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.

Road Trip

Dad, I get it now.  It took a road trip.  Atlanta, Chattanooga, Nashville, Iowa City, St. Paul, round trip to Chicago, and all the country in between.  4022 miles since I picked up your car in Fort Myers April 15th, and drove it home.  The miles 'twixt then and now changed my perspective.

I have never really been a car guy.  Yes, I used to watch you, and help you wash your many cars as a kid.  And yes, my first car was a Fiat Vetture Special 1200cc red convertible, bought from the neighbors for Steve and me to share while in high school.

A 1951 Studebaker pick-up truck with a six cylinder flathead, overdrive and a column shift moved Becky and me around Atlanta while in school. And with your generous gift of the Jeep for our wedding present, we explored Oregon top to bottom, peak to shore, before giving up on it by our second Minnesota winter.

 From then on, with kids, dogs, coaching and family trips, it  was minivans and lesser sedans before settling on two PT Cruisers as company cars, which I loved for their romanticized retro-style and functionality.  After all, it was function I needed.  As gas prices inevitably spiked - two Prius's still move us around well at a low cost - solidly functional cars.  Perfect for Becky, me and the dog.

Something happened though.  I could not bring myself to sell your 2007 Saturn Sky two-seater convertible.  It was calling to me in some silent chant - and it looked like fun.  Oh yes, I remember when you drove it "up north" to visit us in North Oaks in September 2008 - the little black book I found buried in the glove box tells of the entire history of the car, with little narratives here and there about the gas mileage, wax jobs, all in meticulous detail. I might have rolled my eyes and probably whispered to myself "oh Daaaad!" at your apparent wheeled indulgence, but your beaming countenance bespoke your love of cars, and this one especially, as you had many cars.  And I know you longed for it in the past year when it sat in the garage, and you had too much trouble dropping into the very low seat.  I know you loved it, and now I know how much.

Oh yes, it does "go"!  I found that out quickly on I-75 north, where Florida and Georgia drivers challenge my own limits of speed and proximity to a bumper in consistently heavy traffic. And managing the 6+ lanes through Atlanta, driving into the sunset in the north Georgia mountains, finally finding peace on the road, nestled in this close, tightly fitted cockpit, the deep hum of the engine whisking me deep into the emerging verdant spring in Tennessee, then north through the midwest heartland a day later.

You called it your "chick magnet", seemed like a stretch for a 90+ year old fella, but you delighted in taking your equally geriatric girlfriends out to tossle their hair a bit and perhaps witness their giddy girlish delight.  But driving on a sunny day to and from work - top down because I could and it was a perfect day - I witnessed this "magnetism" as two blondes in a VW Beetle with its top down slid onto the highway next to me - each of us catching a knowing glance and a thumbs up!  People have even emerged quickly from their cars at stoplights to ask what kind of car this is.  It catches the eye - I see that!

I have been showing it off, speaking of it, looking at it, and washing it, twice now, wiping it dry to a gleam with a chamois as you had taught me.  I drove it to Chicago last week for a conference - with the top down the whole way - 7.5 hours - marveling the big sky view through the beautiful central Wisconsin countryside, taking note of eagles and a sandhill crane flying above that would never be so visible in my other vehicles. Oh so cautious and aware in that last 22 miles into Chicago, white knuckles in the narrow lanes under construction and crazy fast Illinois drivers, but confident in the solid grip and handling.  And oh, what an experience to drive down LaSalle Avenue in the Loop, through a canyon of stone and gleaming glass, in bright mid-day sunshine looking up at the marvelous skyline while I sat crawling along the jammed city street.  Seven hours to get there, a half hour to go the last mile!  But it was fun.  And when I finally  landed in my Parker Hotel room, the horrific sunburn on my face said it all.

I came home yesterday day, top up, casually gliding back.  Cleaned it right up and admired the gleam. Yes, I get it now.  I was channeling you all the way back home from Sanibel, Iowa City and Chicago - you were glad to have taken the same trip - as I know you were there in spirit!

Dear Henry Peter Caspar

Welcome to the world, Henry Peter Caspar!

And oh, you made my day.  I am here in Chicago, attending an international conference for construction historians, a somewhat dry and tedious third day yesterday listening to arcane and mildly interesting reports on medieval vaulting, when my brain said "enough" - and as I wandered a few blocks from the Palmer Hotel to the Chicago Art Institute, playing hooky from my convention to instead feast my senses on the visual arts, I received the message from Becky!  You had arrived - I fairly floated through the Art Institute, and indeed the rest of the afternoon and evening, thinking about you.

And of history, my dear grandson, you carry much forward in these tender first hours of life, lovingly cradled by your father Ryan Peter Caspar Hilger and Heather Sherman Hilger, in spite, I am certain of their mounting fatigue, and also by Becky Hilger, beaming in delight at your shock of hair and open eyes. And what of this history?  There are notes indicating the name goes back to 1594, but I have not found all the documentation.  But among brothers, I shall list your lineage as we know it, for this you can be proud:

Andreas Hilliger (1599 - 1684) Luttringhausen
Peter Hilliger (1638-1700) Luttringhausen
Andreas Isaac Hilliger (1678 - 1757) Kronenfeld
Johannes Peter Caspar Hilliger (1720-1788) Remscheid
Peter Caspar Hilliger/Hilger (1747-1803) Remscheid/Danzig
Johann Peter Caspar Hilger (1775-1842) Remscheid
Gustav Hilger (1814-1897) Remscheid (may have had a brother Peter Caspar - still researching)
Peter Caspar Hilger (1849-1930) Remscheid
Arnold Wilhelm Hilger (1882-1971) had a brother Peter Caspar Hilger who never married) Dusseldorf
Gerhard Peter Caspar Hilger (1933-2015) Sanibel,  my father who would be juming for joy at this news were he still with us, and
Axel Peter Caspar Hilger (1956 - ) North Oaks
Ryan Peter Caspar Hilger (1984 - ) all over, but Groton Connecticut for this happy moment.

and now you, Henry Peter Caspar Hilger (June 6, 2015 - ).

Welcome to our world and our history, and thanks to your father and mother for continuing this astounding legacy.  I cannot wait to hold you in August!

Love,
Opa