salaamno," (hello) she said, and we all got out and exchanged hugs and kisses on the cheek.  She pointed to a narrow opening in a concrete wall and motioned for us to follow her down another alleyway, the dirt path punctuated with rocks of all shapes and sizes.  After a short walk weaving past a few mud houses, she pulled out a little key and opened a padlock hanging on her door, and welcomed us into her home.

After our eyes adjusted to the darkness, we had a chance to look around.  A small raised bed stood in one corner.  Next to it stood a simple wooden hutch containing a few mismatched kitchen utensils and cooking pots.  We sat down on a small blanket-covered mattress opposite the bed.  Laid out on the floor was a small tray, eight small white teacups, a bowl of sugar, and a stack of white saucers.

 Alem sat down and pulled out a handful of green, raw coffee beans and began rinsing them in a plastic bowl.  As she rinsed, Andy asked her to tell us about herself, and over the next half hour, she weaved the stories of her life with the ritual of the traditional Ethiopian coffee ceremony.

While Alem rinsed beans, Amasale fanned the coals nestled in the bottom of the portable fire pit.  Next Alem placed the beans in a flat pan and began slowly stirring them with a metal poker, talking and pausing every so often so that Sammy could translate. We sat spellbound by the rich aromas and the beautiful lilt of the Amharic language.  A story emerged of love and loss, heartache and hope, children and blessing and poverty.  And all throughout was a message of rescue - of her God - her provider.

The beans turned a rich brown color and then Amasale took them outside and began grinding them in a large mortar and pestel.

Alem added the grounds to a simple metal teapot of water and set it over the fire to brew.  Then she carefully poured a cup of steaming, aromatic coffee for each of us, added a spoonful of sugar, and passed them out.

At home, I add a teaspoon of sugar and some hazelnut creamer to my coffee.  Andy always teases me that I'm not drinking real coffee.  I drank real coffee in that little one-room house yesterday.  And it was the most delicious coffee I have ever had in my life.  I don't know if it had more to do with the actual purity of the entire process, or the beautiful women we shared it with.

Beza, another one of our other translators, is on the bed.  She downed that coffee so fast! :)

 By American standards, these two women are poor.  Most would look at them with pity.  Yet Andy and I both agreed they are the blessed ones and it is we who are to be pitied.  "Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise..." When we have every resource at our fingertips, we have little opportunity to exercise our faith.  Both Amasale and Alem recently lost the jobs they had depended on for the meager income that allows them to buy food and rent their small houses.  Amasale told us through tears that she was very sad, but in the same breath, declared trust that God would provide.  Our tears flowed freely as we witnessed their rich faith and complete dependence on our God. Andy asked if he could pray for them.  Sammy translated, and after every sentence, in unison they both said, "Amen."  I can say they have a deeper faith then I do.  They are two of the most beautiful women with the most beautiful hearts I have ever met. 

Soon it was time to go.  We said "Amaseganala" over and over (thank you) which seemed such a paltry offering compared to what they had given us.  Amasale put her arm around me as we walked back to our van and although we exchanged no words, I hope she felt the deep respect and love I was feeling for her and her friend Alem.
 
Amasale and Alem, you showed us so much about hospitality and generosity and faith.  Thank you for that.  We will forever remember that day and that cup of coffee.  I don't know if we will see you again, but you are our sisters in Christ, which means we get to spend eternity with you. Until then, Ciao dear sisters and much love to you!