“Are we waiting for the others?” I asked, making him glance at the side mirror. His mouth flattened at whatever he saw.
“Looks like Sam’s team is behind us. I think Tsehay’s is already here.”
I could not blame him for his lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of having to sit through another meal with Sam. In the past week, he’d gotten more and more insufferable. He was rude to everyone, and just this morning during a stop at one of the field clinics, he’d gotten in the face of one of our government liaisons. Bonnie’s prediction—that he would probably do something to embarrass the entire team—was on point after all.
I sighed wearily as I saw the Cruiser drive into the parking lot behind us, dreading the conversation I needed to have with him about his interaction with the official. “I’m not in the mood for Sam’s bullshit today. The way he talked to Mr. Dawit was not okay. That man is in his sixties; I can only imagine how offended he was when Sam all but said he was wasting the nutritional supplements.”
I was trying to keep my voice neutral. From seeing how people acted around Sam, it was clear just hearing his name was a trigger for some of the team. I turned around to look at Yohannes and Abraham, and they were both glaring at the man in question as he jumped out of the Cruiser in wraparound sunglasses, looking like the very picture of the clueless expat jackass.
I fished my own Wayfarers out of my front shirt pocket and looked at Elias, who was tapping a message on his phone. He still had not said a word about my Sam grievances. When he looked up he seemed sympathetic, but I suspected, like every other time I’d complained about Sam, Elias would take the diplomatic route.
He lifted his gaze from his phone, and after what seemed like a series of deep breaths, he finally spoke. “Tsehay’s team has a table for us upstairs,” he said with a tight smile. “And as for Sam, it’s taken the team here years to build the relationship with the woreda.”
I nodded at the word for district in Amharic, knowing how hard everyone had worked on that partnership with the government. “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll talk to him. I can talk to Mr. Dawit too.”
Elias’s back went up at that and I knew I’d said the wrong thing. Did he think I’d also been disrespectful to Mr. Dawit?
“I think it’s best for Tsehay to talk to Mr. Dawit.” His tone was friendly, but final. He must’ve noticed my reaction because when he spoke again it was softer. “We have to manage those relationships. We should be the ones to go back and make sure everything’s okay with the woreda office.” He came closer and I caught a whiff of the cologne he used, which smelled like the beach. Here I was thinking Sam was unprofessional while I was seriously considering licking a coworker’s neck. “You don’t have to worry about fixing this. Tsehay and her team know what to do.”
“Fair enough,” I conceded, and honestly, as far as dressing-downs went, this was one of the kindest ones I’d gotten.
“Are you going to have the ravioli again?” he asked with humor, clearly done with the conversation.
I decided to let go of my annoyance and take Elias’s lead. “Of course I’m getting the ravioli—it’s insanely delicious and I can get a gigantic bowl for the equivalent of two dollars.”
Elias grinned at my enthusiasm for the pasta dish I ordered every time we ate here. Italy’s influence in Ethiopia was well-reflected in their coffee and cuisine. I’d discovered that many restaurants had at least one pasta dish, and so far they had all been winners. This restaurant in particular had delicious homemade spinach ravioli.
As we got to the second-floor terrace of the hotel and spotted our large table in the back, I looked up at Elias. “I won’t let you shame me into changing my order, Elias!”
He barked out a laugh, already back to being his sunny self, and my heart started trying to beat right out of my chest.
As we got to the table, Tsehay joined in on the teasing. “Eshi, Desta, your ravioli should be here any minute. As soon as the server saw you getting out of the car, he told the cook to start your food.” The rest of the team guffawed at my expense, and I grinned at her ribbing.
“Did he get my drink order too? Because you know I like my half Ambo, half Coca with the ravioli.” My mention of the Ethiopian sparkling water mixed with Coca-Cola drink that Elias had introduced me to got them all going again. In just one week, I’d grown so comfortable with everyone—except for Sam, of course. The whole team was open and kind, and so good at what they did. They cared about the program, the children and families we were working with, and despite the arduous nature of the work, Ethiopia so far had been an amazing experience.
This type of project either made people fast friends or made you sick of each other pretty quick. After all, we were usually together almost 24/7 except for sleeping and a few hours here and there. We ate meals together, travelled in the field together, and at the end of the day reconvened for a debriefing and dinner. Typically after a few days I found myself desperate for some alone time, no matter how much I liked the team. But so far I’d been eager for the times with the group. I wasn’t going to give a certain logistics coordinator all the credit either. Almost everyone so far had been awesome.
“Do we need to eat at this place again?” Sam’s voice got my positive thoughts from the last week on a decidedly different track as I took my seat next to Tsehay.
When I opened my mouth, I took a page from Elias’s
