Thursday, 14 November 2013

Brother Isaac


“Hey brother”, he sits on his haunches, “you looking for weed? Ganja? Hash?”

He lights a half-smoked cigarette. “I make good price for you brother, no problem”.

We stand at the end of the pavement waiting for the latest wave of traffic to pass.

“I know many tourist. they like making fun fun. Me I get you anything. I am working with tourist many years”.

He stands up, hand out. “I’m Isaac”. He pulls out a soft pack of cigarettes. “You want smoke?”

“Actually, we’re looking for a bus or something. To the Sudan border.”

“Sure? You go that country? Man, that place is fucked up.” He throws down his hands. Nearly every finger has a ring on it. “Come I take you rather somewhere. I know good place”

We pause. Look at one another.

“Is cheap cheap man brothers, come” .

We follow.


Isaac is big for an Ethiopian. Not tall, but solid, thick like his American accent. His teeth are nearly as yellow as the end of his peroxided dreads. We walk through a small market selling touristy things, Isaac tugs at my hair. “You surfer?”

He’s the first African to ever ask me this.

“I can see. Was in Cali, man, 2008”

I smile and nod.

“Isaac can spot a surfer from miles. I saw many of your type. Travelled around with some. Many drugs”.

He grabs six bananas from a man selling them in a wheel barrow, dishes them out, doesn’t pay.

“Cool dude,” he says passing me mine.

I’m still wondering who the sixth one is for when a short man in a brown shirt that is too big for him, joins us. Isaac hands him the last banana. A sidekick of some sort. We jump on a taxi and they chat frantically in Amharic.

I turn to Jordan and in my pathetic Afrikaans: “Heirdie ou is nie so lekker nie”.

“Ja, ja, ek weet. Mar ons kan sien waar ons gaan.”

FP laughs at Afrikaans, he and Rob are fluent. They agree with Jordan. Let’s see where it goes.

The sidekick doesn’t say a word to us. Isaac breaks the silence, “So you’re Afrikaans?”

I swallow hard, caught out.
Flustered, I fumble out a lame resurrection plan. “Not really, Jordan went to an Afrikaans school though.” Still hot under the collar I ask Isaac if he can speak the language.

“No, not speaking, only hearing. You know, many South Africans here. Sounds like Dutch.”

I swallow hard, relieved. “Ons moet pasop. Hy is baaie slim.”

I’m relieved our secret code remains intact. Communication is priceless, and if he isn’t aware that we’re onto him, we have a huge advantage.

Our trip seems never ending; it begins to turn into a makeshift tour. We talk about Fidel Castro. “He is like big celebrity here. Helped for freedom. Even Mandela, he train in secret camps here in Ethiopia”. We nod ,every Ethiopian has told us this when they find out we’re from South Africa. About Haile Selassie. “He isn’t a god, we rastas know that. But we believe he has some power. He can do kinds of miracles.”

We say we’re not convinced and ask where we are. “Marketo Subcity”. Our destination is apparently around the corner for the third time.

“I think. You think. Either way,” Isaac says, “Selassie is good man. Once he give a street child a house. Always giving pretty women jobs”.

“I bet he is,” I say.

Isaac finds that very funny. “No no” he laughs, “In airport, properly, not personal.”


We push through more crowded streets, a few tight alleys. On into a residential area. A herd of goats clatter past. A big billboard with the president and the flag on it stares at the houses.

“You see the star in the middle?”  Isaac says pointing at the flag. “You remember it was a lion?” We all nod.

“The lion was sign of monarch. Star is communist.” We nod again, this time showing our enlightenment.

“Ethiopia is big communism man. But people don’t realise”. We say nothing.

“I you’re caught with that old flag, big sheet man”. We turn another corner. “You will see suddenly. One day you will be at home and six men with guns will come to your house. Four will come to get you, two will wait outside if you run.”

We jump into a taxi. “You pay this time,” he says, then continues. “When they get you they blindfold you and put a bag on your head. Then they throw you in the back of an army van and drive you like this”, he holds an invisible steering wheel and swerves left and right like a madman.

He looks funny. I laugh. The whole idea of it.

“Is no funny man, beeg sheet. The soldiers take you to a secret base, maybe in the forest. They put you inside a room. They grab you and rip off the blindfold”.

He tells a story well and lets it hang a short while in anticipation.

I give a high five to a school kid as we pass a mosque with big marble arches.

“Then they shake you,” like this – Isaac wrestles my shoulders. “They put gun to your head. Then, give you the new flag and tell you, ‘Now hang this in your room!’”

We can’t stop laughing. “That’s it?”

 Isaac nods, unhappy with our reaction. We advise him to change the ending of his story, especially when he’s telling tourists. We share some violent South African stories and have him eating out our hand. We’re back in control, I don’t even need Afrikaans.

“Surely brother? Is true man? Sheet!

“How far?” Jordan asks.

“Close. Around the corner, brother.”

“Isaac, if we turn one more corner we’ll beat you like the police in South Africa, I swear!”

Isaac laughs. We turn three more corners and stop at a door with stairs that go down below street level.
“Is here brothers!”

The doorway is dark. The smell of weed wafts up so strongly my head feels light.

Two days earlier we’d been arrested at a cheap, brothel-like place for staying in an area that was ‘too cheap’ for tourists. We had walked for five kilometers with the police to reach the station. Our bags were searched and our motives questioned by an English speaking commander who his juniors took hours to find. Eventually the police called a hotel and booked us in themselves. We didn’t stay. We’d climbed through the window and caught a taxi to the other side of Addis.

Now a similar feeling was welling up inside my stomach.

“Isaac,” I say, “there’s no ways we’re going in there”.

His stubbly moustache highlights his smile.

“I dunno what your plan is, but we’re not falling for it”.

He smiles harder.

“Do you know what we call this in South Africa?”

“What?”

“A wild goose chase.”

“I wild goose chase?” He thinks, “I like that.” And nods, impressed. “It’s OK man. If  I can’t get you then let’s be friends?”

Friends are good, we all agree. He hasn’t been bad company by any means. He suggests breakfast. Of course he knows a good place.

We cross the road, turn a few more corners, and the smell of coffee replaces the smell of weed.

“We eat Ethiopian. I order.” Isaac is back in charge, talking to the owner with waving arms in a loud magnetic voice.

 Later, behind Isaac’s back, the owner signals me to the kitchen. “This is not good man. He bring you trouble. Even police trouble. Many big problem”.

I tell him it’s okay, we know. He looks less than convinced and shakes his head every time we meet eyes.

 Black coffee comes with njeera, a sour pancake. I push it down with water. Isaac introduces his sidekick who still hasn’t said a word.

“This is Benjamin, he has no English. He is good for my plan. I catch many tourists man”.

Benjamin smiles. Like a puppet on a string. Poor guy. He doesn’t know the game has turned, that we’re all just friends now, not con and dupe. He sits there, still thinking they’re about to pull a scam on the nice guys buying them breakfast. Wondering when. His conscience is working overtime, his face is guilt-ridden. He can barely eat.

We’ve been caught in so many scam’s we’re not even interested in what Isaac’s plan was. Whether it was bribery, cops, theft, a drug scam, or worse. He wouldn’t tell us anyway, so we eat breakfast without any interrogation. There’s no point.

“Perhaps I visit you in SA man?” Isaac says, enjoying the last of the njeera. “Surfing?”

“Yes,” I say, “and perhaps we’ll help you find a bus”.

Isaac laughs. “Good men, clever men” he says, lifting his coffee in a friendly toast.





Monday, 7 October 2013

ARRIVALS

Kipanga                        Tanzania, Lake Tanganyika                    Population:  100   

      
We arrive, like ancient travellers, in a handmade wooden boat. The guys paddle as I scoop out water that is leaking through holes plugged with thread.  Men and women come down to greet us. Children scatter in all directions, terrified by our ‘umzungu’ faces. The fishing rods cause much confusion, and are examined closely. Spotting a hook one man realises their use, his face lights up and he excitedly tells the rest. Hand gestures, touching, ‘ooohs’ and ‘aaahs’; the fishermen are thoroughly impressed.

The village itself has nothing. Just a shop with spares for boat motors.  Asking for food, we’re pointed back to the village we just came from. Too tired to paddle back we decide we’ll rather starve and set up camp on the pebbly beach.

Kipanga means ‘Hawk’ in Swahili.

Nairobi                         Kenya, Capital City                   Population 3.2 million (2009 census)

We bundle off the bus onto littered streets. 2am. Starving. Cold. We walk and find a 24hour Chicken & Chips joint. A huge portion of chips is only 55 Kenyan Shillings, about six bucks. We each have two.

Back to the bus, and the driver allows us to spend the night in it. He takes the prime five-seater back row and stretches out. We’re left uncomfortable, crammed on double seats, but at least off the street. In the morning we wake to a completely different city, except for the bustling Chicken & Chips joint. Business as usual.

The name "Nairobi" comes from the Masai phrase Enkare Nyrobi, which translates to "cold water".

Sumbawanga     Tanzania, capital of the Rukwa Region    Population: 150 000 (2002 census)

                        

It’s a mission. Not merely a manner of speaking, but literally. We’re directed by an over excited receptionist to the head nun’s office. Slipping away the empty beer bottles the Sister gives us a triple room for the price of a single.

Jordan’s slops break. His bare feet create a scene. Being barefoot here is a sign of poverty and madness. Trying to preserve his dignity, everyone in the town rushes to get him shoes, mainly slops... bright green, red, yellow, pink or orange. One or two offer him closed shoes, even some nice leather ones. We’ve learnt on our travels that closed shoes are useless. His refusal creates pandemonium, so he settles on a pair of red slops.

Sumbawanga literally translates to “through a way you are witches”. It stems from local superstitions and practices relating to spiritual healers in the surrounding smaller.


Giza                   Egypt, Pyramid City                Population 2.5 million (2006 census)

Tourist central. We’re hustled into a Lebanese restaurant and seated at a laden table. Breads of all kind, towers of grapes and other fruits I’ve never seen. Dates, olives, jams, cheeses, wine bottles, even Champagne. Our waitress is a Lebanese girl in skimpy clothing. I pull out my wallet. Empty. Say, “We have no money” and we’re hustled out onto the street.

Back to the train station we each find a concrete bench to spend the night on. In the morning we’re taken for breakfast by two young policemen. Chickpea falafels in pita bread with cucumber and sweet tea. They’re fascinated by us and want us to meet their families. We have a train to catch and regret our leaving.
“When the Muslims opened Egypt, they crossed the Nile to the other side from this area so they called it ‘giza mubaraka’. A blessed crossing of the Nile. Since then the area is called Al Giza” – Ahmed (Our host who robbed us.)

Dar es Salaam       Tanzania, formerly Mzizima        Population 1.3 million (1988 census)



We are stranded. We sit and talk to truck drivers at the Tunduma border. They club together and buy us bus tickets to Dar.

“We are all men here,” says Ali, “sometimes we have financial tightness. We are pleased to help you; some day you will do the same.”

We’ve organised to meet Charl, who’s somehow connected to a friend back home. He’s a South African expat working in the mines, settled in the exclusive Peninsula area near the well known Holiday Inn. The trip has taken thirty two hours and we arrive smelly and dirty in our holey shirts.
 Jordan and Robs try to surreptitiously change their clothes on the lush lawn outside the Holiday Inn. We’re so out of place. They have wet wipe baths and drown themselves in deodorant. I decide against it. I don’t want to make a scene in front of the hotel, and think a hardcore Afrikaner working on the mines will be impressed with our roughing it anyway. He’s an accountant and I feel sheepish as I climb into his impeccably clean Land Rover, and slide along its smooth leather seats.

Dar es Salaam is an Arabic phrase meaning ‘haven of peace’.

Addis Ababa                Ethiopia, Capital          Population estimate 4.1 million (2013)


A sprawling metropolitan slum. Marketo Sub city bus rank. A seething mass of outstretched limbs reach up to the bus. Coffee, mealies, fruit, pens, handkerchiefs.

Outside the bus a porter tells us we should not be here. We pull our rain covers over our bags, protection against opportunistic thieves, and go get some lentil samoosas.

Addis Ababa means "New Flower" in the African language of Amharic.

Isiolo            Kenya, Eastern Province, Isiolo county         Population 140 000 (2009 census)



We’re having a taxi swap over. The drivers stand in a huge circle and pray for protection on the road.  The prayer is led by a man in a fancy suit with a fat Bible. It’s loud and in some local dialect. We agree with Amen’s.

Meaning of Isiolo unknown.

Kapiri Mposhi          Zambia, close to the DRC border           Population: 200 at a guess



We’re dropped at a petrol station where trucks often refuel. A crossroad where we can get lifts to our next destination.  Inside, there’s a TV and we watch the last 20 minutes of Tottenham vs QPR. It feels like home. We also watch the chickens. All in a row, brown and glistening, turning slowly on the rotisserie.

Outside we dodge the oily patches on the ground and prop ourselves up against a wall, out of the wind. We pull out our sleeping bags for warmth. Africa is big and it’s sky wide. The petrol station is small and I’m small in the petrol station.

Women nearby are selling bananas and peanuts, still dirty in their sandy shells. They give us some. Thank you. For supper.

I don’t know the meaning of Kapiri Mposhi. But it sounds kind.

Wadi Alfa      North Sudan, on the shores of Lake Nubia       Population: next to nothing



The old Jackie Chan film ends in perfect unison with our journey. It’s subtitles told a different story. The doors open, heat rushes in. I’ve lost my sun glasses and the glare of the white sand hurts my eyes. It’s not quite what we expected. Jackie Chan doesn’t get the princess and she’s stolen by his nemesis. I’m so thirsty and the cold water tastes like sand.

A wadi is a river in North Africa or Arabia. A river which is dry except in the rainy season. Alfa I don’t know. Perhaps it is the name of a famous local.

Awassa              Ethiopia, The Great Rift Valley                 Popluation 150 000 (2007 census)

Everywhere is expensive, except one place.
The women at the door look excited to see us.
 It doesn’t last long. 
We do not seek companionship.

Meaning unknown.

Marsabit                     Kenya, southeast of the Chalbi Desert        Population: minimal

It’s pouring and I need to pee. I climb out the back of the truck, my back stiff from sleeping against its cold metal sides. The roads potholes are filled with water and reflect the lights of nearby buildings. A hand gestures from a nearby hotel.

I watch TV with Peter for half an hour. I must call him when I’m home, he says.

What I learnt from Google, Wikipedia:

 Originally, Marsabit was popularly known as Sokorte. The name Marsabit was given by English explorers who went through the area using landrovers. Popular inhabitants, the Rendille, used to call it Sokorte or Haali dayan. Trekking across the drylands, white explorers describe where they were coming from by pointing fingers to the mountains saying 'Mars a bit" which means high and cool - an old English word. The local residents didn’t pronounce it well, and hence 'Marsabit' was picked up from there. Others claim the name is from the Amharic word 'Marsa bet'; Meaning Marsa's home/house. Marsa was a farmer brought to Marsabit from Mega, in Ethiopia, by the Consul to assist in the consolidation of farming and permanent settlement on the slopes of the mountain.

Kiwengwa                   Zanzibar                       Population: 10 people



Jordan is excited. He’s going to see Shaka, a guy he met on last trip. We walk down the path Jordan remembers, turn around the corner and are greeted by a plot of over grown weeds. Shaka’s hut is gone.

A bunch of high Rastas smoke under a palm roof shelter. They invite us in. They say we can stay wherever we like. Montera, the one with a glorious mane of dreads, recognises Jordan and says he knows where Shaka stays. He’ll call him. His wife left him after the fire and he makes curios on the beach. He’s a beach boy now. They’re famous for sleeping with foreigners, especially the Italians. Montera actually has a kid in Italy who he’s going to visit soon. Shaka says he’s looking for a white lady too now.

The meaning of Kiwengwa went up in smoke.

Chuma                    Zambia, Large informal settlement of about 2000 people



MacNully had picked us up, and after an eight hour journey we were considered friends, so we had to stay over at his house. He laughs at how poor we are. We fetch his son and daughter from school. Chando’s big brown eyes watch our every move. Mbulelo is told by her father to practice her English with us. “Hello, ‘ow are you?”, “Mayi name is Mbulelo. I am nian years old”, ”My fayvorite subject is Science”, “You arah welcome in owah place”.

We’re given bread and tea for supper. A new margarine is brought and opened especially for us. Chando and Mac each have four table spoons of sugar in their tea. Only men sit at the table. Chando is clearly Mac’s favourite child.

In the morning a chicken is thrown in our room to wake us up, and once we’re up, we’re proudly paraded around the dusty streets of Mac’s village, taking the long route back to where his truck is parked.

Chuma. A place where the streets have no names.



Wednesday, 11 September 2013

Desert Life

For some reason when we arrived at Wadi Halfa, I expected a lot more than just a few houses, small businesses, home restaurants and one abandoned looking hotel next to to a random road in the middle of the desert. Perhaps it was because, as a harbour town, I thought it would have some sort of trade and development. I was wrong.

For us Wadi Halfa will forever be a turning point in our 'hoboness'. Having been caught out by a hidden registration fee of $50 (on top of a $100 two week transit visa), we quite literally had zero money to our name after paying for the ferry to Egypt. it was the perfect time to whip out the survival food and get exactly that on; survival.

After waiting in the shade the entire afternoon, and stocking up on the free cold water at the derelict hotel we set for the desert to find a place to sleep. We settled behind a 'koppie' and watched the sun drop as it pulled the days heat around the earth with it. We each cooked up our various meals; Jordan his noodles and FP his chicken soup whilst robs ate his pronutro-muesli combo and I indulged in a large helping of sand tasting water, deciding I'd keep my chocolate future life for tomorrows breakfast. I also thought how this would make a far better future life ad than Chad le Clos' one, and dozed off thinking how cheap an Olympic gold medal seemed in the vastness of this huge desert sand pit.

Making a ring around our bags we got comfortable, each using our own sleeping methods we'd developed during the trip. The slight breeze was a welcome respite to the heat, and the little bits of stinging sand were a worthwhile trade for the coolness it brought.

Above us stars sat like icing on top of a cake. It was so clear we saw aliens and some other characters from 'starwars'. Chubakka smiled at us and gave us a thumbs up, asking us to greet his relative Dillon Nuss on earth.

In the early hours of the morning, the stinging sand began to hurt. Our air-con has been switched to setting 'Gale force' and we couldn't find the remote to turn it down. Sand flying across the grounds surface, I stood up to get a scarf out my bag, only  to realise the the wind only blew to about knee height. Unfortunately I hadn't learnt to sleep standing up yet, despite coming close on a few bus journeys, and so lay back down, wrapped up my head, and turned my back to the wind.

In the morning we shook off the sand like dogs do with water, and headed back to the town. With the rest creating a diversion, Jords and I managed to slip a free shower disguised as a long toilet visit in the hotel. The day followed the same as yesterday; a search for shade, sleeping and communicating not in English to everyone.

Our next night was very restless. After being too lazy to walk to our previous nights camp, we settled closer to the village in a ditch, hoping to escape the wind. unfortunately, the scorpions had decided to do the same, and seemed to have called a meeting there. After seeing three in the space of ten minutes we were faced with a classic Africa decision: sleep in the desert with scorpions, or find shelter in the town and risk being arrested.

After remembering what the French bikers had said earlier in the day; "ze green ones will kill in sree hours", we decided that had it been three black mambas we would definitely have left and  although not as scary, these scorpions could do the same. thus it became clear, we needed to find another spot.

We picked up camp walked across the desert of dry bones (quite literally: dead camels everywhere) to an abandoned house on the outskirts of town. Our stealth was completely ruined when one territorial dog barked, only to be joined by every other dog in the whole of Wadi Alfa, if not North Sudan and possibly even the South. Worst of all when they all stopped, one single dog remained barking, like the cymbal player in a marching band determined to be recognised. Comically, it was actually barking at it's own echo bouncing off the distant 'koppie'

We rose the next morning not arrested and laughed as Jordan pointed out that our closest equals in the little nothing town were the stray dogs who, threatened by a possible take over, had barked at us the entire night.

Sneaking another shower, this time dodging the suspicious owner, I even managed to fill up my bottles with some cold fridge water whilst no one was looking. After trading avoidance tactics with the rest and hearing how Jordan had scooped a free breakfast, I realised in my gleeful feeling of victory at a cold shower we'd gone full hobo and the travelling had truly begun to take its toll.




FP Looking over Lake Nassa
 Finding an old blue truck
 Climbing into the old blue truck
 Stealing the old blue truck

 The Rob, plotting...
Our second night taking refuge from the scorpions
 
waking... unarrested!

Saturday, 13 July 2013

North Sudan

The drive from Matema border to North Sudan’s capital Khartoum was a totally surreal experience. The harshness of our new environment was completely different to anything we had seen on the trip so far. The drive to the nearest town from the border was thirty minutes across the most arid of deserts. Sand and more sand as far as the eye can see, harsh, dry and lifeless yet as beautiful as the lush green highlands of Ethiopia we had left behind us.

With Sudan permanently on high security alert Police stops were frequent and found in the middle of nowhere. How people are even found is such places remains a mystery. Nevertheless, as the taxi would stop people would come running over dunes with buckets of homemade hibiscus juice, deep red in colour and freezing cold. Despite the unnecessary amount of sugar it contains, in the dry heat the refreshment it offers is priceless and everyone in the taxi helps them self to a glass or two... or three.

Despite being scolded for our short pants and Robs for wearing a vest we are deemed safe to travel onward but warned to buy some ‘proper clothes’. Still discussing the ridiculousness of wearing long pants in such a climate we realise that the dry wind gushing through the open window has absolutely no cooling value to it either, and so we shut it pulling closed the black curtains of the taxi: shade.  Having previously thought them unnecessary we realise that in Sudan shade is a precious commodity and that it may, along with copious amounts of water, be our only respite.

Something about the heat and dust, the lack of English, the robes worn, our ‘non- muslimness’ the many police stops, our insignificance in the vastness of such a desert and our complete reliance on something as simple as water finally makes us feel like we’re truly experiencing Africa.

When we stop we jump off, excited to see what are new food options are after three weeks of Njeera n Dibs (disgusting sour pancakey things and minced fillet). We wonder around looking at all the shops and rows of restaurants making sure we pick the right option and don’t land up regretfully walking past a delicious meal, full from a rushed choice of food.

All the shop owners try to coax us into their restaurants with tasters and by the time we settle we’re pretty full anyway. It seems as though foreigners and especially white people are a rarity in such an area and we end up having an absolute blast as everyone excitedly fusses over us. Our meals are paid for by a University lecturer and before we know it treat after treat is being place before us, “Taste this, taste this”. Deep fried crushed chickpeas, meats of all sorts, their version of falafels, more hibiscus juice, whole oranges liquidised into a tropica like juice, vegetables I’ve never seen and sweet pastries confuse our stomachs, leaving us feeling quite ill but. Perhaps the only disappointment was the fruit. Having spent all its time in the sun it reached us more stewed than anything else and rather displeasing to the palate.

From this wonderful market in Gardaref we had to take a seven hour bus to Khartoum. More sand, more flat desert into more dune desert. This may seem boring but the further you go the more you realise how huge the desert is and the more beautiful it becomes. The subtle changes from open planes to dunes, to thin coverings of scrub to strange black earth and little houses in the middle of nowhere creates a landscape in which your mind wonders up all sorts of possibilities and stories of life in such a country.

In perfect timing the old Jackie Chan film screened on the bus ends as we enter the outskirts of Khartoum and we open the windows, killing the aircon to see the city. From the nothingness of desert to a huge bustling city of tall high-rises and bustling markets; still thriving at two in the morning as people enjoy the coolness of night. People picnic along the green grass that runs parallel to the airstrip whilst others participate in a huge public session of yoga or something of that sort.


Another new city, completely different to the many we’ve passed through; each a unique mood, each as fascinating as the next.

Tuesday, 2 July 2013

Alone in Addis

It’s not often along our travels that the three of us have been separated, simply because Africa is a place where it may take months to find each other again. In our case with our lack of phones etc. perhaps never. Thus, it is quite a different feeling when you’re suddenly left gallivanting around a big city like Addis all by yourself:

Shouts of “you, you” are used to grab my attention, but I pull the ‘No English card’ and continue along my way. Beggars crowd the already packed streets, usually displaying some physical ailment or religious placard. An elderly man lies completely naked, blackened by the sun ahead of me. People step over and around him as they navigate their way through the obstacle course of bodies. Something about it shocks me. Seeing a man completely degraded and humiliated through poverty. Stripped bare, not only of his clothes but also his dignity.

A little girl runs up to me, tattoos along her arms and ankles, up her neck and on her forehead; family markings. She kisses my hand like a royal courtier. Her blinking eyes, sparkling like pools in the centre of her grubby face, look up at me; “money, money”.

I jump into a taxi, my directions home written on my arm so I can’t get lost. Addis is a huge city; 3.3 million people in a census done way back in 2007, divided into sub cities because of its size. Standing in a line for a Taxi is a non-existent practice, so I feel like I’ve won a game of ‘beach flags’ as I sit in my seat. Still having my wallet is also a bonus as pick pockets thrive in the mad scramble for taxis.

My first neighbour is ‘Small Mike’; a once public, now private taxi driver. He speaks with a ridiculously strong American accent, something I have found comical throughout the trip. English accents in Africa reflect their teachers, whether it be American TV or the British Learning Institute. Hence, one can find oneself in the middle of Africa speaking to someone with a classy British accent or an extremely twangy American one.
I learn how he is unhappy with Ethiopia and Addis in particular, sadly turned against his own country because of his brothers comfy lives in Washington and Chicago. He jumps off saying “if you ever need anything friend, come find me at Jupiter Hotel. Ask for small Mike, that’s me. They call me Small Mike because there’s another Mike. He’s big!”

My next partner is a middle aged man in smart pants and a pink pin striped collared shirt fitted tightly around his aging belly. He greets me asking if I’ve come to Addis for the African Unions 50th Anniversary or if I’m just a tourist. He seems very interested in my travels as we talk about our journey and the progress, or lack thereof, in Africa. Inevitably he ask where I’m from; standard conversation in Africa. Mostly, Africans can’t believe we’re from Africa because we’re white and conversations usually go something like this:

Where are you from?
South Africa
But where do you live?
I live in South Africa
But where are you actually from?
No, I’m from South Africa
 Yes, but where are you born?
In South Africa, I am South African, that is my country!
So where are your parents from?
They are from South Africa (sensing the trend) and so are their parents and their parents and their parents and their parents.
So you are British or American?
No I don’t know. I think I have some Scottish, from my dad. My mom is maybe Irish, but I’m not sure, I know her dad grew up in India, but as long as I know I am African,  I’m from South Africa. 

Still unsure of my “Africaness” and even more sceptical of my lack of knowledge of my heritage, he accepts my answer, clearly unsatisfied.

I ask my standard questions and find out he is 46 years old, married for seventeen years and has two daughters of three and nine. Conversation dries up slightly until the next favourite question is dragged out: “Christian?” We talk about religion and churches in Ethiopia as well as our plan to perhaps try meet my parents in India. He was a minister in Lebanon for twelve years, returning to Addis to get his carpet business going and make some money. He says he’s returning to Lebanon as soon as his business is up and running. Our budding friendship is interrupted as he jumps off at our next stop. He wishes me well as I send greetings to his family and wish him luck in his business venture.

I have no partner for a while; my hoarse fluey throat appreciates the break and I stretch out my legs letting the blood tingle down to my toes as I enjoy the space. It doesn’t last long as the taxi is soon crowded again. Another partner, but this time no convo. His lack of English and my lack of Amharic leaves us at his greeting of “Salaam” and my reply of “Salaamno” and a smile.


This time I hop off first. I pass the familiar fruit sellers and the familiar shop keepers. Along the cobblestone path, past the kids who pull tongues at us daily, up the winding stairs and along the concrete corridor to the red door of the flat we’re all staying in. It’s locked; I’m home first. I lean on the balcony that overlooks the green courtyard in which all the boys play soccer, admiring the skill they display in their cumbersome 'crocs', I wait for the key bearer to return. 

Tuesday, 25 June 2013

Addis Window

Car wheels on the wet tar recreate the sound of rain. Arabic Muslim prayers from a nearby Mosque slightly over power Chris Brown and Jordan Sparks old hit “No Air”, creating a strange symphony. Breaks screech and hooters toot incessantly. Rumbles of thunder cause the glass to vibrate and the broken door to rattle on its hinges.  Shouts echo as they climb the twirling staircase.

I get up to look outside and gaze along the green and grey corrugated iron roofs rusting in age. The rain has made puddles and a slush-puppy of rubbish and mud all along the gutters. Umbrellas are out and people run from covering to covering. The standard half white half blue taxis dominate the road, each with a different sticker on the back; usually religious or supporting some football club.

The rain starts up again, harder this time, and it’s pattering on the tin drowns out most of the noise except my Arabic backing track. A rude bus horn twice disturbs my solitude. Across the road begins a vast shanty town; a jagged desert of tin roofs that continue for miles until a foresty hill covered in grey mist begins. More and more houses, like cans of baked beans on a fire with holes poked in them, begin to let out pillars of wood-smoke, obscuring my view of the distant pallid Mosque.

Everything now seems grey except for a light blue shack selling bottled water and a red and yellow striped tavern branded by the local ‘St. Georges’ beer, ironically a biblical figure. Other than these a fruit store and a shop selling bright pink and green doors are the only stationary objects that add colour to my scenery. Occasionally a person skipping across my slice of Addis adds a brush of colour to the window painting.

This centre of Addis, Marketo Sub City, is a true slum of Africa. Life is hard and stops for nothing. Yet still, the difficulties of day to day living have not stolen the joy that is evident in the brief interactions between its rain dodging inhabitants. Even from my elevated view I can see the smiles and cheerful eyes.


When the sun comes out, noise will increase, shouts will flood through my now quietened window and the streets will fill up as the bustling trading will once again seize to life. Masses of people will paint the grey into an ever changing kaleidoscope of colour.