ETHIOPIA: Index

Since I am now in the middle of compiling my past travels onto this blog I thought it would be a good time to create an index of all my blogging from my trip to Ethiopia last summer.This index can help anyone find a post that they are interested in. Alternatively, you can use the sidebar to check for the respective months the trip took place (June - September 2008) or use the search function for Ethiopia.

Getting to Ethiopia
Initial impressions
I pontificate about the real dangers living in Ethiopia
Ethiopian censorship
Gettingsick in Ethiopia
Movie watching in Ethiopia
Wedding Ethiopian style
Six degrees of separation in Ethiopia
back to the future and in Ethiopia the future is now
A touching story of my interaction with the children of Ethiopia
The cake is good in Ethiopia. And so is the malawa
Living the routine life in an African country
Small birds make interesting photographic subjects
Name calling
Every country has its con men
Where are all the white people at? And what do I do when I meet them?
Some educational success for me during my internship
I am just monkeying around during my stay at Mr. Martin's Cozy Place
I didn't see any fireworks on July 4
Finally took a trip out of Addis Ababa
Bahir Dar: an introduction
Bahir Dar: Are bus stations the same everywhere? Possibly. But Bus rides are not the same everywhere. But the bus ride is certainly well worth it
Bahir Dar:Eating with Obama
Bahir Dar:Photos
Bahir Dar: An overview with a photo of a monkey
Bahir Dar: Trying to get drunk on homegrown liquor
Bahir Dar: The magnificent Blue Nile Falls
Bahir Dar: Monastaries with 900 year old manuscripts and priests
Bahir Dar: A cool find
Not your typical African weather Well it is the rainy season
The developing pirated DVD industry in a developing country
Living the casual cafe life in Addis
I suppose you can say I am living in a Cocoon
The currency situation
Where I went to school in Ethiopia. And what an education it was
Getting the bull's rush in Addis
Popular children's song heard everywhere even unexpected places
I now drink macchiatos
A visit to the Mercato, one of the largest open air markets in all of Africa. Fist time: No fun Second time: Yes fun this time with marriage proposals
Another trip. This time to Shashemene
Crazy driving again. This time south.
Lake Langano photos
Harar: Hyenas. Nuff said.
Harar: watching the Olympics
Harar: Faranjo
Harar: Wasting the day chewing chat
Harar: The nighttime and interminable bus trip
Gondar: Not to be confused with Gondor. Instead of Sauron there are baboons and coffee ceremonies
Lalibela: Amazing. Just amazing.
Leaving Ethiopia.
Back in New York
Final Thoughts

ETHIOPIA: Departure

In all likelihood this will be my last post from Ethiopia. I will be traveling in Lalibela and Gondar with my friend Iris who is stopping in Ethiopia after traveling extensively through Asia and before she continues to other African destinations. Then next Thursday at the ungodly hour of 4:20 AM I will embark on my journey back to NYC. I make no promises but I will attempt to post about the last week’s worth of traveling and any other thoughts from being in Ethiopia for the past three months. I figure I can organize my thoughts during the plane ride. But I begin work and school almost immediately upon returning so I’ll try to continue posting once back. That’s all I can say.

Addis is an extremely frustrating yet eminently likable city. I am going to miss it when I leave. I’m even going to miss being called farangi. Ethiopia is a great country. Such great sites to see, such long history to absorb. The people are friendly and I wouldn’t hesitate to visit here again. I had a fantastic time.

ETHIOPIA: Chat

Chat chewing is done by many in Ethiopia. Chat is a mildly intoxicating plant that contains the same active ingredients as the cocoa plant albeit in much smaller quantities. Ethiopia is a major exporter and consumer of chat. Most of their chat goes to Yemen and United Arab Emirates and other Muslim countries that have outlawed alcohol and other agents of pleasure but not yet chat. (No alcohol is sold inside the walls of Harar as the old city is still Muslim, although an Ethiopian Orthodox church does exist within the walls. Come to think of it I am not even sure if chat is sold within the walls. The market where we bought our chat was just on the other side the wall. But Harar does have its own beer and a brewery in the “new city” that expands outside the walls.*)

Harar is known to grow some of the best and most sought after chat in the world. They say the same thing about the coffee so it may be local pride. One question asked before I left for Harar was “Are you going to chew chat?” and after I returned was “Did you chew chat?” The answer to both questions is yes.

I can’t say it was that great. You buy chat by the kilo. It comes in branches. You pick off the soft leaves and place them in your mouth. You chew it or suck it. Many people find the taste too bitter and therefore eat sugar or peanuts with it. I didn’t think the taste was bad. I just didn’t really like having the plant matter in the side of my mouth. The Ethiopian chat chewers place leaf and stem in their mouth and chew and swallow it all. Some of the old timers chew on the branch as well. I was told by other faranjo that swallowing the leaves could cause stomach issues. I didn’t wish to risk bowel problems with a long bus trip ahead of me so I kept a wad of leaves in my cheek and when the juice ran out I emptied my jowls and refilled.

I was told that you need to chew chat all day to feel any effect. In fact, we were chewing with our guide after the tour of Harar and he set up a little space at the hotel with mats for us to lounge around on while we chewed, which is how serious chat chewers approach an afternoon of chewing. Chat chewers need to put aside a good part of the day to indulge. I chewed for a couple hours. I felt lightheaded but didn’t know if that was from the chat or being in the Harar sun. (Harar was warm and sunny; quite different from the recent Addis weather.) I had a Harar beer afterward and felt good so perhaps there is a synergetic effect going on. I don’t really see the point of chat but I guess people say the same thing about alcohol. If I lived in a repressive country that did not allow alcohol I could see taking up chat chewing. Maybe. Anyway, the locals seem to think a bit higher of faranjo when you have a wad of chat in your cheek.

*Harar beer is excellent and may be my favorite Ethiopian beer. In general, Ethiopian beers are very good. The stand-by beer is St. George**. Almost everywhere will sell it. In Bahir Dar I drank Meta which many don’t like because it is sweet. “It tastes like apple juice” one person said. I really like Meta although normally I like my beers bitter (you are what you drink). Meta and Dashen beer are brewed in or near Gondar in the north. Dashen is my least favorite. Dashen, while still passable as a beer, has an aftertaste I don't particularly like and so I prefer the other Ethiopian beers. Other Ethiopian beers include Castel (“The Queen of Beers”) and Bati, both of which I have only had once or twice. I’ll have to figure out where I can buy Ethiopian beer in NYC. I know that Awash Restaurant in the East Village serves Harar beer among others.

**I still haven't gotten a good answer as to why St. George is the patron saint of Ethiopia. I was told that the Battle of Adwa, where the Ethiopians kicked Italian butt, occurred on St. George's Day and he was made the patron saint shortly afterward. But that seems implausible because in museums and monastaries there are prominent mentions and paintings venerating St. George that go back centuries and the Battle of Adwa occurred in 1896. I think I really just want to hear a story about how St. George, after vanquishing all the dragons in Europe, came to Ethiopia to take on some rogue flying lizard that was terrorizing the countryside. The Ethiopian people, glad to be rid of this fire-breathing scourge, honored him after his death by saint patronage. I mentioned this theory to the person that provided me with the Battle of Adwa story and all I got in response was a sober sounding "There are no dragons in Ethiopia." To which I responded: "That's because St. George killed them all!" Regardless, you have to give props to a religous country that names a beer after it's patron saint.

ETHIOPIA: faranjo

A twist on being called farangi in Harar. They don’t say farangi but faranjo. And use of this word takes on comical proportions. Everyone says it. Everyone. They see a westerner and faranjo comes popping out. This isn’t only street kids and beggars. Everyone. It’s like an instinctive response: eyes see white skin, mouth says “Faranjo” It is such an automatic response that it takes the street kids and beggars a moment or two after its utterance to realize that they have business to conduct and to follow up with “Give. Money.”

You walk down alleys and hear faranjo echo from seemingly empty doorways. You go into a shop and the shopkeeper calls you faranjo before saying anything else. The entire time in Harar, “Faranjo, faranjo, faranjo.” It’s quite unreal. I think if a western doctor assisted in a pregnancy the infant would call him a faranjo before it began squawking.

It would have been much worse if we weren’t walking the city with a guide. The kids would run toward us screaming “Faranjo! Faranjo!” Then they would see our guide and be quiet. Times when the guide wasn’t immediately visible the kids would circle you saying “Faranjo” over and over jumping up and down around you. This caused the guide to yell at them and feign kicking them or chasing them. I can’t imagine how high the hassle factor would be if we didn’t have the guide. Actually, I can imagine it, which is why we got the guide in the first place.

I’m not sure if it was because everyone in Harar says faranjo with a smile or because the “o” on the end makes it seem softer but hearing farangi upon returning to Addis seems more unfriendly and distant.

ETHIOPIA: Ethiopian Gold

Other than reading the occasional headline and seeing the medal counts I haven’t been paying too much attention to the Olympics. By happy accidents though I have ended up in cafes with big screen televisions on during the women’s and men’s 10,000-meter races. I was in Harar during the women’s race and it was nice to see and hear everyone clapping and cheering when the Ethiopian winner impressively pulled away from the rest of the pack during the final lap. I was back in Addis to witness the men’s. Very similar finishes as the Ethiopian looked to be running easy and then when the final lap bell was rung he took off a won, once again, in impressive fashion. In Addis, moments later all the cars driving down the road were honking and flashing their lights. People lined up on the sidewalk cheering on the celebrating vehicles. This went on for over half an hour. I left the café and was walking to Cocoon Juice for a fasting sandwich (grilled vegetables and it is so good) and it was exciting to see and hear all the cheering during my walk.

ETHIOPIA: Hyenas!

Visited Harar this past weekend. Quick trip. Spent more time on a bus than actually on ground in Harar. But worth it. I visited with Anita, a German who is studying at University of Chicago and is in Ethiopia to figure out a dissertation topic, and Colleen, who is from New Jersey, resides in Brooklyn when in the U.S., and came to Ethiopia to find a job. Both are also staying at the Cozy Place.

Harar is a 16th century walled Muslim city. Very old and very cool. In the 19th century, Richard Burton, the English explorer was the first westerner to enter Harar as it was closed to non-Muslims for a long time. Arthur Rimbaud, the famous French poet also lived in Harar for about 10 years. Hailie Selassie had his honeymoon in Harar and was provincial governor before becoming emperor. Our guide told us that Harar is the fourth most important Muslim city behind Medina, Mecca, and Jerusalem.

There is a new town built on the outside of the walls. I am told that new town is mainly populated by Orthodox Christians and inside the walls only Muslims live. Small alleys and crowded houses just like it was hundreds of years ago still exist inside the walls. Improvements to the sewage system is under way but in some ways that is like it is hundreds of years ago also: open drains running along the alleys or sides of buildings. We took a guide and it was worth it to be shown around.

Every night outside the walls hyenas come prowling in from the outskirts. Hyena men sit down with baskets of raw meat and feed the hyenas. The hyena men sometimes places the raw meat in their mouth or yell at the hyenas as he feeds them. I was standing less than 5 feet from these animals at certain points.

In the darkness beyond the feeding spot you can hear other packs of hyenas yelping or growling. Since the packs don’t mix it is first come first served although the guide said that the hyena man knows all the packs. For some extra Birr you can take a try at feeding the hyenas. I was going to but everything was happening so fast. I am happy enough with just the pictures and experience. At one point a large hyena stealthily dumped his head in the meat basket gorging himself on the delicacy contained within. It took a few minutes for the hyena man to cajole it out of the now empty basket. The hyena man went through about three or four baskets before we left. Apparently, hyenas roam the countryside in this area of Eastern Ethiopia. On the bus ride back to Addis the driver noisily honked at a few causing them to slink off the road and back into the wilderness whence they came.

ETHIOPIA: Farangi Rules of Etiquette

Lately, I have been spying more farangi roaming the streets of Addis. I’m not sure why now and not when I first arrived. I don’t know if they are getting out more, I am getting out more, or there are just more of them here. I have been having a difficult time determining whether these farangi are American or European, or any other type of white. Everyone seems to wear the standard Addis rainy season clothes: fleece and hiking boots.

In my own awkward way I am unsure how to act when I run into them. Do I acknowledge them? Am I supposed to acknowledge them? Does acknowledgement require a “Hello” or is a head nod appropriate? I have been going with the head nod with the thought toward saying a “Hello” if I run into them a second time. No need to rush things. Also, I would rather not be drawn into some unwelcome conversation in which I can’t easily dislodge myself.

What I am talking about is when I am walking through the city or on my way to somewhere. If I end up in a minibus sitting next to another farangi (which has never happened) or some other similar situation I would have no problem exchanging pleasantries. The same goes for bars although in certain farangi bars it seems as if everyone already knows each other through some farangi network and introductions are made for me without me having to think about etiquette.

Ah, well. I guess it doesn’t really matter. I’ll be gone from Ethiopia in a few weeks and back in NYC. There I can go back to ignoring everyone on the street without a second thought.

ETHIOPIA: The Merkato Redux Part II

As mentioned previously, Meron has helped me with some Amharic words. There are some words and phrases I have picked up on my own and while out at the Merkato she got to hear me use a few of those. She was duly impressed. As were many shopkeepers. This is not to say that I know Amharic. Not by a stretch. But enough to impress, I suppose. Walking into a shop in the Merkato I would greet the employees in Amharic, “Tenastëllën.” Then while looking at something I would ask an employee, “ Sëntë nõ?” (How much?) If I happened to be holding onto an item which I was familiar with I’d ask how much while identifying said item, “Sëntë nõ, agelgil?” Then to top it all off, for negotiating I’d say “Mecherasha,” which means I am asking them to just tell me their best/lowest price? Sometimes, like when using agelgil and mecherasha, Meron wouldn’t be able to stop laughing. “Will you stop laughing at me while I am speaking Amharic?” I had to say more than once. This would result in an Amharic conversation between her and the shopkeeper ending with her telling me they like my Amharic. The downside was that after asking “Sëntë nõ?” I was usually answered in Amharic and had to look at Meron for help. This caused more laughter and Amharic conversation with shopkeepers and employees.

For the young female employees who seemed especially bowled over by my vastly improved Amharic I’d follow up all this with “Sëmësh man nõ?” which is asking their name. This delighted them to no end although it would result in me trying to pronounce a difficult Amharic name. One girl’s name was Honey, which has a certain intrigue to it. This newfound inclination for Amharic garnered me two marriage proposals, one from Honey. Truth be told both times the proposals came after it came out that I was from New York. They really only wanted to marry whatever romantic notions of New York City they have. I have found that Ethiopians are fascinated by New York City. Not only that I live there but that I was born there. I usually say that I was born in Queens but other than one person who said “like ‘The King of Queens?’” no one is quite sure what I mean by that and I just don’t have the patience to get into a five-boro discussion. (In fairness to Ethiopians explaining Queens to some people in the U.S. can also be a chore.) I just agree with their notions about NYC even though any fanciful ideas I once had about my hometown have been long erased by reality. I do find it nice that even with all that George Bush and the Republicans have done in the past 7-8 years to tarnish the good name of America that it still has a hold on the imagination and portends promise and opportunity, as exemplified by New York City, to so many people.

Meron and I leave the Merkato, still attracting attention, and go to another part of Addis, where there are more shops. We look at more traditional stuff and Meron somehow convinces me to buy a cultural shirt despite me repeatedly saying “I’m never going to wear it.” Maybe she would have listened if I learned that phrase in Amharic. Coincidentally, or not, this is the shop where Honey worked. Meron gets her shoes shined and we go to lunch. Somehow we end up eating at a Muslim restaurant. Meron is Ethiopian Orthodox Christian and apparently the dietary laws of these religions do not mesh. It was worse than eating with the vegans. All these rules to just eat. I tried and failed to get a reasonable explanation on why she needed a new bread after I touched a loaf to break off a piece. At least with the vegans I understand the rules. I don’t even know how she knew we were at a Muslim restaurant. The woman at the register was wearing a headscarf but Meron had a conversation with her and it turns out she was Christian. But she still needed to get bread all for herself and separate serving utensils. Maybe she doesn’t know that I’m not Muslim?

My second trip to the Merkato was much more pleasant than the first. I owe that to Meron who was a great guide through the Merkato and then through other parts of Addis. Having someone familiar with the culture and language makes a big difference. Now I believe what they say about the Merkato. If I can almost get married than you really can get anything there.

ETHIOPIA: The Merkato Redux Part I

I went back to the Merkato to meet my friend Meron, who works at the same Center I am interning for the summer. Meron has also been my semi-tutor in Amharic. When I first arrived I asked her to teach me a word a day. This didn’t work out, as I couldn’t learn a word a day. So I would get a word from her, practice it and everyday ask her if I was pronouncing it correctly. This went on until I did get it right. Speaking Amharic takes some time for me.

I arrive at the Merkato at our designated time. Meron is late. It begins to rain. In and of itself the rain isn’t terrible. But it causes me to have to find a place under an awning of the building that was our meeting spot. This is a problem because a white man standing still in the Merkato attracts loads of unwanted attention.* “You!” “You!” In other places around Addis the shoe shine boys, taxi drivers, and occasional beggar call out to you. The Merkato is like a free-for-all. It’s all hassle all the time. Maybe because it is so crowded and transactions are always going on. I don’t know but people take a real familiar stance with each other. Especially toward the farangi. Although I have only been there a few times the Piazza area of Addis is similar to the Merkato in hassle factor.

Eventually, I decide to move. I go to a shop and borrow the phone to call Meron. “Is your friend Ethiopian? You know we are not very punctual.” The shopkeeper told me. “When you meet your friend you come back to my store,” he added. Meron finally shows and insists that she was there at the appropriate time walking around in the rain. I’m not so sure I believe her but that’s fine. She’s here now and I see new and different parts of the Merkato. It is so big. It’s crazy really. There’s no way to get through it in one day. But after walking through with Meron I see its benefit and what it has to offer. We went through the used area where everything is recycled. Just piles of old stuff either being fixed up or made into something entirely different. Old shoes become a new style of shoe. Used keys are ground down and re-keyed. Plastic, tires, metal, you name it. There was a pile of something used with people around it working, molding,shaping, cutting, repairing. Then we went through the traditional area and looked at cultural clothes and baskets and other goods.

Walking through the Merkato with Meron, who is a very attractive young woman, brings its own sort of attention. This time it was because of me but directed at her. The men would just blurt out things to her in Amharic and then start hooting and hollering. Sometimes they would come up to me and shake my hand and pat me on the back. Very familiar. Meron said they were asking if we were together or married or if I was her man. She answered in the affirmative each time and then those reactions occurred. Meron seemed to enjoy all the attention being lavished on her. Meron also has a very familiar relationship with other Ethiopians. When we were done with the Merkato we went to another area of Addis to have lunch. As it was raining that morning the Merkato was awfully muddy and Meron’s shoes were a mess. She stopped for a shoeshine before lunch. While getting her shoes shined she bought some chewing gum from another young boy. This boy promptly walked awaywith a Birr 5 bill Meron had given to purchase the gum. She went after him, grabbed him by the ear, and dragged him back to resume her shoeshine, all to the delight of the shoeshine boys gathered around. With one hand on his ear and the other pointing in his face she admonished the little boy. While this was all happening I just stood around and ignored all the demands being made to me by the other shoeshine boys and the beggars in the vicinity.

*Here is an unrelated story of unwanted attention. Last night I was dining at a Chinese restaurant. An elderly Chinese man passed my table while walking with a group of 5-6 other Chinese people. Loudly he points at me and all I get of what he is saying are the words “lefty” and “chopsticks.” This causes everyone in his party plus the other patrons in the restaurant all turn around to gape at me while I eat Chinese food using chopsticks with my left hand. I don’t recall if being left-handed was remarked upon when I visited Hong Kong or Japan.

ETHIOPIA: Leo Monkey Pants

Early Saturday morning I once again took a trip to the Mercato. After explaining my previous, unpleasant outing there to a young woman at the office she offered to show me around. I took her up on her offer. I jump on the Mercato bound minibus. It had just started to rain (have I mentioned that it is the rainy season?) and the minibus was already crowded. As I sat down I thought the man sitting across the aisle looked at me askance. This reminded me of what two German girls staying at the Cozy Place said recently. They take the minibus everyday and have claimed that Ethiopians have refused to get on the bus with them onboard and have otherwise suffered hostility. I told them that they were nuts. But now was I sensing some hostility? Could it be that in the past I never noticed it? I scan the other faces around me. No hostility. Just the usual early morning despondency of commuters everywhere. Good, the German girls are nuts. That guy wasn’t directing any hostility towards me. I’m not some snooty bourgeois slumming on the minibus as part of some sociological experiment. I am down with the people. With this thought I settle into my normal commuting obliviousness.

This particular minibus was more of a pick-up truck with a housing set on the back bed. In the housing there are two benches that face each other. You can squeeze in 10-12 people along these benches while the money-taker sits on a small improvised seat on the entry door at the back of the truck. The driver is up front and you can fit two more passengers next to him. There were speakers set up in the back housing and Amharic music was being pumped in. One Amharic song blends into the next. All of a sudden I realize that the Amharic music has stopped and I hear a female sing-song voice. The lyrics are in English and seem familiar. She is singing about five little monkeys who jump on a bed. One by one each monkey falls and hits his head. Every time this happens the mommy calls the doctor and the doctor, in a very doctorly way, orders the mommy that under no circumstances should the monkeys be jumping on the bed. Monkeys being monkeys they continue to jump on the bed and continue to knock their heads. What begins as five little monkeys becomes four little monkeys and so on. This was the exact same monkey song that my brother Tom would sing to his son Leo. The book the song was written down in also came with five small monkey figurines that Tommy would use for dramatic purposes in acting out the song. Tommy’s version was decidedly more exciting (and out-of-tune) than the one I was listening to now. A small smile crept onto my face as I thought of Leo laughing at the monkeys jumping on the bed. I wondered what was the possibility that as I was listening to this monkey song in a minibus in Ethiopia Tommy and Leo were acting it out at the same time. Actually, it is very doubtful that this could have occurred. It was around 1:00 AM New York time. Also, Leo was enjoying this monkey song a few months ago. I’m sure he finds it passé now and has moved on to newer monkey songs.

I just don’t see how can people be hostile when the five little monkeys song is played in a minibus.

ETHIOPIA: Another Day in Addis

I am sitting on an outside patio of a small café enjoying my afternoon macchiato. I am gazing southward down the street for no real reason. As my eyes turn back in front of me I see a few oxen loping slowly down the middle of the street. A few feet behind these lead animals are a whole lot more oxen. They take up the entire street and in their measured ambling they separate themselves around the parked cars on either side, occupying the sidewalk. If I was inclined to do so, and with a bit of effort, I could almost reach out and touch one as it passed by. There must have been 30 – 40 in total. One lone man, brandishing a short, stout stick was running loudly behind them from one side to the other. I imagine him like a gymnastics coach of young girls. Cajoling them to do something they don’t really see the sense of doing and something they normally would never do. The oncoming traffic stops in the face of these beasts although they don’t seem the least bit perturbed by the honking and yelling they are causing. They walk slowly past these metal machines. Behind them traffic is snarled. I crane my neck and can’t see the end of the stopped cars and minibuses. I briefly wonder where these cattle came from and where they are going. But then they are gone from my sight. I return to my macchiato. A few minutes later a donkey comes careening down the sidewalk with a different man in pursuit. Just as they pass the café the man thrusts out an errant hand and grabs hold of the harness and slows the donkey down. With a smile on his face he leads the donkey back in the direction it had come. I figure the oxen scared the donkey into running, as that was the fastest donkey I have seen in Ethiopia. By now my macchiato is finished and so is any animal related excitement. I pay my couple Birr and return to the office.

ETHIOPIA: I am a student at...

ETHIOPIA: Dirty Money

Ethiopia needs its money laundered. Literally. Sometimes you get bills or coins that are so grime covered you can hardly tell the currency. I need to sanitize my hands after puling out some of these bills. And they smell also. Stinky, dirty money.

ETHIOPIA: Bus Station Chaos

Alright, the Addis bus station may be one of the craziest places I have ever been. Because the bus was full, we were told to get to the bus station at 5:30 AM to ensure passage. It is still dark out and just throngs of people already milling around the station parking lot amid the ever-present, noxious diesel fumes. We can’t tell who works for the bus station or is just out to get some Birr by being helpful. Regardless, everyone keeps pointing to the far end of the lot when we say Bahir Dar, and there we proceeded. We also kept being told that the bus would leave in 30 minutes and just look for the 4-digit number written on the ticket. Our bus didn’t leave until about 8:00 AM, the bus number changed once, and during the wait we just watched the spectacle all around us.

I was traveling with my friend Christian, who was going for a 2-week historical circuit trip beginning in Bahir Dar, whereas I was just going for a long weekend in Bahir Dar. Also present was my friend Tori, who was taking a different bus to Harar for the weekend, and Christian’s roommate and a German documentary film crew (two people) who had no real reason to be at the station other than to witness the chaos and watch us get on board.

I am not sure I can adequately describe the chaos about bus travel here. The confusion was magnified partly because I didn’t understand all the Amharic yelling going on around me. Granted, this is my first experience with developing world land transport. But other farangi, who have been in other developing countries including other African countries, claim that the bus station at Addis is one of the craziest scenes they ever witness while traveling. It is a huge parking lot filled with old buses. Some seem in quite the state of disrepair while others don’t seem bad at all. People are just standing around or sitting on their luggage anywhere there is free space in the lot. Buses just come and go, honk their horn, while never stopping. This causes constant mass migrations of people from one spot to another. It was non-stop: buses just reversing, buses making wide turns into crowds of people, buses just idling and burning everyone’s eyes as you got stuck in a plume of pollution.

Loading onto the bus was the craziest of all. An empty bus would come into the parking lot and make its way to its loading spot. People would be running alongside the bus hanging onto the doorknob at the front and rear door. Up to a dozen people all jockeying for that doorknob. The bus stops, the doors open and, holy shit, people just start climbing over one another to get into the bus and get a seat. Pushing, shoving, yelling, climbing, it didn’t matter. Whatever it took to get on the bus. Then the bus fills up to the tipping point. Around 10 minutes later someone gets on the bus and starts kicking people off so it’s still full but not to the brim full. Imagine this scene going on at around 10 separate buses at the same time. Just mobs attempting to funnel into the small bus doorway. While watching this Christian and I looked at each other with “What the fuck?” looks. Christian then stated how he had to make sure his large pack made it onto the top of the bus so I needed to fight for the seats by myself. Great.



But it wasn’t so bad. Eventually our bus did come, with the people hanging onto the doorknobs as it pulled into its designated spot. I ended up at the front door but that didn’t open. (“The door is sick,” one of the bus assistants yelled out the window.) So the mad rush was already underway at the back door. I did jockey for position and was shoved more than I shoved back. I held up getting onto the bus to allow an older woman to get ahead of me, which meant three men also squeezed in, elbows first, ahead of me. But the man who sold us our bus tickets and told us to be there at 5:30 AM was sitting in prime seats in the front of the bus. He saved seats for us farangi. After I was seated he went and found Christian still trying to ensure his pack ended up on the bus and not in someone’s arms running out of the bus station. He asked Christian for Birr 20 for getting us seats. Christian gave this up grudgingly and spoke about it quite a bit the rest of the trip. (I notice that many Europeans I meet are outraged by this sort of thing. I think Birr 20 was cheap for us to get good seats up in the front of the bus. It’s one thing for people to charge farangi prices, which happens often, and another thing to pay for someone saving a seat. At least I see a difference.) To not give the sole illusion that getting on the bus was a survival of the fittest exercise, it also seemed that other prime seats in the front were saved or left open for some elderly women who entered the bus at their leisure. I felt bad for a minute that we had such good seats when a woman had to sit on a folding chair in the middle of the aisle. Not bad enough to actually give up my seat but still felt bad.

While all this was going on the German documentarians began filming. Filming and photographing in Ethiopia is dicey. People want Birr to be photographed and the government has made many objects around town off-limits to be shot. Once the camera came out people started asking for money to grant permission to film. Not government people or bus station people just random people, especially the beggars. I had just gotten seated and looked out the window and saw a young man, smiling widely, standing in front of the camera holding his hand in front blocking the lens. He apparently was telling them they couldn’t film, but in a jovial way. This young man turned out to be our bus driver. Since I was on the bus I am unsure what if any kind of footage they ended up with. So now everyone is seated. Two beggars get on and make their way through the bus, hands out. One of them is one who was asking for filming money. He stops next to our seats and begins talking loudly. We hear “farangi” and people begin laughing. He was talking about us. Later on, during a stop in our journey, an Ethiopian translated what the beggar said. Something about how farangi think they can come to Ethiopia and film and photograph and not pay money. Why do farangi think they can take photos for free. Ethiopia is weird with the photographs.

So now we were ready to leave. Bahir Dar is officially listed as a day and half trip although we were assured we would get there that night. About 16 hours later we arrived in Bahir Dar. The bus ride itself was crazier than the bus station.

ETHIOPIA: Time's Up

As mentioned in the first post concerning my arrival to Ethiopia I did not bring a watch with me. For a few days I didn’t mind. I was someplace new, feeling the wonder of it all. The hell with knowing what time it is. After a while I decided there was a certain benefit to actually knowing what time it was. The benefit being that I knew the time. So one day during my wanderings I saw some watches on a stand outside of a small shop.

ME: (Pointing at watch)How much is this watch?
SHOPKEEPER: Birr 20, I mean Birr 100.
M: You said Birr 20.
S: It’s Birr 100
M: But you said Birr 20.
S: It’s Birr 100
M: (pointing to a different watch) OK, how much is this watch?
S: Birr 120
M: (audible sigh)
S: (Silence)
M: (shaking my head in annoyance) What’s the cheapest watch you have?
S: (Picking up a cheap watch) Birr 65.

I am a terrible, terrible haggler. I paid the Birr 65 and asked the shopkeeper the time so I could set it correctly. His cell phone said 11:57 and he told me “Just before six”. It was six in the evening at the time of purchase. In addition to keeping their own calendar, Ethiopians keep time differently as well. In Ethiopia, 6:00 AM is twelve o’clock. The time progresses hourly until 6:00 PM is also twelve o’clock (as indicated on the shopkeeper’s cell phone) and then the evening hours progresses until 6:00 AM is once again twelve o’clock. I was told a formula to use in case I get told Ethiopian time. During the day add six to the time, during night subtract six form the time. That should straighten you out. The rationale is that the sun begins its rise at 6:00 AM and begins setting at 6:00 PM. So time goes with the sun. Not that kooky, really.

Two days later my Birr 65 watch stopped. I haven’t worn a wristwatch in years and I felt as if this low-tech item would be my unraveling. I am embarrassed to say that it took me much longer than it should have to figure out how to wind it. But figure it out I did. It’s still ticking.

ETHIOPIA: How Ethiopia has changed me, Part I

I now drink macchiato. For chrissakes.

ETHIOPIA: Obamania

I have found that once an Ethiopian realizes I am an American they ask about Obama. Am I supporting Obama? Do I think he will win? What does America think of him? (My favorite was the taxi driver who angrily punched his steering wheel. “Bush is for dictatorship. Obama is for democracy. Obama must win.”) I have yet to meet an Ethiopian who is not for Obama and they all seem very happy when they find out I also support Obama. I do not tell them I am upset at his recent capitulation on the FISA bill he voted in favor of last week or that I have grave reservations about who he will choose as VP. I just say that I do, indeed, support Obama. This seems to be enough.

On a recent bus ride to Bahir Dar I was speaking with Masrasha, an Ethiopian, about Obama. He was visiting Bahir Dar for his brother’s graduation from university. We got off the bus in Bahir Dar together and met with his brother and a friend. One of the first things they said when they saw us was that a new restaurant opened in town named after Obama.

My first reaction was to ask if it was named after Barack Obama or just coincidentally named Obama. They excitedly assured me that it was named after the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee. Here’s the sign for the restaurant and you can see for yourself:





I had dinner there. The service was slow, the food was so-so, and ambience was lacking. I only hope Obama’s presidency fares better than his namesake restaurant.

ETHIOPIA: A Dangerous Place

The exchange rate in Ethiopia is $1 USD = 9.5 Birr. A Birr goes a long way.

I have been eating filling, flavorful meals of “national food” including a drink (coke or water) and an after meal tea for less than 30 Birr. Bottled water is anywhere between 2 and 5 Birr. (I notice prices vary wildly) And I haven’t bought a beer for more than 10 Birr. So mostly I have been paying a buck or less for a beer. For an honest-to-god tasty Ethiopian beer. Less than or around $1 USD.

Forget all you hear about the perils and hazards of urban Africa. It seems to me that real danger lies in wait for someone who enjoys a cool, refreshing beer and has a pocketful of Birrs. Someone like me.

ETHIOPIA: Random Observations

Been in Addis Ababa for about five days. Beginning to go through data related to the malaria study but running into Mac compatibility issues. I may end up having to buy some statistics software to be able to actually work here. Otherwise all is well.

Some random observations:

• Most guidebooks and travelogues about Addis Ababa describe it as a dusty and noisy city. And there is no other way to describe it. Shops blast music and automobile horns honk incessantly. Vehicles and shoes are constantly washed. On almost every corner is a bunch of shoeshine boys. “Mister, clean shoes?” “Sir, shoe clean?” I hear every time I pass by. Dress shoes or sneakers, male or female, it doesn’t matter, everyone seems to be getting their shoes washed constantly. I’ll probably get a shine myself one of these days.

• Almost everyone here was unsurprised about my luggage delay. Even my African sources in the U.S. (Morgan, I’m looking at you) belatedly told me that lost or stranded luggage should have been expected.

• I spent a good portion of the weekend wandering the city. My goal was to become oriented but I failed. The street system seems incomprehensible. What street signs exist are untrustworthy and the streets themselves zig and zag in unfamiliar ways. The main roads are paved but the side roads are dirt and become messy after a rain. I am never quite sure if I am going down a dead end or a passable thoroughfare. All I can do is continue wandering.

• Not many white people in Addis Ababa.

• Here’s a picture from the hotel I stayed at for the first five days:



• Here’s a picture of one of the side roads:


Domestic animals traveling the streets or sidewalks are a common site. More common than the cattle seen in this picture are goats or mules. Although I was expecting to see the city shared with animals, it was disconcerting at first to witness a closely bunched group of goats walking the sidewalk in perfect formation. A man brandishing a stick walked about 10 feet behind them but they still seemed to be some well-behaved goats.

• Two mini-goals:
1. Figure out the mini-bus system. Blue and white min-vans travel around with a person sticking his head out the window yelling something – the bus route or destination I assume. They are always jam-packed and appear to be an easy, cheap way around the city. It’s just too chaotic looking right now. I need to figure it out before I jump onto one.
2. Figure out what shop fronts actually sell inside from how they look outside.

• Speaking of shops, whoever runs the corrugated metal business in Addis must be an Ethiopian fat cat. It is the construction material of choice.

• On my first visit to a restaurant by myself the waitress visibly smirked when I ordered.
“What’s so funny?” I asked innocently.
“You like Ethiopian food?” she asked still smirking.
“Yes, I know what I am getting into” was my response.
The food comes in a bowl with injera on the side. I thought they did this because I was a westerner (and because she was laughing at me for ordering “national food.” But afterward I asked around and on subsequent visits to restaurants this is, indeed the way it is often served, depending on what is ordered. You either grab right from the bowl or pour from bowl onto laid out injera.

• I feel like a real slob eating national food. My hand is filthy and I become very conscious that I have food all over my face. Especially the stew like dishes. I feel like everyone is watching me eat all the time. From my observations everyone seems to be able to dig in more and stay clean. Put that down as another goal of mine.

• National food is great. It is all I have been eating. The injera is more tangy and the food more spicy and flavorful. I’ll be an Ethiopian food snob by the time I return.

ETHIOPIA: The High Spirits of Those Returning Home

(Nimero has traveled to Ethiopa for the summer to assist in malaria research. His internet connection, so far, has not been very good, so he has relayed his first impression to me to post.)

Arrived in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia about 24 hours after leaving JFK airport. It was 4:00 AM, Thursday morning in Addis and I was without my luggage, which was having an unplanned extended stay in London.* The money exchanges were closed so I paid a taxi driver good old American greenbacks to take me to a hotel where I woke up the receptionist and got a room to sleep for a few hours. Only a few hours. I awoke around 9:00 AM (I think, I do not wear a watch and rely on my cell phone or the ubiquitous time pieces constantly on display in New York to know what time it was. As far as I can tell public clocks are not prominent in Addis.) Before those few hours in a bed I had about 3-4 hours sleep in the past 40 hours and that was just snatching snippets of uncomfortable, unrestful sleep while in an airplane seat.

The trip was long but the last leg from Amman, Jordan to Addis was enjoyable and vitalizing. In Jordan, the plane let out about three quarters of the passengers. The near empty plane, late at night and on the last leg of a long journey, brought people together. Returning from the back of the plane with a drink, I entered a chat with some people sitting around me. College-aged and excited for Ethiopia, they buoyed my spirits immediately. A strong camaraderie was built during a midnight beer, thousands of feet above the ground somewhere between Jordan and Ethiopia, in a darkened coach section of an airplane. I heard their stories, took photos with them, exchanged email. One was orphaned as child and adopted in the U.S. and returning to Ethiopia for the first time since she was four years old. Two brothers left Ethiopia years and years ago with their family and were returning to visit relatives. A young Somalian woman from London was making Ethiopia her first trip to Africa. They asked some of the older Ethiopians on the plane about their lives and experiences. I found their excitement contagious and comforting. They expressed envy that I was staying three months and all they had were one or two weeks. They cheered and whistled when we landed and walked joyously through customs.** I was waiting at baggage claim, reflecting on their excitement, how I was excited for them, wondering how excited I should be for myself over the next three months, when word of my stranded luggage came to me.

I credit that shared experience on the plane, that renewal of life force that comes from positive experiences with strangers in strange places to my muted reaction to the lost luggage. I really should have been more cross and frustrated with the whole situation. But I wasn’t. I was in Ethiopia and that seemed enough.

Or maybe, I was just too bloody tired to care.

*Picked up luggage next day. No worries.

**My visit through customs:

“Where are you staying?”
“I don’t know. A hotel tonight.”
“Do you have a phone number?”
“No.”
Stamp.

-Nimero