Pelee to Ports

July 13, 2015
Pelee Island to Rondeau Provincial Park - 66 miles

Woke up early from a deep sleep, well rested and anxious to get going.  Decided it was early enough to at least peddle on the sunrise side of the island back to the ferry terminal on the sunset side, enjoying the morning light and sounds of the Erie shore. Boarded the same ferry for Leamington and over a cup of tea, absorbed the sunshine and scenery - watching the fading Pelee shoreline, and the emerging Ontario "north shore".  Arrived mid-morning and immediately headed east, generally along the shore, though not often visible, along the Talbot Trail. Its legacy dates to the American revolution when Loyalists fled to Canada to begin anew, and John Talbot survey the new road along the north shore of Lake Erie.  This landscape is characterized by an agricultural abundance - an abundance of large old, family farms, many of them century farms with old stately Victorian brick farmhouses immaculately kept, and windmills - many of them, laid apparently helter-skelter across this terrain, catching the continuous lake breezes.

Over the many miles of the day, one eternal truth kept nagging at me: how much time people spend cutting their grass.  It is all perfect grass, right up to the edge of corn rows.  Along the entire stretch people were mowing their grass.  It occurred to me that if everyone had 50% less grass to cut, it would still be beautiful, we would save energy, reduce pollution, and have more free time! Oh well - one has time to ponder these truths mile after mile.

Stopped in the town of Wheatley for a bite of lunch, as I had not had a proper breakfast in my hurry to get away, in a very take-me-back-in-time coffee shop with a lunch counter.  No Starbucks here!  Mushroom soup and a BLT is all that was needed to power the pilot forward.  The road was not heavily traveled, but had no shoulder to escape the higher speeds - but certainly still manageable. Ran into some rain, into a few fruit stands selling strawberries, cherries and raspberries, and into a smoothie in Blenheim, a regional center, before heading off the trail on a back route to Rondeau Provincial Park.  Once arrived at the check-in office, the attendant suggested a series of campsite with good access to the lakeshore, and so off I went in search of one.  And to my ardent surprise, Jordan Richard  (the fellow I met on the ferry the day before, but who went ahead of me to Leamington that night) was doing precisely the same thing in the same spot.

Some things are just meant to happen!

Our camp spot at Rondeau

We shared a campsite, my abundant fruit and fresh asparagus, and both toasted our good fortunes over a beer which he procured from a local brewery and brought along.  And as the sun set, the drone of the mosquitoes was noticeable not only in the distance, but also around our heads.  Simply awful!  So we retired early - a good day behind us.

July 14, 2015
Rondeau Provincial Park to Port Burwell - 75 miles

When the lake was in view, this  was the view!

We were pounded last night with a torrential thunderstorm, making sleep a bit of a restless affair. Rising early during a lull, we scrambled to dismantle our camp and bolt our oatmeal for breakfast (improved with the addition of fresh berries) while desperately warding off the equally hungry mosquitoes.  The advantage of this storm, however, was a persistent tailwind for our days travel.


We covered the first 30+ miles quite easily aided in this way, chasing the storm clouds ahead of us and again being bathed in their wet richness, arriving at the single intersection of Wallacetown, a place marked by a tire store, two houses, and the restaurant/gas station/convenience store/bakery and gossip house rolled into one.  We decided a second breakfast was in order, as this is some of the best ride fare, and took in this center of social life, where everyone seems to know everyone else, where the table of ladies and an adjoining table of their men spoke in their own special daily chatter of a cup of coffee.  This place, this atmosphere, could never be replicated in Starbucks.

Tale Tales Cafe - Wallacetown

We resumed our journey, passing through perhaps the most picturesque landscape of Elgin County, with intermittent views of the Lake, past old and elaborate farmsteads, dropping through small valleys carved by creeks, and actually cresting a few hills!  And no wind turbines!  "Progressive by Nature" is how Elginer's refer to themselves, and they managed to keep the wind turbines out of the landscape, and yet I thought wind turbines were themselves a progressive initiative.

HMCS Ojibwa 

Port Stanley is a small, quaint port village, definitely geared toward tourists (how can one tell?  tiny cute shops that seem quite out of place in such a small town) and pleasure craft.  Jordan and I parted ways here, as he was planning not to get home quite so fast.  I pushed on in order to roughly reach Connecticut on time, reaching my destination of Port Burwell by mid-afternoon.  A bit tired as a tourist spot, this town does have the HMCS Ojibwa, a cold war era diesel/electric submarine on display, in which I received a personal tour.  These boats are not made for tall folks like me.  The young lady docent, a teacher, gave me the tour expertly narrated as if she had served on it herself.  When asked at the end how she has come to know so much intimate knowledge of the workings of the boat, she replied a lot of reading, but also listening to the stories of past sailors showing their families "what it was like."

Sodden Port Burwell harbor beach at dusk

The clouds were again thickening, and a series of rain squalls again pushed through, making my decision to take a room at a local bed and breakfast (as the only guest) rather than a damp, mosquito laden campsite at the Port Burwell Provincial Park just that much easier, enabling me to post my travels in relative peace.

The Full Range of Experience

Written July 12, 2015 from Pelee Island, Ontario
(64 miles)

Arrived in Cleveland at 2:30 AM, unable to have slept for the rockin' of the rails and squeaking of the suspension was a bit too much to manage.  Took only a few minutes to assemble my bike, and then rode through downtown in search of a room.  All full - except the fine lady at the Holiday Inn Express said that is I could wait a few minutes, until 3AM, she would book me into a no-show room. Done!

Arrived to my fourth floor room in this historic building to find a frathouse atmosphere, with some loud, boisterous and obviously drunk young men wandering the hall.  It is Saturday night - er, Sunday morning -  after all!  Just about to slip into bed and bury my head beneath two pillows when I heard gunfire ring out on Euclid Street below - and saw the shooter run away, and the victim lying on the street, with his compatriots anxiously try to get him moved, and away as the sirens roared.  Where was I and what world did I step into?  I did finally fall asleep - and soundly for four hours.

By 8:30 I was on my bike anxious to get out of town with no traffic on a Sunday morning, for I needed to be in Sandusky to catch my 3:00 PM ferry to Pelee Island, 60+ miles west.  As I was finding my way out off downtown, I received an escort from another biker - an attorney for the FDIC - who pointed me in the right direction, wish as he was that he could do what I was embarking upon.  The road out of Cleveland passed through some wonderful old neighborhoods, similar to Summit Avenue in St. Paul, so it was a bit of a visual treat  for me.

A true greenhouse

The road to Sandusky (that sounds like a title to a western novel, or a bike trip journal) was level, taking me through small towns and rural landscapes - and in the rain, which pretty much lasted most of the afternoon.  But it was cool and comfortable riding, and the rain not really bothersome.  Made a few stops along the way, but the most memorable was turning a corner in Huron and running headlong into their festival, with their Main Street lined with food trucks, most heavily laden with tempting but greasy food I would dare not eat on a road trip, but also a stage featuring the Huron high school cheerleading squad, giving their seniors a local sendoff, much to the appreciate of some senior fellows standing next to me - senior as in high school, not as in "Peter".  Such a contrast to Cleveland some 45 miles away - this was the land of apple pie, bunting and community spirit.

Boy with the boot - Sandusky symbol

Arrived Sandusky around 1:00, bought my ferry ticket, and was told of the "Lunch Box" Restaurant in town that had pretty good food - you know the place, very local, homemade food, some smart alec waitstaff.  Chicken noodle soup, some french fries, and a peach milkshake.  I love what I can eat when I bike!  Toured the City a bit reminded of Winona with all its architectural charms- learned of it's Revolutionary War roots - sited as recompense on the "western reserve"  for  the burning of settlers acreage by Benedict Arnold - and hence known as the "Firelands". The City was also one of the only cities in the country laid out by Freemasons and incorporating their sacred geometry into the plan.

The ferry was cold and wet, and I had the presence of mind to wear my raincoat.  Met a young fellow, another biker - Jordan Richard, from Guelph - travelling alone, so we chatted awhile - he went on to Leamington.  I also chatted with another former Minnesotan, now an Aggie from Texas, who knew Norman Borlaug and had him come to her class (in plant genetics).  Small world really.

The Pelee ferry

Disembarked on Pelee, was "welcomed home" (from my Canadian birth) by the Border Agent, who seemed to take a greater interest in my panniers than their contents.  Peddled about 4 miles north on this very quaint island - time seems to standstill here, and while  tourist come to stay in the B&B's, there are really few facilities to cater to them, and that is just fine.  And much of what is there is a bit tired. I had reserved a campsite at the Anchor and Wheel Inn, but had no interest in the wet conditions, nor the abundant mosquitoes, but did accept an offer of a room at a discounted price. Credit card camping has its benefits.  Enjoyed a meal of blackened shrimp, salad and a beer!

But it was the clearing western sky that drew me and the fabulous opportunity of a Lake Erie sunset. I reflected back on the entirety of the day, starting at 2:30 AM, and it truly was a range of experiences!

Pelee Sunset

And again . . .

Training to Ride

There is something about trains.  It has become my propensity to travel by train to start my bicycle trips, as I do today on my Erie ramble, partly because:

1. Amtrak will carry my bike in an oversize box (negating the oft frustrating reassembly process in the wee hours of a lonely, nearly deserted train station)
2. Tickets are pretty cheap, and I choose to be so
3. The scenery is different than flying - seeing the backwaters of towns and country alike
4. The people are of diverse character, seemingly humble, many young
5. There is a comforting rhythm to the rails - the romantic clakety clack and lulling sway still exists (but is admittedly getting quieter and smoother on the faster stretches)
6. The pace is decidedly slower - like my bike trips - which is relaxing in and of itself.  And for Amtrak, on time is a miracle, delay is to be planned for.
7. There is power to charge my computer for the duration of  the trip, right by my seat, so I can work and write these blog posts
8. The seats recline wonderfully, and are not woefully jammed together for this tall fella.
9. The stations seem to be experiencing a renaissance - local nostalgic pride at least in some towns where "quaint" rules.
10. It's kinda fun. . .

The hectic pace and tension of travel in planes and automobiles is usurped by rail, as long as one's mindset accepts the slower pace, adapts to it, and takes advantage of it.

It is too bad that intercontinental domestic passenger rail is not more popular, does not attract the investment, or is better networked as it is in other parts of the world.  But that is understandable.  The mere geographical disadvantage we have of connecting people and place over such great distances make train infrastructure so expensive, and air travel so attractive.  And it just can't go everywhere like a car can.  But I sense that is starting to change - ever so slowly.  Amtrak's passenger count has been rising.  They have invested in new rolling stock.  Their customer service is so much improved, especially for a quasi government institution. And when Amtrak can eventually not compete with freight traffic, and use their own track corridors, time will melt away, passenger traffic will rise, those backwaters will pass in a blur, and that clakety clack will revert to a quiet whoosh .  

Much gained, much lost - living the romance of the rails today, "training" to ride tomorrow.  Think I'll lull myself to sleep.

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.