Guma squeezes lime into his pineapple juice

At Mermaid Ice Cream we enjoyed Ethiopian-style juice. The clientele was entirely male, so I might have been uncomfortable without Guma. The juice was fruit puree with plenty of sugar, already delicious but improved exponentially with the lime wedges served with it. Guma's pineapple juice and my papaya juice came to just 8 birr.

Winding through the narrow alleys, we arrived at a small, gleaming white-and-teal shrine to find the Guma's imam friend had stepped out. Her young granddaughters dutifully completing their household chores reported that she hadn't been feeling well and had gone to the hospital with her daughter.

Guma didn't officially introduce us by name, but encouraged the younger one to pose for some photos. Cheerfully, she arranged herself in front of the family's stunning baskets, balancing them on her head, stacking several in her arms, or simply smiling proudly before the full display.

The girls offered me coffee, and while we waited for them to gather some sticks for firewood, we visited the small shrine. According to Guma, it was unusual to live on the same property as a shrine. I rapidly realized that despite his excellent English, he didn't always understand me; lines of questioning on the rarity of female imams in the Muslim world, their acceptance among mixed congregations and their frequency within Harar specifically went nowhere. It didn't help much that he wasn't Muslim himself, and held no opinions about these issues.

The imam returned on the arm of her daughter; fat, slow-moving, with deep crinkles at her smiling eyes, I found myself glowing in the presence of this woman who was revered in the religious community, yet also struck me as simply Grandma.

No one in this household spoke more than a few words of English, so I simply sat back and soaked it in. The daughter slowly roasted the green coffee beans while her husband gave a friendly grin every time our eyes met. A housekeeper napped on the porch. He pulled the blanket off his face, blinking at the Asian stranger, lazily answering the imam's questions while I wondered how this particular employer-employee relationship worked. A woman in charge of preparing the Eid Al-Adha festivities stopped by to discuss the number of animals to be slaughtered in order to feed the vast homeless population.

The first cup of coffee was made from roasted shells. It was a clear light brown, looking more like tea but smelling of coffee. Through Guma, the imam and I chatted about Ethiopia, and my plans while here. The pretty granddaughter ground the roasted beans with a mortar and pestle, smiling shyly. The imam brought out a shisha, which she obviously thoroughly enjoyed, transporting me back to the Middle East with the first puff.

Thoughtfully, the imam told me she never knew Chinese people were so beautiful. A dubious compliment, as no doubt her only previous sightings were male construction workers. I trotted out my few words of Arabic to make her laugh, and she tried out a couple words of English.

A misunderstanding occurred when a chat seller stopped by, and Guma said I should buy some of the narcotic plant. Confusedly, I said I didn't want any. He said, "it's not for you, it's for everyone," which suddenly made me feel like I was being used for being "rich." Huffily, I said that I was happy to donate to the shrine, but did not want to buy leaves that I wouldn't be using. Now I appreciated that no one spoke English, as my argument with Guma was not understood. I have no idea how Guma translated any of this, but the family was relieved when I relaxed, and even encouraged me to try the chat. With complete lack of technique, I macerated the leaves into small bits instead of creating a chewy ball inside my cheek, and never felt any of the stimulant's effects.

The rest of the morning passed pleasantly. The traditional coffee ceremony generally included 3 cups, not including the first one brewed from shells. I bought three lovely, dust-coated ancient baskets for ridiculously low price of $12 total, so much more charming because they were actually made by the imam's grandmother. I was unclear whether I was taking away family heirlooms, or baskets used on a regular basis around the home, or if every private home operated as a shop. Guma, as usual, didn't understand the questions.

Meanwhile Guma, looking affected by all the chat and shisha smoke, had been gazing at me for too long with half-closed eyes. I felt it was time to break free.

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