Ethiopia: The Shoe Shine Boy

Yemataw, body lanky and now molded into our doorway, asks if I need anything.

Water to be fetched? Floor to be cleaned? Chicken slaughtered?

I am completely captivated by his most kind eyes – the kind of eyes that play with you, turn you upside down and inside out, fully aware of their capability and effect. How can I possibly resist engaging with this impossibly charming young man?

And indeed, I want to.

He assumes his service role with aplomb and grace, with a dash of mischievousness. I look at him, and I am witnessing heaven. And a bit of hell as well, as I realize I will too soon have to say goodbye to this riveting soul.

As days turn into weeks, Yemataw becomes part of the fabric of our lives. He shows us how to conserve water. He laughs as we run and hide while he slaughters what is soon to become our dinner. He eats with us, and shares our joys. His head at a constant curious tilt, his amusement rests just below his surface, relaying to me that he knows far more than he lets on.

His story begins to unfold as we walk to market. Fatherless at the age of six, he has assumed the role of family patriarch, wanting only to fulfill his promise to care for his mother, who lives an eight hour walk away.

On occasion, I offer to help him supply his home, a small former storage room the width of his floor mattress, with little light shining through the small window. No thank you, he responds. That purchase is too expensive. Just help with my education at some point, if you must.

One morning as we prepare to set off to see an outer clinic, he asks to join us. I tell him I will see if there is room in the lone hospital truck, which doubles as an ambulance. With ever twinkling eyes, he tells me he will pray for a seat. As we pile into the truck, I see him in the distant, fervently polishing the shoes of the doctors, his main income position, eyes darting from shoes to our car to the shoes and back again. I want to give up my seat to make room for him.

Yet, loss is an everyday occurrence here in this dusty and remote town of Mota. Hope, however, always prevails.

I see, instead of disappointment, a wide smile, eyes dancing. He shines faster as though to say without words Chigga Yellum! (No problem!). I won’t deliberate on loss. What is the use of that?

I return early, and walk to his room. He shows me the things he reveres: a lone poster tacked up crookedly, a warm blanket, two plastic buckets, a small pillow. I search for the well-used hotplate we had earlier given him and I don’t see it. Did he sell it at market? No, there it is.

Yemataw left his village a few years ago and went to work as a tanner for 12 birr (less then $1.00) a month. He picked up English, practiced it wherever he could and eventually found his way to Mota, where he assumed his current position of Principal Shoe Shine Boy and Gofer.

Many a doctor and ferenji (white foreigner) use his services. As I watch the interactions, it is clear that Yemataw is dearly loved. One by one, the doctors line up for lunchtime shoe shines, their western clothes peeking out from under their white medical coats. Handsome they all are, confident also. They have found their way to a secure and well respected position. Chigga Yellum.

Yet, here I stand, observing this scene, and I long to be in Yemataw’s presence most of all. He who knows the human spirit perhaps best of all of us who are formally educated at high levels. He who knows how to focus on solutions, always, rather than dwell on his problems.

I find my heart bursting open over this young man. Can I ever go back to my contained and restrained self after feeling so much love, over and over each day, for a human spirit such as Yemataw? I long, each morning, to see this young man, he who can start and end my day in the most brilliantly, sparkly way.

We find each other a few times every day, laugh hard at the myriad of problems that befall us (which there are, assuredly, many) and set off for his tasks at hand: floor mopping to the sounds of Michael Jackson music, market purchases with gentle patience, translation with gusto, soul soothing with vigilant sensitivity.

At market one day, I offer to purchase a gabi for him, as he does not have one of these Ethiopian traditional cloths. He refuses it. I purchase it anyway, and he shows me to the tailor who can sew it into one gigantic piece. As we wait for the gabi to be sewn, we walk to the local juice bar and sip on spritzes silently, keeping our communication to only smiles and heartfelt sustained eye contact. I love this wonderful human being.

Days begin to slip into the sad realization that soon we will be leaving, and here today I am now saying goodbye. I reach for the gabi he helped me purchase at the Mota market and say “Think of me when you wear it. Please?”, echoing his words he said to me when a day earlier I tried to give him an abandoned scarf I found.

This time, he accepts the gift.

And as I drive away, tears falling freely because they simply come easily here, I see him in a far distant field, looking zealously my way, hands held high in the air, holding the white gabi so that it sways like a flag in the warm morning breeze.

As I watch his form fade into the distant horizon, I am comforted by what I have learned from Ethiopians over and over again: the physical form is less important than the spirit of humanity, and I know he is coming home with me.

Ethiopia: A Place For Longing

In Western culture, I don’t think we find ourselves longing enough in our hearts. Perhaps in our haste and hurried manner, with the ability to connect immediately, we miss out on the effects of pining for someone.

For most of us, water flows, food is abundant, electricity is reliable. Everything is at hand, and we don’t often experience the loss or the threat of losing it. In Ethiopia, cell phone and internet communication is a luxury, if it exists at all. Daily life includes energy specifically reserved for the effects of breakdowns in communication.

And as a result, the human heart connects.

When phones work, I often get calls from Ethiopian friends just for the sake that communication can be had.

Hello? HELLO? It is me, Yemataw. Where are you? How are you? OK. I will call you later.


What did he want?

Just making a connection suffices, and once again, I have been spoken to without words. Tender, heart-tugging touch points.

Ah, we connect. Words can be unnecessary, an embellishment really, when the heart is affected.

Yet, with every call that comes in such as this, I hang up with a broken heart. What did they really want to say? I know what I wanted to say.

But instead, a series of “Hello? HELLO? Are you there?” consumes me, and then SLAM! A silence as I sadly realize the phone connection has gone dead.

To the depths of my inner soul, I long to hear their voice again.

Poverty assumes its position often here, and I suspect the caller might be conserving precious cell phone minutes. Or, they fear they won’t recall enough English words. Who really knows.

Eshi, I am here. I am so here.

And, I will wait for your call again. Please call me again, new friend. I promise to answer!

And I promise to let you go, quickly.

Are you still there now?

Ethiopia: How To Score A Wife With A Lemon

Tongue tastes lemon
Once again, alive.
Captivating it is
Riveted to the Now
Problems wane
Only task,
Without fear,

During Timkat celebration, we hear that the tormenting and highly sensual lemon takes front seat as a beckoning tool to help secure a wife. Here is the recipe.

How To Score A Wife
Girl sees boys, lots of them.
Girl locks eyes with those she likes. Perhaps one. Maybe more.
Boy has lemon in his pocket.
Boy sees girl he likes, and she is looking at him.
Boy throws – hard! – lemon at the chest of the girl he chooses.
Girl at once becomes shy and looks away, never looking at him again, even thought she initiated this!
Boy persists to find her eyes.
Boy does not look elsewhere.
Girl has until sundown to – once again – look straight into his eyes.


Ethiopia: A Male’s Love

I came into this country set to focus on and expose the plight of women, how their frail under-fed bodies give way and break under the enormous pressures of their lives, from their daily hard work to child birth complications to relentless back and forth fetching of firewood and water for their family’s meals. Instead, the tender gestures of the men repeatedly beckon my curiosity and catapult my heart.

I will forever remember the image of these men, eyes searching for assurance, hope and a sign that their loved one will be well. They speak in almost inaudible whispers, “eshie, esh, esh”, (yes, yes, yes) murmuring as I try to communicate through body language and nuances. I extend my hand, hold their eyes with mine, and know sadly that I can’t reassure them of the health of their loved one. I can only offer my Western bred feeble attempt to return the gentle love they express through their delicate manners.

Without doubt, my heart beats for the men of Ethiopia.

One after another, they offer me a jarring counterpoint to my preconceptions of the barbaric circumstances I have heard about: rape, abduction, child marriages. Believing that these things do exist, I see no signs of the capability of these heinous behaviors.

I don’t think the heart can be directed willfully. And today, once again, I feel my heart opening and expanding into deep crevasses that were long ago hardened by a series of youthful poor choices and the history of watching first hand the abuse of my own mother.

These men toil the fields, tend to the animals and can’t bear the sight of their loved one at the throes of unbearable pain. They pace the hallways of the maternity ward, for days, after selling off their cows to pay for the hospital services, searching they eyes of anyone who looks confident. They carry her gently and lovingly for many miles and days in search of medical help.

Will she survive? Will she come home with me? How can I help?

Eshie, esh, esh.

An extended hand is met with a strong grip, from a place of desperation, never wavering their yearning that is born from hope. Passion at its most exposed and vulnerable level, they reach for the health of their loved one.

I also witness these traits outside of the hospital setting, as I watch the interactions on streets and in small villages. There is an unfamiliar and incredibly seductive way that the men protect the well being of the women they love. I know I am romanticizing, and that abuse and excessive control do exist toward women. I see this on occasion. But by far, and so surprisingly, I see the grace, love, and extreme tenderness that the males feel toward women here.

Many before me have remarked about the intense eye contact found in the eyes of Ethiopians. It is almost like their ancient ancestry and lack of colonization give them powers that the rest of the world does not possess. As one Ethiopian man recently told me while sitting at an airport, “Everything starts, and ends, with the eyes.”

If this is indeed true, and my own eyes are not deceiving me, then I never want this love affair to end.

Ethiopia: A Gabi Comforts

I remember the day my father told me that “Blankie” was lost. I was devastated, having held onto the remains of that blanket since the day I was born. I remember the love I felt for the threadbare piece of cloth, how it comforted me when I saw it after a long day of playing in the woods or riding my bike. Years later, my father confessed that he and my mother had decided on that day that it was time to throw it away. I felt betrayed.

When my oldest son Ben was around 8 years old, he had an “Oatmeal Bear” that replaced his beloved Blankie, and during a visit to San Diego, we inadvertently left it behind, tangled in the bed sheets. I went to great lengths to get it home….calling the hotel every day, asking if it was found. The hotel staff kept saying it was not there. I finally had the idea of asking them to check at the laundry service company, and sure enough, they found it and sent it to us. I think I was more excited than Ben was to open the box when it finally arrived in the mail.

Letting go of good things is something that I talk frequently about with my children. It is easy to let go of something bad, but incredibly difficult to let go of something good. It takes a special courage, and belief that better things are yet to come. There is risk with this also: what if the next situation does not work out as well?

I left my corporate job, one that I truly loved, when the first of my three children was entering college, a very difficult time to decide to do this. I was petrified that I would not have the same financial security than when I had this steady job in the lucrative field of Information Technology. Yet I knew that photography was my first love, and I had never tried to make a living from it. If I did not do it now, then would I feel up to the challenge when I retired? Would I even be around then? The concern of never making the leap outweighed the risk of remaining status quo. And I was right, my income did decrease extensively, and it has not always been easy to live with the question regarding where the next photo assignment might come from.

But I gained many things that I could never have attained had I stayed in my comfortable job. I learned firsthand about marketing and public relations and accounting and client relationships. I also learned how to shift my business plan as the field changed. And by far, best of all, I got to see extreme delight when people were happy with a photo I had made. Today I enjoy consistent and incredibly fulfilling work, and I will go to my grave thankful for those who believed in my talent years ago more so than I did, and were there to encourage me to give this a try.

As I navigate the issues that are present here in Ethiopia, I love to watch how important an Ethiopian gabi is to the villagers. They are comforted by the softness of the cotton, men and women wrapping it over their heads and shoulders. I see them stroking the edges when they are worried. I watch them shivering in cool evenings and wrapping up in their gabi to stay warm.

When I purchased my own, I could not help but remember how it felt to have a blanket be a source of comfort. As I move through these days here, my gabi brings me peace and inner warmth. When I wear it outside of my room into the town center, many villagers tilt their head and exclaim “Firenji! Gabi!”.

They know what this big square of cotton brings to me. And as I take yet another important new leap after I return home, I am happy that this gabi will be there as a source of comfort and a reminder that it is nice for even grown men and women at times to be wrapped in something soft and shielding as we make our way into the throes of uncertainty.

(Photo of me by Jay Wright)

Ethiopia: Degie’s Story – Part 3

I enter the room cautiously, not wanting to disturb the family. They motion for me to come all the way in, and when I do, I see beaming faces and hands outreached, scrambling to make contact. I am only the photographer, not a doctor, but their joy and appreciation are boundless: Degie has lived through an obstructed labor and childbirth, and the baby is thriving. I look at Degie, and her smile is wide, tears are in her eyes. I grab her outreached hands and shake them like a mad woman. I too am thrilled to see such a difference in her well-being. I can also detect concern regarding how she will comfortably make the long walk home.

She slowly uncovers the tiny baby boy next to her, her first-born child, and the cool air makes him stir. Lips plump, tiny fists pumping the air, he opens his eyes and makes a sucking sound that makes us all laugh. He is content. I motion outside for someone to come and translate for me, and I tell Degie that I think she will make a wonderful mother. I also tell her that I have never seen such devotion from an extended family, at least three members sitting at her bedside around the clock, waiting to see if she needs anything.

In rural hospitals, the family must provide basic care for the patient. They feed them, bathe them, and sometimes even administer simple nursing tasks. Degie’s sisters, brothers and grandparents have provided exceptional care for her. It is not always like this. At times, there is no family support. These perhaps are the most difficult situations to witness. When a person comes in great crisis, and they have no one to support them, most likely they have no means to pay for services and they reluctantly must turn away. It is heartbreaking to watch a very ill woman, laboring with a child, have to leave the hospital grounds based upon inability to pay the fees. Once again, our souls reach out to her and want to pay the fees, but the hospital administrator strictly advises us that this creates more problems than they can handle once we are gone.

What do they do? Where do they go?

This is simply a way a life here in rural Ethiopia. Our minds turn to how we could possibly make the payment of fees sustainable. An on-going fund for destitute patients? A plea to the government? We don’t know these answers.

But Degie is fortunate in that she has many brothers who sold cows to pay for her surgery, and have taken time from the fields to carry her home. They gently walk her to the makeshift stretcher, and tenderly move her down onto it, covering her with a gabi. A chaotic flurry of hands dip into injera and food is passed around. The men are fed quickly so that they have strength to make the arduous walk over rock strewn terrain back to their village. After a bit more clamoring as they decide who is in front and who is in back, they reach down and pull up on the stretcher, lifting Degie’s body high onto their shoulders. The sisters pack up the food and scurry behind, barefoot with gabbies flowing in the wind.

I watch them turn away from the hospital and walk together down the rocky road toward their village, their feet hitting the ground in rhythmic unison. And as they disappear into the horizon, I see the faint outline of a group of men carrying a woman toward the hospital.


Ethiopia: Our Eyes Together

She stands in the doorway, shoulders slumped, hair in tangles from not being washed in a week, shirt stained with blood, tears streaming down her cheeks. One hand is in her lab coat pocket, the other fumbles with the keys that mysteriously no longer work in the door to her sleeping room. Four women walked in with dead babies today alone, with several mothers struggling in other beds; it’s been a difficult day.

She longs to quiet her mind, to place the images of death in perspective with the job at hand. She signed up for this, with full knowledge of the difficulties. A diversion please. Shower? There is no water. Chocolate? Gone. Music? Too much of a reminder of home. A nice note of encouragement via our CDMA internet connection? It’s 3:10am back home, so no news. Like many Ethiopians who are hungry, worn or troubled, she reaches for sleep. But in this place, on this day, it does not come. Tossing and turning, stomach in knots, a fever arises and she whispers: “This is hard.”

Death is a part of the fabric of life here in Ethiopia. The people have come full terms with the likelihood of its occurrence. According to World Health Organization figures, 10,000 babies and 1600 mothers die from childbirth complications every day. Here at Mota Hospital, the director responds to the question regarding what is the most difficult aspect of midwife retention with the words: “We see death of our mothers and sisters every day, on our doorstep, and we have little supplies to help them.”

The problem is quite complex, as many intertwined issues exist in Africa. When a girl or woman labors at home, she may not even be aware that there is a health center nearby. Hospitals have a desperate need for doctors, which are first priority, and they rarely have money for outreach and education. Even if she does know about the hospital, often a woman will suffer in silence and not want to bother her husband, father, brother who toil in the fields all day. By the time she musters the courage to say she thinks she is in trouble, it is often at such a late stage that the baby and mother are well headed toward death.

If she is lucky, the husband, father, brother may then rally several men to carry her over the rock strewn and rugged terrain to get her to the hospital, walking for hours, sometimes days to get her here. And then, once here, they see the costs that are associated with care (most often less than $100) and they quickly realize that they will have to sell all of their cows in order to pay the bill. The pivotal decision must be made: get the care their loved one needs and become destitute, or turn away and go back home. At times, treatment will be started only to have the family run out of money and leave mid-treatment. And perhaps the worse situation is when a woman is carried to the hospital only to find that it is not staffed.

We often long to pay for services when we see that they could save a life. We are told that this is not sustainable for the hospital, as many problems arise when the hospital cannot pay for other villagers after we have gone. Money is best donated toward equipment and occasional free services where they deem it to be appropriate. So, we assimilate to this way of life, and now, here in this tiny village, the problems of Ethiopia become our problems. No longer are we a simple bystander. We feel the loss. We see the complexity. We are saddened by the pain these women and their families suffer.

And, we hold hope, just as the doctors do.

A new road is being built that will connect Addis Ababa to Bahir Dar. Mota will become a stop mid-way, and many believe that this road will create a demand for better services in Mota, such as desperately needed water flow. This will enable the old rusted truck ambulance be to retrieve patients from outposts. It will bring better telecommunications services. The doctors tell us that they have seen immense progress already in the few years that they have been here. I ask them what support they have to mentally keep going when they see so much suffering and death every day. Their answer is said with quiet and passionate devotion: “These are our mothers and our sisters. Of course we will work for them.”

I have often reflected on the eye contact that is present in Ethiopians. I have traveled to many countries, witnessed many rituals and interactions, and never have I seen such an intense and long-holding gaze as here in Ethiopia. A few weeks ago, an Ethiopian man said something to me when I asked about courtship here that plays out in my mind today. His words: “Everything starts and ends with the eyes. It’s all within our eyes. Words are never needed.”

Ethiopians are creative, full of wonder, and tender. They know and experience many things that most of us will never endure, let alone fathom that these situations even exist. When I look into their eyes, I see more than the current situation at hand. I see belief, hope and an almost father-like twinkle that tells me they see me as a child: innocent, comfortable and maybe even if I am lucky, endearing to them. They see through me, because my life, my world, is transparent and thin compared to theirs. Their heart beats hard every day, while mine has long periods of rest, boredom even.

I look at Dr. Philippa as she finally finds sleep, and I admire her dedication to enter this world and exchange information with the midwives, and to also bring us all into the equation of moving toward the goal of creating healing environments for anyone who suffers here.

It is now morning, and Dr. Philippa rises with vigor and purpose. She picks up her stained lab coat, grabs a piece of bread, and pushes the door open to go round on the patients. Before she leaves, she hesitates, looks over at me and starts to say something. She searches my eyes, and then without words, closes the door behind her.

Ethiopia: Degie’s Story – Part 2

By now, many family members are crowding the doors, becoming more desperate as time moves on. I try to ease their concern by saying “teru doctor” (good doctor) but they look past me. Crying turns to sobbing, as each family member finds a stoop to sit upon outside of the operating room that is maneuvered without running water.

By the time I have changed into scrubs, I see that the nurse anesthetist is already preparing Degie for her spinal block. I rush into the room, find a position that is far from the sterile field, and set up my camera. Within literally minutes, Dr. Philippa exclaims with excitement, “And…..WE HAVE A BABY!”. The room is filled with the glorious sound of the cries of a newborn baby.

Though extremely weak, Degie is now alert, and begins fervently looking about the room, her eyes tracking every move of where her baby is. I ask a midwife to bring the baby over to her so she can see it. He does so, and she stares deeply at the infant. I take a few photos of the baby, and exit the room. I can’t take my scrubs off fast enough to make my way outside. I show the family the photo of their newest addition and say ” konjo baby” (beautiful baby). The sisters and brothers press against each other to get a peek at the photo. The grandfather shouts for joy.

Degie’s parents are both dead, but she has a wide circle of support with her many brothers and sisters and grandparents. One young man looks particularly shy, and stands apart from the group. I move away from the crowd and show him the back of the camera. A slight smile starts at the corners of his mouth, and he looks intently into my eyes.

“Degie husband”, someone whispers. I turn to try to say something to him, but he has moved away. He now stands in front of the doorway, trying to get a glimpse of his wife.

Ethiopia: Degie’s Story – Part 1

Degie is curled on her bed, her body is still. Her breathing is shallow, and her eyes can’t seem to focus. Her tattered gabby cloth swirls around her body, and one bare foot is dangling over the side of the bed. I look at her for a long time, wishing I could help her. I hear a voice, and see that the woman in the bed over in the corner is also watching her.

“She sick. Very sick,” she says in broken English. I nod silently in agreement.

Degie is tiny. Her rail thin body is listless, and her mouth gapes open as she tries to take in each breath. I try to find a midwife to ask about her, and as I start to move away, Degie screams out in agony. A midwife rushes into the room, followed by our medical team. She has been in labor for a long time, no one knows for sure exactly how many days it has been. A few family members are sitting near her bed, and as the day progresses, more brothers and sisters trickle in, having heard how sick she is. Many are openly crying.

In rural Ethiopia, family members are expected to fill in as nurses and to provide other items of support such as food and bed sheets, but it is apparent that this family is here because they love her dearly and they are deeply frightened.

This is Degie’s first pregnancy, and she is near death due to this long labor.

The midwives administer Pitocin, and wait for her contractions to come more frequently. Once they do, they ask her older brothers to carry her into the labor room, and they comply in a stoic manner. It is not hard to see the concern on their faces. Degie continues to contort her body as each contraction comes, yet she is so weak she can hardly breathe, let alone scream during her pain. The midwives ask Degie to start pushing. They try everything to get the baby out, but it will not move.

Degie is suffering from obstructed labor, which often results in death for both the mother and baby.  If a woman does live through obstructed labor, she frequently develops a fistula, which has devastating physical, social and psychological effects.

After two hours of pushing and an attempt at delivering the baby with a vacuum, one midwife, Selam, asks for visiting obstetrician Dr. Philippa to return to the labor room. Once Dr. Philippa arrives, she agrees with Selam that Degie’s tiny pelvis will not accommodate the birth of this baby and the baby can only be delivered by cesarean section. When they ask for Degie’s consent, she shakes her head no. She is scared and is worried about the money: less than $100. The midwives tell her brother that both Degie and the baby will die if the baby does not come out soon. Degie’s brother assures Degie that they will sell precious cattle and do whatever it takes to find the money. He pleads with her to say yes.

Degie gives her permission, and is swiftly transported to the operating room where a team of midwives, a nurse anesthetist, Dr. Philippa and Physician’s Assistant Darlene have assembled. They are ready for her.

Ethiopia: A Convergence Of Support

In our fury to obtain water and find sources of clean vegetables and resolve the insect biting problem and find the latest irrelevant lost object, we sometimes forget why we are here in this dusty, remote village of Mota. Bekaset’s story is a jolting reminder of the desperate need for help in this region.

Bekaset’s pregnancy progressed normally until she went into labor. As she labored, her pelvis was too small to deliver the baby, and the baby became wedged in her birth canal. She knew something was terribly wrong, but she lived far from any health care and there were no midwives in her village who could help her. Her labor became obstructed, and the contractions forced the baby lower and lower into her birth canal. The relentlessly intense pressure eventually tears her uterus open, and the baby quickly dies.

Had Bekaset not heard good reports about Mota Hospital, had she not made the decision to leave her safe and comfortable home in her village of Debrework to try to find help here, had she not felt physically able to make the long bus and foot trek to Mota Hospital, had the men in her life not supported this journey by carrying her as she labored, had she suffered in silence like so many Ethiopian women do, she would be dead today. This would have left her children motherless and her weary, loving husband, who toils all day in the fields, uncared for. It is apparent in the eyes of her husband, Niguss, that he is desperate for her to live. He looks at her tenderly, his fingers slowly stroking the edge of her blanket. Words are unnecessary at times such as these, and cultural differences disappear. His pleading, yearning, silent eyes say everything. They will haunt me for life.

Instead, Bekaset is now under the care of skilled midwives and our medical team. A decision is swiftly made to remove the dead baby and her uterus, so she does not perish. Her surgery proceeds without issues, and her recovery is quick.

Days pass, and it is now time to go home. Her husband and father, who have been patiently caring for her and bringing her food during her days of recovery, are there to walk with her to the bus terminal. Her face is drawn; she has lost the baby she had come to know within her, and she also realizes that she will never bear another child. Yet, there is a deep respect for those who helped her here at Mota Hospital: she is alive, well, and able to return to her other children and household duties.

We give her a pair of donated KEEN shoes to make her walk home a bit more comfortable, and I watch as her family take tiny steps behind her to ensure that she is supported. The love is so apparent, more so than I have witnessed in many recent years of observing my own culture. They know what Mota Hospital has done for their lives, and without words, we all know why we came here.

Eyes speak, hearts leap, hands join.

Copyright 2017 Joni Kabana. All rights reserved. Site by TD