The Letters of Old Friends

Dial back your time machine to the early 1970's, when I was in high school with two very dear friends - Andy Peavy and Kathy Siebert, both of whom both knew me very well, but not each other, even though we were a small high school. Andy was a relatively late arrival to high school whom I befriended quickly, especially as we built a smoking shelter onto our school (yes - they smoked in school back then) and several, very durable picnic tables as a result of our love for carpentry, and perhaps erroneously, thinking it might raise our manly status with our coveralls, plaid shirts and tool belts. It marginally qualified us for slightly higher than wimpy, but did manifest itself more successfully as set builders for the annual Girls Athletic Association show. Kathy (Krypton was our mutual secret name for her, mine Pluto) shared many common characteristics with me - growing up together, drama class, German class and German parents, and a pretty goofy, fun loving disposition.  Not to mention, brief flirtations with what could best be characterized as young love in my red Fiat convertible.

I am relatively certain you all remember you high school "daze" - where everything seems a bit of a blur, but within the walls much happened to form our lives.  And never does one think, following that final step off the graduation podium in 1974, that any relationship could possibly last beyond a few years.  But last it did, through a magnificent collection of letters between Andy and me, and Kathy and me - letters that were full of angst, wistful questioning, idealism and no small measure of pompous prose, especially from me (some might characterize it as drivel).

Five years ago, on my bicycle adventure across Oregon, on a whim, we agreed to meet in the town of John Day, central Oregon, for a camping weekend, since Kathy lived in Portland, and Andy in Lakeview Oregon.  That is where the first batch of letters was revealed between Kathy and me, reassembled in chronological order that started in high school, and continued more or less through college, travels, marriages, children and the passage of time to the advent of email.  On that splendid weekend in 2010, the three of us vowed to get together every five years to share experience, memories, hiking, and camping.

Mt. St. Helen's blast zone, Spirit Lake in foreground

Five years was this past weekend.  

A steel monument left in place

A mini-raft

35 year old log raft

It has been 35 years since Mount St. Helen's in Washington erupted, a monumental event Becky and I witnessed while in grad school.  Andy, and his wife Amy, both retired from the Forest Service, were running around the state camping anyway, and so we agreed to meet relatively close to Kathy in Portland and revisit this somewhat haunting, yet stunningly beautiful spot, to check its progress through time, and ours.  Camping at Paradise Creek, we spent a full, very warm day touring the blast zone, seeing the gradual recovery of the forest, but also the 35 year old remnants of blown down trees laying parallel to the blast direction, great graying trunks strewn like match sticks on a faintly greening carpet.  Or the massive log raft in the diminished Spirit Lake, a reminder of the blast that to this day is a bleached, floating mass that neither rots not sports a new growth atop.  And of course, the location of the now immortal Harry Truman's lodge on a little mat in the lake, and a car that was buried in the ash, its three occupants now a part of Helen's legend.

But Saturday, a hike along the Lewis River, was perhaps the highlight - a beautiful 10+ mile up-and-down ramble in a heavily forested, occasionally steep gorge along the abundantly clear and enticing river on this, one of the hottest days possible in Oregon.  Andy, Kathy and me, taking the day to wander, enjoy the sights and sounds of the forest and river, found much to talk about - times present and past. 

Midway through the trek, we found a wonderful, perfectly cool, private, swirling swimming hole nestled in a rocky basin to cool off, sans clothing, comfortable in our enduring friendship, with nothing to hide, not our scars (Andy's and mine), or tatoo's of redemption (Kathy). We cherished that moment of togetherness and peace, along with the few friendly nibbles on our quarters from minnows.

Top secret swimming hole

Friends, refreshed (and dressed!)

But those letters!  The stories they tell - largely forgotten, triggering memories! This time, we focused on Andy's letters to me (and a few copies I had of letters to him), many pounded out on our trusty typewriters, conveying problems, contemplative thoughts of doom and gloom, and a mutual advice column and cheering section as both of us made our way through college, writing also of the dearth of enduring female companionship that seemed to plague us - until suddenly, we were both married to our present sweethearts, also documented with some surprise, much detail, and encouragement in these letters.  And around our fire this time, abundant talk and some fun with haiku

I treasure these letters, and most of all, the endurance and depth of these friendships, a rarity to be sure.  Will email be as enduring?  Something has been lost in this electronic communication, this power of traditional letters, the surprise anticipation of time-delayed delivery, revealing by the handwriting and text the nature of  the writer's feelings and emotions.  But not so the power and emotion of the written word in any medium - left now to share in another five years. 

From Peter . . .

cherished memories past

captured together, fresh in time

relive, as we live

And from Kathy . . .

Coffee water boils

As ravens rudely harass

Morning in the woods.

Aloha, Hawaii! - when we're 64!

St. Helen's 

Mount Adams

Ferns appearing

Moss jungle

Lower Lewis River Falls

Of Eucalyptus and Concrete

Following the sun home, I am presently awaiting my final 2-hour flight home from Toronto on Tuesday, and can reflect back on this past 1.5 weeks.  I have written much on the human and cultural aspects, and only hinted at the extraordinary boom that is taking place here.  And there is much local buzz over a planned visit to Ethiopia by President Obama (though I have not heard the kindest local commentary on his leadership), the first by an American President.  So what will he see?

Long view of just one southwest suburb - a sea of construction

Certainly he will see the magnificent African Union complex, the political centroid of  the African continent.  Or the United Nations outpost, and perhaps will walk the shop floor of the American Embassy and its 1300 employees that he helped build.  I hope he does so on his likely-to-be-whirlwind visit.  But I hope he also sees what I have seen and heard - a country building itself into a modern, educated and productive workforce.

Typical multistory scaffolding

I am certain he can peer out of any porthole he wants on Air Force One, but when he approaches Bole International Airport, what will appear is a sea of grey concrete skeletons popping up across this brown and vaguely green landscape, like a Halloween scare scene in a cemetery.  There is no place to turn in this vast, sprawling city without seeing construction - it is everywhere: up, down and across this bubbling cauldron.  Frankly, it is as massive a reconstruction effort as I have ever seen.

To put everything in perspective, it is the most populated land-locked country in the world,  nearly 95 million people, with a growth rate around 2.6%, and of that, nearly 45% is between the ages of 16 and 35, 87% of the population attends school, and 85% of the population is involved in agriculture, according to local sources and the World Bank. This is largely due to historical reasons resulting from a former USSR backed communist government (1974-1991) famine, and civil war with Eritrea.  According to the World Bank, despite growth, Ethiopia has one of the lowest GDP's in the world at $47.53 billion, and indicates 30% of the population lives at the poverty level.   Average annual income stands at around $470.  An Oxford University study concluded that Ethiopia was the second poorest country in the world after Niger.  Rural areas have very high poverty rates (96%) while urban areas are around 20%.  And by 2060 population is expected to well exceed 200 million.

Typical shoring for floor formwork

And 40% of the federal budget is being allocated to rebuilding the country, with much of the major infrastructure improvements financed and built by the Chinese.  I have met with the Ethiopian Road Authority, the Ethiopian Railway Corporation, and several other agencies.  The sheer volume of work now and into the future is staggering, with huge projects and investment anticipated.

Note the ramp - no crane or hoist

There is a chronic lack of indigenous management and skill to execute the present and future projects.  According to my colleagues, nearly every project built is over-budget, over-due, and under-built in terms of quality.  It is simply a way of life right now - expected even, but likely the cause of so many half finished works that run out of poorly estimated funding needs. I have availed myself the opportunity as we drove everywhere in this city and countryside, to note the means and methods used to build some very tall structures.  Field mixed concrete, poorly placed with many voids.  And the concept of level and square is mostly elusive.  Eucalyptus trunks reign absolutely supreme and a method of formwork, 10 story high, very spindly scaffolding, ramps, and all manner of devices to execute the work.  And this 10 story structure could take three years to complete. And it is unsafe.

Wood ramp - typical

One Ministry building we visited was less than ten years old, looked like fifty, was of such poor quality and poorly maintained, I nearly tripped on the stairs as they were of unequal height.  And building codes?  Apparently the present code is nearly 50 years old.  Most buildings, even high-rises, have only one staircase to exit the structure in case of emergency, with inadequate handrails, if any at all.  Of course all of this would never pass in the United States or Europe, but as I mentioned in an earlier post, it is important to look at things with a local lens.

Lack of knowledge, plentifully available cheap, willing labor, make this all possible.  And what makes me saddest is to see workers clambering over this rickety scaffolding, with no tie off to prevent a fall to certain death.  It is apparently fairly common.  Yesterday, I even spotted a man painting the outside wall above the third floor windows, 

The lumberyard - all Eucalyptus sticks!

stretching as far as he could, perched on a ledge, one hand holding on to the top of the window opening, and one holding a roller brush stretching as far as he could. Makes me sad to think that the desperation for a single birr in wages is greater than the cost of personal safety ignored.

How can this change?   Through education and international partnerships such as I just finished researching this past week, that hopefully, gradually will raise all boats in the wild sea of development.

These workers - over 10 stories up, no rails, no fall protection

And many projects are abandoned - no money

Ethiopians, it seems to me, are a proud people, especially of their very long, continuous heritage, culturally diverse, and generally a social, friendly lot.  Yes, there is crime, bad neighborhoods, spooks, beggars are there are in every other place, but surprisingly few guns (unlike Honduras) except on just a few police.  Hopefully President Obama recognizes the accomplishments of these proud  people, where they have come from, where they are going, the diversity and stability of this population, surrounded as they are by less fortunate nation states in terms of security.  Let's hope he encourages us to be and remain a true partner to their rising prosperity and security, without hollow promises.

They are deserving of our help - and my help.

Selam and amesegenallo to my new Ethiopian friends.  Until we meet again . . .

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.

Ziway Rift

The cacophony of birdsong woke me this morning - that, and a rising light from our east facing window.  I quietly scrambled out of bed so as not to awaken Ermias, my roommate at the Haile Resort here in Ziway (owned and named after Ethiopia's most famous distance runner), a getaway from the city to visit a Spanish supported ECUSTA affiliate trade school and degree program, and an escape southwest from the City into the Rift Valley.

Sunrise over Lake Ziway

A broad, long and fairly flat valley, the result of an ancient uplifting of crust, followed by a sudden settlement of part of that risen mass.  Many peaks are pyramidally shaped volcanic cones, now dormant, but seeing these in the hazy distance with a foreground savanna dotted with broad acacia trees, can send one's mind far back in time - even to Lucy's time - though she was discovered farther northeast in the Afar region.

Storks and White Pelicans

This resort is in stark contrast to the surrounding village and countryside - a western style resort with sharp young attendants, clean crisp rooms, pool, spa - you get the picture.  Yet beyond the walls of this compound are some of the poorest rural populace - for many a subsistence existence from their nomadic forebears, now settled into a rural agrarian pattern.  And yet, I did not notice the beggars, and movement was by foot, two wheeled cart, and quite a few bicycles (with dusty roadside fix-it stalls).  People get by, or so it appears.

Contemplating the morning's catch

The rising light illuminated a fairly dense haze over Lake Ziway.  I made my way along a narrow channel to an observation post at lakes edge to witness the rise of the dim orange red sun, in the company of many storks, white pelicans, ibis and ducks - the source of that waking cacophony.  Looking across the short bay, I noticed cart and walking activity on a distant road, quite beyond the compound walls.  This is my normal routine - striding beyond the compound.  So I left through the main gate and easily found the road and followed it toward the lake.  At the shore, the local fisherman were bringing in their catch, with men standing around as tilapia and catfish is dumped on the ground from crates and sorted, bagged up, and hauled away on the carts, hastily toward the city center, for as I later found out, it was market day.  Certainly I was a curiosity as the only white person, though this should not be uncommon adjacent a well known resort, but when I greeted with "selam", I was returned a warm smile and greeting in return.  A smile is excellent common currency for human engagement.

Fisherman plying the waters

I was travelling with Ermias, Besrat and Zenebe.  After a continental breakfast, we took a boat ride to cruise the small islands and shallows.  This provided an excellent perspective of the valley and the ring of mountains. One such island, Tulo Gudo, is a fairly large volcanic cone that during the earlier Christian settlement period of the valley, became a monastic refuge from a tyrannical Muslim king seeking to banish or destroy all Coptics (has a familiar ring to it).  To this day, the island has around 2000 inhabitants living very much as those many centuries earlier, speaking a different Alhambric dialect originating from north Ethiopia, and still hosting a monastery.  It is said that this monastery hid the Arc of the Covenant, and some believe it is still there.  And, for the first time, I saw hippos in the wild!

Hippos!

Bringing dinner - and puppies!

A good day

This was a marvelous diversion - I would have liked to escape longer to hike the mountains, or to explore Tulo Gudo.  Another time. Instead, we headed back to Addis, allowing me a second view of the towns, the bustle of people, livestock, carts carrying all manner of goods, vegetable and charcoal stands, trucks full of sand for the Addis concrete plants, and choking traffic jams coming back into the city.  And as I write this on the terrace, a thunderstorm threatens to bathe the city.  A good day.

Somehow, It Works

I have been here nearly a week now, and I thought driving in Tegucigalpa (Honduras) was mad. Through what I consider a hundred or so kilometers of experience as a passenger, I can firmly attest that I have absolutely NO desire ever to drive in Addis Ababa.  Period.  My experience is now sufficient, from the passenger seat of three different vehicles, that I am actually starting to recognize places, thoroughfares, and the highly articulated, experienced habits of local drivers.

My vantage point as a "back seat driver"

Oh yes, that "back seat driver" position has enabled me to observe and distill ten absolute truths about driving and drivers here:

1. Pedestrians have no right of way, even in a cross walk with a walk signal
2. Movement of vehicles is mostly HIGHLY congested, where lane stripes are optional, and even, the right side of the road is sometimes optional
3. Driving is not for the timid.  Minnesota nice will not work here.  But so too, aggressive driving is not widely seen.  Why? Traffic rarely moves fast enough to be aggressive in the first place.
4. The horn is mostly a proximity indicator as useful as a rear view mirror, and not an occasion for a one finger salute.
5. In the heaviest of traffic, be prepared to distance yourself and another vehicle by centimeters not meters.
6. Slipping in front of a another vehicle when it appears impossible, isn't.  Just takes guts and the willingness to assert your position until a vehicle flinches - not the driver, but the vehicle -  for eye contact is rarely made.
7. Nice cars don't exist.  Bad taxi's and busses do.  And old Fiat's and VW's
8. Livestock seem to have priority - horses, sheep, and an unusually frequent herd of untethered donkeys running in a group, followed closely by their herder who seems to keep them out of harm's way. Horse-drawn carts and human power push carts manage to snake through.
9. Driverless Googlecars would bluescreen on overload, and could not process the positional data fast enough to make adjustments, much less go forward one meter before data panic sets in.
10. When all is said and done, it somehow works.  It is as a ballet, two dancers locked into a tight choreography, their lips never touching, arresting or advancing movement at just the right moment with split second accuracy, and just the right muscular effort.

Ass-inine traffic!

I have walked much thus far, and pedestrians outnumber cars significantly.  Sidewalks are largely optional, and often in such poor shape as to be wholly unwalkable.  Utility work is done without protection of any kind, and often leaves mountains of dirt to navigate, requiring, quite casually really, that walkers take to the streets.  Often whole lanes are left to the walkers.  And there is a casual air about pedestrians that you will not hit them, that they will accommodate your passage. Even, as in one case, you are wearing not a stitch of clothing rambling through a busy street does this dance stop. (I think I saw my dreams some alive - you know, the one where you are naked and nobody notices you?) Again, it just seems to work, even pedestrians making mad dashes across the higher speed ring roads (because transportation planners did not provide frequent enough crossings).

Crawling through

Today we drove quite far to the perimeter of the city to the Addis Ababa Science and Technology University.  There is one chronic pinch point so utterly clogged with big trucks, cars, buggies, goats and pedestrians that it took us 45 minutes to go 1/2 mile, with big trucks a mere inches from our car. The amount of choking, gagging, eye-watering dust and diesel exhaust is frankly unbelievable. I do welcome fresh air.

And there are some intersections and roundabouts that defy belief (there are relatively few traffic lights).  There is one that is merely the size of a football field that is really a free-for-all, for cars and pedestrians alike.  And the traffic police, appearing largely ceremonial in most cases, do occasionally regulate this wild mess, if just for a moment. But again, it works.

  

But please, take not my narrative solely into account, you must see this to believe it - a time lapse of one of those famous intersections. Take note of the pedestrians!   

YouTube: Driving Through Meskel Square

Move over Tegus!

The Stock Marketers

Following a heavy thunderstorm last night (this the start of the rainy season), I was compelled at 6:00 AM to walk back to the farmers market area, as previously I only skirted the edges, viewed from the distance.  In so doing, I noted that it really stretches for several blocks in multiple directions.  I had been told that a new market is being constructed somewhere, that the old one was torn down, and so the vendors have permission to use the street.  And use it they do!

A striking composition

It is a swarm, a flowing human torrent where standing still amid the swirl begs problems.  I observed several types of marketers here - those selling from the top of a burlap bag to ordinary folks, and then those that sell wholesale to "runners" who carry large crates or sacks balanced on their heads and feed the local food establishments.  These runners are amazing, with huge crates of tomatoes (or other produce) balanced atop a doughnut shaped cushion on their heads, or overstuffed sacks slung crosswise behind their shoulders, they literally run, quite gracefully with little side to side motion to restock their customers.  In some cases, the customer is a cab, and these sacks get tossed atop the roof and hauled to another location.  Or, the "runner" heads to their spot on the street elsewhere in the neighborhood to hawk their vegetables (usually only one type).  The older runners use what appears to be a handcrafted two wheeled cart made of eucalyptus branches, whose wheels cannot be larger than about 5" in diameter.

Market Madness

But the frenzy of activity, the sheer energy of this place, is amazing.  I stood aside, next to a parked truck and merely observed, without a doubt the only tall white buoy in this sea, but largely ignored, invisible really.  I track through the mud, which was the only thing that slowed these runners, or perhaps the minor impediment of a vehicle crawling through this sea of people.  (There are many old VW Beetles here).

Leaf lettuce bale

Seeing the bags of vegetables, and the carefully stacked lettuce - not heads, but leaves of lettuce nested in a circle, forming a cylindrical bale over 4' high, where the customer merely selects the number of leaves desired from the top - got me to thinking about the cost of produce.  I did not buy, but as this is a highly productive agricultural area, the cost of produce is likely quite low.  Consider my bananas.

I purchased a bunch of bananas - really good, sweet bananas - from a retail street seller, for about $0.24 a bunch (1 kilo) the other day, desperate for fruit.  So the runner gets his share, the seller his, and the wholeseller gets the rest.  We are not talking a lot of money here, but it is likely all relative.  So consider these other costs I have experienced:

Large bowl of breakfast oatmeal $1.90, with tea: $0.66

Followed by a chocolate croissant: $0.85  (a morsel of sophistication!)

Washed with a bottle of water, 1.2 liters: $0.81

A shoeshine on my way to work: $0.14 (am I exploiting here?)

My total dinner bill, rice and vegetables, soup, fruit ($2.57) and a decent Ethiopian amber beer ($0.97)

shoeshine

All women vegetable sellers

 My room, a more deluxe, larger space with a door 4" shorter than I am tall: $13.34 per night of fitful sleep, and includes distant music until 2AM, pleasant morning birdsong, and mercifully, a hot shower.

The Baro Pension Courtyard

Now I understand partly why another guest here, a ex-pat retiree from Holland who adopted an Ethiopian name of Ruta and colorfully embroidered black clothes, spends six months here, and has for the past 23 years, returning home only to bring money back.  The other reason can only be the energy derived of this sea of people at the farmers market at daybreak..  

The Color of Addis

On first impression, Addis Ababa is a bleak city.  That through the lens of an American, who perhaps gets too used to the well kept, manicured perfection that seems to pervade our society.  Set against a neutral gray background, the local color can standout, actually and metaphorically.

The infrastructure is crumbling, everything is poorly maintained.  There is dirt, filth, grime, trash, public urination, and an unbelievable amount of smog, black plumes curling up from way too many poorly maintained diesel vehicles.  It will choke you, cause you to gag and tear up at certain intersections.  I long for clean air, and realize how much I take it for granted.

And there, sitting in a median of any busy, smoggy intersection, is a distraught looking mother crouching on the barren ground, holding an infant, catching your eye and motioning with two fingers to her mouth that she is hungry. This is repeated not just with mothers, but with children, the disabled and ordinary people living on the edge of existence.  The sheer numbers of these poor people is part of the color of this urban fabric.

The noise is deafening at most times of the day - morning noon and night - the din of dogs, arguing couples, cars honking, but also vibrant conversation, kids playing soccer with a handmade ball in the street, seemingly unperturbed at the traffic trying to squeeze by them. The call to prayer over the loudspeaker by any number of mosques around town, seemingly ignored by most of this hive of Ethiopian ants swarming the city. And when the night comes, it is distant music that rises to my room - and pleasantly so, local music and not western music, vibrant, colorful dance music with rhythm like an African version of salsa, hip-hop and rap all mixed together with a heavy reliance on a drumbeat.

The wedding FESTIVE!

Wedding participants

Consider the color and music of the wedding I witnessed yesterday in the Catholic church - loud singing and dancing amid predominantly white and black robes covering a myriad of brightly colored and adorned clothing.  The people, young and old were radiant, happy and beautiful against this grey cityscape.

Or consider ECUSTA, where I am working, the recess of many hundreds of kids of all ages, running, playing, sitting, talking, broad smiles as the boys come to me to shake my hand, and me in my whiteness and height standing out in the pulsing crowd.


The construction landscape is quite grey - everything of concrete, yet not finished, but the newer buildings showing more color and vibrancy, shedding the blocky remnant of the Communist era here. The grey is slowly turning colorful.

The color of the cabbie at the Baro

Even the Police wear bright blue camo uniforms - most carry no weapons, but rather a baton - color in the grey background, watching colorful people go about their business, and in too many cases mischief.  My encounter today with a young man who recognized me from the previous day, and in impeccable English as I walked to ECUSTA this morning, reminded me in a very friendly way that I had bought a country map, but not from him, and why not then buy a City map from him for 250 birra ($12)?  I declined, but ran into him again today, and will likely run into me again tomorrow, and we'll haggle some more.  Or young Joseph, who spotted me again today, a bright eyed, clean street urchin with impeccable English who witnessed the attempted heist of my passport last Friday (and told me the urchin had been hauled off as he did so in front of a policeman), walked with me toward the Baro Pension this evening, told of his desire teach English, had to drop out of school when his mother died in a car crash, has no father.  I don't know if I can believe him, but he was part of the color of the day.  He sleeps at the main market for 10 birra a night, wants to speak English with me, and also wants some birra to cover.  I told him protect my backside on that block, and I gave him 15 birra ($0.71) and a banana, just purchased from the very colorful vegetable stand.

Traffic can be four wheels or four hooves

Every place makes an impression, and what I have learned from San Ramon, Teguscigalpa and now Addis Ababa, is that I need to change my lens, to see the place as the locals might see it, to read the color in the faces, their disposition, their activities, and their wardrobe. It's hard to do - it's hard to ignore the many plea's for help upon this obvious westerner, the plea's to buy a map, buy gum or candy at every intersection, but I must, for the locals largely do as well.  It is the color of this grey city.

Recovery

As tired as I was, the noise was a problem - slept intermittently with unabated noise until well after 2:00 AM.  Was fully awake by 4:00 AM, still a jet lag effect. Ended up taking advantage of that morning (relatively) quiet time to catch up on work, took a very cold partial shower (no hot water) and spied another accommodation across the street that appeared to be set back from the road, presumptively quieter.  When the morning light was high enough, took a short walk just to stretch - still a bit wary from my pickpocket experience, but the streets were quiet and largely empty, save for the many homeless sprawled on the sidewalks.  Had some eggs at the restaurant downstairs and chatted with some Spanish tourists who came out of the Baro Pension across the street -"quiet but not fancy" - I decided to switch accommodations. Now on first impression, my room in Wufta would seem "not fancy," and seemed luxurious by comparison, with a window opening to the street, and the source of the noise.  The Baro tempted with a nice courtyard space that had all the appearances of being quiet and peaceful, but the room was very rough, smaller than I had, with no window but a small one to a hallway, was bleak, cell -like, but much quieter,

Met Ermias at 8:30 for a walk to the ECUSTA campus for meetings with the program leadership team. Following our meetings, we dove Besrat back to his house as he had just returned from Washington this morning.  We were invited into Besrat's home to enjoy a drink and lunch, consisting of a curry sauce, a chicken dish, and two meat sauces, along with rolls of inguar (that sour flat bread).  No forks - and the reason is that one uses the bread to grab the food, or one serves the sauces atop the inguar and eats it that way.  A new custom learned.  This was followed by a cup of very fragrant tea that turned out to be herb tea - oregano to be precise.  I did not know oregano tea even existed. And Besrat's wife only uses oregano for pizza and tea!

Besrat (L) and Ermias - lunch!

Following this midday event, Ermias drove me through town to its edge, up and over a mountain ridge, to an athletes park - a conference center and training facility for athletes.  We walked around and talked a bit about  the program opportunities, listening to many renditions of happy birthday that could possibly exist, for a party was underway nearby.

Exhaustion was catching up to me.  Took leave of Ermias around 5:00 PM, and sat on a veranda of the Baro - a nice spot shrouded in climbing vines, starting this post, but started to nod off mid-sentence.  Went across the street to the restaurant for dinner of vegetables and rice, and crashed at 9:00 in my "cell".  It did prove to be quiet, for as I write this - Sunday morning, listening to the competing distant sounds of a mosque call to prayer and orthodox church bells mixed with birdsong, I am again sitting on the veranda after a more vigorous, longer walk and a hot shower, having finally slept a nearly solid 10 hours.

Return to Abyssinia . . .

To the mother of mothers - the home of Lucy, whom I will see in all her ancient skeletal glory in this cradle of our civilization.

Labrador coast

Departed early this morning for Toronto, and then on a very long, nearly 14 hour flight to Addis Abeba, Ethiopia.  Lucky for me, I was enjoying an empty seat beside me on this brand new 787, making the tight squeeze for a tall fellow a bit more manageable, but largely sleepless.  Cloudy most of the way, though a "window" opened up on an island in Labrador, still showing snow and ice floes.

 Of course, it was quite dark for half the journey, but did manage a glimpse of the central Egyptian desert in the very early morning sunrise - a desolate barren place indeed. I particularly enjoy the view on approach, when from on high one can peer upon the landscape and detect its unique characteristics. Once we descended below the hazy cover, I noticed many of the traditional African circular thatch huts, usually in a cluster along a ridge, with a seemingly random patchwork of farm fields graced with a hint of green, and very few trees.  I was told that Ethiopia was denuded of trees during the Communist period after 1974 to only 5% wooded cover, and now through a reforestation effort, up to 15%..

Final Approach

Landed quite tired, but surprised by an email advising that my meeting with the Embassy Cultural Affairs Officer was today at 10:00 AM (rather than Tuesday).  While I landed in what appeared to be plenty of time, the process to obtain my visa and go through customs was quite disorganized, causing one fellow American to comment "welcome to Africa".  After hassling me a bit as to why I did not know where I was staying, I told the immigration officer I had a meeting at the Embassy at 10 - I was through!  I was met by Ermias Mekonnen, my former student and the liaison of this adventure, who whisked me to the Embassy about 15 minutes late.  Good discussion - have never been in an embassy before, and this one is a larger unit with 1,300 employees, about 300 of which are American.

Managed to get our around noon to wind our way through the city streets to my "inn" - the Wutma Hotel, located in an older, bustling part of the city, above a very popular restaurant.  And as this is Friday night, a noisy din rises as I write this, but I suspect sleep will come easily this night.  We walked the neighborhood, visited the ECUSTA school, had a typical Ethiopian lunch, including "inguar" - a teff grain "bread" that is like a very thin, sour tasting pancake made of a fermented batter.
Had the texture of cheap foam rubber sheeting, but an interesting taste.  Stepped in a Western Union Bank to exchange some dollars for birra, taking note of  the significantly different role banks play in this neighborhood.

View from my room

Addis is a noisy, somewhat bleak, foul smelling and poorly maintained hive of activity everywhere - people walking, talking, stopping, begging - and praying.  A main mosque is across the street from the Catholic school, and prayers were ongoing on the sidewalk while people still hustled about, giving me a good indication of the ease with which Coptic Christians, Catholics and Muslims merge in this society, especially in the very old local coffee shop (nothing like Starbucks) with no seats, everyone stands at high tables taking their espresso shots. It seems to be a colorblind society, except when this tall, white guy stands out in the crowd.  The poverty is evident everywhere, and despairing faces abound with hands out.  But so too are the less despairing hustlers asking for handouts, trying to shake my hand, and shake me down.  Almost had my passport stolen - grabbed it back from a surprised thief.  But the sense I have here is a very friendly and welcoming people, and I had it confirmed by the Embassy that it is a safe area.  Petty theft, as in many poor countries, is just a tax travelers like me pay.  I have stashed my valuables after settling into my room, and carry as little as possible henceforward.


The noisy, vibrant drumbeat of Friday night will hopefully not disturb me.