Abi-Joe

This story starts over a week ago when my passport was cleverly extracted from my pocket , but the surprised urchin was caught in the act, by me, with a 6'-3" towering glare as I grabbed it back.  This was all observed by a security officer, but also by a young man leaning against the wall of the oldest coffee shop in Addis. A short, wiry young man with a quick smile and sharp eyes trained upon mine, he came up to me and asked if I was OK, in nearly perfect English.  I was, I thanked him and moved along toward my destination with  "welcome to Africa" ringing in my head.

The World Bank, along with an Oxford survey, has identified a very high poverty rate in this country of nearly 100 million, among the poorest in Africa and the world, with nearly 30% of the population at or below the poverty line, over 90% either impoverished or just getting by in the rural areas, and in Addis Ababa, with a population of 3.4 million, 20% are at or below the poverty line.  That is a lot of people.  And the median income is less than $500 per year.

"Joseph" is among the 20%.

After a few days, as these startling facts were becoming visibly apparent during my wander around the city, Joseph came up to me on the sidewalk and greeted me, asking if I remembered him (I did), and whether he could walk with me to speak English.  As his English seemed quite good, and his demeanor earnest, I accepted his offer, knowing full well this walk back to the Baro Pension would cost me a few birr,  

Abi-Joe over Pizza

We introduced each other, and over the next half hour or so spoke English on all manner of topics, as his skill was remarkable, shifting easily from an American accent to an English one.  I learned he is a devout Coptic Christian, his father abandoned the family, his mother died in a car crash, he was educated in a private school, but discovered a love of soccer that would distract him from his studies, and as a result did not pass his 10th grade national examination with a sufficient score.  He has been scraping by ever since, with no other family to support him, and no job.  And his English?  He has been self teaching at the British Embassy where he had a dictionary and a pass to the library.  He lost his pass (which requires sponsorship), his beloved dictionary, his cell phone  and a tooth when they were stolen from him one night.  Arriving at Baro, I slipped him 100 birr (about $5), and thanked him, wishing him good luck.

I was perplexed and could not stop thinking about how a sharp, bright, apparently intelligent young man can slip through the cracks of society into a perpetual homeless cycle?  Could I believe his story?  Is he being honest?  Does it matter? And why me?

A few days went by.  Walking home from work, I sensed that I was now a regular along the sidewalk, with people here and there recognizing me, feeling much more comfortable and secure in this environment.  As I approached Baro, Joseph called out to me from the sidewalk and asked if we could speak more English. Something in me suggested I could trust this wiry, smart streetwise kid, so I suggested I needed to go down the street to the Bank on the corner to get some money to pay my hotel bill, as their credit card machine did not work - cash only, and I was running low. I would then buy him dinner.  "Would you help me and protect my back?"   Of course, he eagerly accepted.  The Bank down the street could not get me cash from my credit card, but suggested one of the major American Hotels - Hilton or Sheraton - so "Abijemal" as I came to know his given name that he is embarrassed about (so "call me Joseph"), escorted me to the Sheraton a few miles away, taking me through a very rough neighborhood that I would not otherwise have walked.  Tumbledown walls and corrugated tin sheets roughly assembled on dirt floors, this was an eye opening experience, for I have not ever been so close to such poverty, though have seen much from more of a distance in Honduras and Costa Rica.  I hesitate to call it a slum, as it would certainly be by American standards, but it is the 20% neighborhood, the place they call home, and is all they know.

I figured if I got through this neighborhood with my person, wallet and passport intact, I could trust Joseph. While we received several curious stares - tall white guy and short native "streeter" - we did make it through - no problems. 

The Sheraton is a massive gated, gilded, guarded and grand monument to American extravagance and luxury, and apparently displaced just such a neighborhood as we traversed.  I do not know why, but I felt immediately uncomfortable and out of place. This is not Ethiopia, and after walking the shiny marble floors, realized my small, fairly dingy room at the Baro was the best way to see and feel this city and country.  Able to obtain cash, I also realized I had to carry this back in the fading light, and after a dinner of pizza at a favorite spot of his, Joseph got me there (not returning through the slum).  At that moment, I suggested that he explore going to an English training institute the next day and find out where his proficiency level is, and what it costs to attend to obtain a certificate. I was grateful for his companionship that evening, and felt I knew so much more about him, this city and country, and could read the sincerity of his hopes and dreams in his eyes,.  It would be difficult to doubt his story at this point after this many interactions, and potential for trouble. For his efforts, a few hundred birr as commission - a princely sum.  

So where is the safety net?  Joseph lives at a homeless shelter at the Mercato (the farmer's market previously described) for around 15 birr a night - real money for a homeless person. He can buy food fairly cheaply, get a shower at a public facility for a few birr and otherwise fend for himself.  He cannot find work, wants to work, but in the absence of a certificate of passing his test score, cannot go to college where he really belongs.  I inquired of my local associates at work how this system works and what happens to people like this.  

"Joe" left with Proprietor in his tiny shop

We met again yesterday - Sunday - for the final time; first in the morning, where he reported his findings and interview at the International Modern Language School.  Three months to a certificate and he is already at the intermediate level, a local fortune at 450 birr per month (about $22.50).  And second, with his wisdom of the place, he took me not to the main Churchill Street souvenir shops, but to a very out-of-the way kiosk that would be hard for most tourists to find.  A wonderful engagement with the proprietor  to whom he introduced me as his "father"(and whom Joseph knows as he has taken others here) resulted in a solid purchase of not-made-in-China, but clearly local ethnic crafts, the price of which suggests why the rural areas are so poor.  Once returned to the Baro, I told Joseph I would meet him one final time that evening for supper, and that with his "commission" - 300 birr - acquire a new pair of shoes and a shirt.  His pleasure was palpable.

We had a wonderful, but short evening meal, again at an out of the way favorite of his (and a waiter he knows), on a cobblestone alley (really? here? but yes, I have seen people hand break stone into cobbles), where we enjoyed pasta and beer.  He showed me his new shoes, a new shirt, a haircut and a shower. I told him that I could not contact this school, there was no web presence, nor any email, and the phone number was no longer in service.  It has no credibility, but since he was already using the British Embassy, I had found out that they too offer language classes, and that he should seek such a more credible source for his certificate, at a place that he could network with people that might open doors for jobs.  But most importantly, I conveyed that there is a way for him to retake his high school exam, and that my local colleagues would help direct him there.

Grateful for all the help I had provided, we agreed to continue our correspondence via email and find a way to get him back on track, that if he completed the English language course for a certificate, passed his high school exam, and obtained a visa, I would gladly bring him to the United States for a visit - his dream.

With a warm hug to his "father" on this Father's Day, I slipped him 400 birr, with specific instructions to buy a new dictionary, and a copy of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables in English, upon which we would correspond monthly.

Jean Valjean could relate to this story, not yet finished, I dearly hope.