The Nerd's Eye View

Despite the fact that I had only really been in Ethiopia for a day and a half I hadn't really gone out, and I felt like I'd been here for about two weeks. As I said, though, I hadn't really gone out during the day, and had spent my days reading and lazing about and wondering how I was going to get rid of this outrageous jetlag. Yesterday we finally went out during the day, and took a drive around sunny Addis Ababa. It was a glorious day and I immediately regretted my decision to save space and leave my cameras at home. Mind you, at the time I had thought that my folks would be here and that I'd use their much nicer (and smaller) camera, but what with my folks being in Paris longer than expected I was stuck at the home of friends and with no camera at all. Once again, I would regret this decision many times throughout the course of the day.

The thing that strikes you first, on a sunny, clear day, is that it is still cold. I had arrived in Ethiopia expecting it to be like the Sudan to a great extent - that is to say, khaki colored and hot as Satan's armpit. Wrong. Addis Ababa's being in the highlands makes it quite cool, all year round. Moreover, it makes Addis a city of many hills and shallow valleys, that make driving quite fun and interesting. The city is populated by some of the most beautiful people you are likely to see on earth, and they know it. Not in a show-off sort of way, but in the sense that they take care of their appearance, and even the meanest person is well groomed and well dressed. However, this doesn't always mean Armani suits and Dolce and Gabana shirts. Frequently it means shirts that have made their way from somewhere else, with some english phrase on them. The colors work, but the phrases leave a lot to be desired. "God Bless America", Sisquo t-shirts showing the singer's dyed blonde hair, R. Kelly t-shirts, and finally the improbably sighted "Phoenix, AZ, USA" t-shirt. Not what I was expecting, exactly. Still, the folks layer their clothes and have a good sense of colors, which leaves their Sudanese brethren in the sartorial dust.

Driving through the market places one is quickly fooled into thinking that Ethiopia is like any country in southern Europe, which is not entirely true. Behind the clean facades lay some depressing slums, shanty towns that can be seen by looking down any of the narrow streets that separate the blocks of stores. This is not surprising, although it is sad of course. The shanties cling to the sides of the downwards slopes of the hills of the city. They are built of corrugated aluminum or "zinc" and whatever materials are at hand, and they are quite small. Large families live in cramped spaces, and one wonders about the public hygiene of such areas. Access to these jury-rigged neighborhoods is via narrow, unpaved alleys, and rocks jut out of the surface of the ground at odd angles, a reminder of the volcanic past of the area. A quick drive through one neighborhood that my host had nearly moved into, and would have had it not been so far from work, revealed a surprising bit of graffiti: "Ja Rule". Hip hop lives, my friends.

Noting all of this I rode on, with my guides: my avuncular Sudanese host and a former student of his, a young Ethiopian who had just returned from getting his M. Phil. in Norway. Between the two of them they told tales of the city, from the heavily fortified Israeli embassy to the last remnant of the Communist government of the country, a tall spire topped with a hammer and sickle and some statue at the top that we couldn't make out. I suppose it was lauding the "workers" and their struggle. I was particularly impressed by the newly completed ring road around Addis which enabled us to quickly get around the city and see far more shanty towns than we would have been able to taking surface streets. In all honesty though, it's not all so bad and it appears that the government is making attempts at gentrification, including building subsidized housing. The land around the city is stunning, and resembles the south of France. We got lost in it for about 20 minutes - on purpose of course - and only turned around when it appeared we would be leaving the county proper. We headed back and stopped by a hotel for a quick cup of tea in their rooftop cafe, before heading back to the house to change and rest before dinner.

We had dinner at a restaurant called Jenet (which is similar to the Arabic word for "heavens", Jannaat). It was slightly hidden, in a little nook off Cape Verde St.

aside: all the streets in central Addis Ababa have been renamed with the help of a consultant. They are named after African nations and major landmarks. The street I was staying on was Rwanda St, so named because it is the location of the Rwandan embassy.

The restaurant was far more spacious than I had expected it to be, and furnished in the traditional Ethiopian style. The staff was dressed in clothes made of the particular cloth that one finds in Ethiopia, sort of a mix between linen and canvas. It's very comfortable and frequently is embroidered with bright red and orange and yellow thread. The restaurant featured a dinner show, with traditional dances from all of the Ethiopian provinces, performed by two men and two women. I must say I was captivated! Their dancing was amazing, not simply because of the beauty of the dances, but the fact that they so closely resemble Sudanese folk dances, and even the ones that we dance at weddings. Moreover, they reminded me of being in a club in Queens, because some of the dances had made it there. The final dance from the Walayta people in the northeast, looking like Michael Jackson dancing.

The ones that really took my breath away were where the men came out with sticks and danced around the women, who twirled their heads around so fast that it seemed as if their necks were broken and were twirled by some invisible puppeteer. They spin so fast that the dance culminates in the women fainting, literally, into the arms of their partners. Another beautiful dance is a sort of pastoral one, part dance, part pantomime. The two women are picking flowers or whatnot when they are accosted by the men, who flirt with them playfully. The women dance and the men watch them, finally throwing a gauzy shawl over one of the girls and taking her to the side. There the couple both sit beneath the shawl, hidden, as the other couple flirts. It was made more fun by an overzealous audience member who kept getting up and dancing with them. He really got into it and underscored another difference between them and Sudanese, namely their liveliness. They are a people not afraid to dance and not afraid to take the happy moments when they come to them, and I love that about them.

My parents were landing late that night, and had been very secretive about their arrival. I ascribe this to my father's time spent in service with the CIA. Eventually we tracked down their probably arrival time and since it was to be around midnight we retired to the Concorde Hotel piano bar to wait it out. We arrived just in time to watch our octogenarian Wayne Newton launch into his rendition of Lionel Richie's "Lady", and some Jerry Lee Lewis tune. I know it's hard to believe but he was pretty good, and was soon joined during the break by a stunning young woman in tight white trousers and a hooped sleeveless shirt. They talked and he eventually serenaded her, which just about knocked me out of my seat. It was not to be, and the bird flew the coop, leaving him joking at the bar, before ending his set with James Brown's "I Feel Good". Which was our cue to leave for the airport.

The reunion with the folks was wonderful, as I knew it would be. I crept up behind my mom and shouted out her name as she was walking out of the international arrivals. She got all teary eyed as I hugged her but didn't really cry outright, which made me so happy. We walked out to see my Dad at the other end of the airport. Apparently he's some sort of VIP now, which is an interesting turn of events! At the house we just talked and talked, late into the night, enjoying each others' company, before drifting off to sleep. I regretted not having my things with me (they were still at my host's house) but it was good to be home nonetheless.

aside: We woke up this morning to the sound of our door being knocked on. The neighbors had slaughtered a sheep for themselves and one for us as well, because of the occasion of my mother's health. Another sheep (this one live) was delivered to the house around noon or so. Apparently, we'll be having it slaughtered this weekend to mark the auspicious occasion of my finally being done. There is talk of inviting the Sudanese community at large. I see a very busy month ahead ...

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 10:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

11/26/2004 3:57PM MST (1:58PM Addis Ababa 11/27/2004)

Never in my wildest dreams did I ever expect to find myself in a bar in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia listening to someone sing Ray Charles tunes in a piano bar. And yet here I was, my father's friends having decided to take me out for a night on the town. After dinner at the home of a Finnish diplomat (don't ask, I have no idea how it is that my life takes these turns), we made our way to the home of an older Sudanese gentleman and all together went to the Concorde hotel. The hotel itself was a terribly curious place, set as it was behind a Mobil gas station, as if the hotel was part of the "stop 'n shop" portion of the gas station. Still, there was a valet who took the car and parked it as we made our way into the lobby and then left, into the Piano Bar. At first the music seemed somewhat shrill but was over quickly as they switched between singers. The second was a beautiful young woman with a halo of reddish brown hair surrounding the hair at the front of her head that was pulled back. She had high cheekbones and almond eyes, and was dressed in a very short dress and knee-high boots that laced in the back. I was quite surprised by her appearance, but not as much by the rapt silence that overtook the crowd of besuited, and besotted fellows who had obviously come just for her. As I finished my orange juice she started to sing, and her voice was simply beautiful. Her set consisted of 6 songs, three in Amharic, the rest being Sudanese songs, which are inexplicably popular in Ethiopia, She resembled nothing so much as an 80's singer in the late Donna Summer/early Tiffany mold - but better.

She was followed by an even more improbable act, an old man with his head shaved clean, in a blue suit. Before I knew what was happening he was singing "Nighttime in Georgia" followed by "Unchain My Heart". This octogenarian Wayne Newton was off and running with no real end in sight. He moved from song to song, throwing himself into the lyrics and belting them forth with an impish smile and a wink at the ladies. Not content to just sing, he was swaying and moving his hips, an Ethiopian Tom Jones. My companions informed me that he could sing in 9 languages, and as if to prove them right he started to sing "Di Me Quando" in tremulous tones that would have been applauded in Barcelona. I was flabbergasted and a little star struck when he sat down at our table, apparently familiar with the gentlemen I was with.

I would like to take a moment to tell you something about Sudanese culture. While the Sudan is a Muslim country, there is quite a bit of drinking in it's culture, specifically for men. There is a certain generation that started drinking the local hooch when they were in high school and progressed to Johnny Walker whiskey (typically Red Label, although Black Label is imbibed by some of the more refined gents) as they did their post-graduate studies in England, France or the US. They all drink the same thing, whiskey straight on the rocks, or whiskey and water, and it is usually accompanied by a certain amount of male gossip. Under no circumstances are women involved (I've never seen any) unless it is to provide the snacks that they knock themselves out on, and no children period. So when the gentlemen I was with offered me a drink I was very taken aback. Now I wasn't necessarily ashamed to drink in their presence, but my life is compartmentalized in a way most of my friends are familiar with. Since I associated Ethiopia with Sudan, and Sudan with my youth, then no drinking could take place. These gents weren't having any of it and ordered me a bottle of the local beer, Castel. It was a light pilsner and not so hard on the system, though I am still not at fighting weight so to speak.

Upon my return we moved to a different bar, called the Tropicana. This was more of a local place, and you could feel it in the atmosphere. Beyond the full compliment of local fellows, there was another live dance band with revolving lead singers. This one was distinguished by a saxophone to complement the ubiquitous keyboard. The singing was heartfelt and the crowd much more lively than the one at the Concorde. I contented myself to sit, still feeling the effects of the jetlag, but noted the gusto with which the patrons got up to dance. The Ethiopians are proving themselves to be a generally fun-loving bunch, particularly when you take into account the diversity of the crowd. Impressive, to say the least. It has certainly changed my view of Africa, which I am sad to say was formed by my travels in the exclusively Arab-Muslim parts. I am trying not to get spoiled though, because the Sudan with all of it's lovable, repressive idiosyncrasies is next on my itinerary.

PS what a windfall of connectivity I've had! This can't last long, so don't get spoiled....

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 11:30 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

11/26/2004 4:38AM MST (2:38PM Addis Ababa)

Landing in a foreign country at night is a surreal thing. All you see on the approach are the lights of homes, streets, etc, outlining the arteries of the city that lay below. There are some differences to be sure, approaching NYC is to approach the core of a galaxy, while approaching Khartoum is the outer spiral wing of that same body of stars. In the darkness you can't see dinginess, or cleanliness, or people or trees or anything. All you see are the scattered lights, and the result makes most cities look more or less the same. It is upon landing that the differences become slightly more visible.

Bole International Airport is not what I have come to associate with Third World airports. The new terminal, where I disembarked, resembles the new terminal in Charles de Gaulle, Paris. A modern jetway juts out of the glass and steel face of the airport and docks with the airplane. Walking down into the terminal, there is a concourse completely covered in marble, which has a soapy pure quality to it. The place is well laid out and the airport staff well dressed and extremely neat. I should have expected as much, since Ethiopians in the US are so much more fastidious than their Sudanese cousins. The only sign of inefficiency came as I waited in like to get my visa on arrival, walking from one window to the next and then back to apply, pay and then collect my passport. A man cut in front of me, with an Irish passport but not an Irish name or accent. At 2am one is inclined to beat him senseless with his own shoe, but lacks the will and energy to do it. Regardless I got my passport stamped with a handsome visa, and entered the baggage claim area.

It is truly a remarkable thing to find yourself somewhere wherein you are the majority. To be able to look around and see a sea of faces that resemble your own. One forgets about it when one is away, living amongst what are essentially foreigners (not in the usual sense). There, every face you see is not a reflection of your own and so you slowly lose touch with the face you see in the mirror. Here, on the other hand, the faces in the crowd are the one in the mirror and vice versa. They start to speak Amharic to you immediately, until your simple smile and shaking of the head let them know that you aren't Ethiopian. Gathering your belongings you walk out into a larger sea of people in the marble, steel and glass main concourse, and see faces that are even more familiar since they are Sudanese faces. They take your hand and greet you warmly. It's the feeling of being home, even when this isn't home; it is the feeling of belonging, where you don't quite belong.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 7:18 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

These are not, as you may assume at first glance, sexual euphemisms. They are actually the names of towns I saw as my cousin drove us back to their house on the A3. I've managed to stay an extra day in the UK to see some family members I hadn't seen in a while, and bask a bit in the weather. After living in meteorogically monotonous Phoenix AZ, it's quite the treat. Although the strange names of places definitely make for a surreal experience amidst the relative normalcy of urban London.

I've found that in my short time here I've become more and more desirous of being the cause of an "ugly American" episode. I can't help it. Every time I look at a smug British face I want to start shouting about how "they owe us for pulling their gibblets out of the fire during dubya dubya two!" and how their internet sucks.

Speaking of which, what kind of way is it to run a 21st century economy with such limited access to the inter-web-net? The only wireless network I found as at a loathed Starbucks location and apparently they're still running 802.11a or something primitive like that. What use is a wonderfully sleek laptop if you can't show it off to the local yokels? Fortunately there is some connectivity though as you can see I have to wait far too late for it to become available. I don't know what I shall do when I am in "Darkest Africa" although I gather I'll have an easier time overall. No need to worry gentle reader, I will do my level best to provide you with the very best in lo fat travel writing.

Now I have to go insult the Queen. Ta for now!

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 1:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

11/23/04 9p GMT
Ladies and Gents, the Lo Fat is currently over the Big Pond, and more cliches are in the offing. I will attempt to put down here the overall impressions of my trip if not the complete details thereof in the manner of a modernday Gulliver.

We can start with a short discussion of the dour and sour folks who were on the plane with me. Never before have I seen such a miserable lot on a flight anywhere. I'm not sure what it is about the English but they manage to look humorless even when they are in fact having a "great time". It may be that the thought of returning to Blighty fills them with dread - and why wouldn't it? - but I can't see how that can keep them looking like someone had done something unpleasant to their dog.

Fortunately for me, I have found the secret to relaxing and successful travel.

That's right, I sleep. I sleep from the moment I got onto the plane, till about an half an hour before we land I am completely dead to the world. This comes in especially handy, whether or not there is someone talkative next to you on the plane. So I performed my trick, and like clockwork woke up about 40 minutes outside of Heathrow.

Upon landing I discovered something I had hitherto been unaware of. It is the bliss of having an American passport. No visas, no questions, no nothing. The last time I had come to the UK, I was a filthy foreigner and was given the third degree by the officious immigration beak who was walking through the train as it passed through the Chunnel. Not so this time, when the fellow manning the passport control booth was not only quick in stamping my passport, but pleasant to boot! Wonders never cease! This is, I suspect, only the beginning of the ease that the US passport will be extending to me in my travels.

I made my way out of the arrivals area, deposited my bags at overnight baggage storage office (unthinkable in the fear-ridden United States these days), and got on the Underground.

This train is for Cockfosters

Said the proud display on the side, and I thought to myself how enlightened Europe was, where you could have a train say that. I turned the pod on high and proceeded to watch the people coming on and off the train. I got an eerie feeling watching the bland whitebread folks getting on and off, and beyond them the brownstone houses along the rail line. It was all reminiscent of being on a Brooklyn or Queens bound subway train, except without the everpresent Puerto Ricans that make NYC what it is. In fact, I found that even upon arrival at my uncle's underground station I was finding it hard to distinguish between London and NYC. This effect was amplified by the Starbucks coffee cups everyone was carrying, the gaudy Christmas decorations, and of course the fact that I couldn't hear anyone's accent. Douglas Adams was right, in the future there is no time travel because the past has become so much like the present, which is to say that all places look the same. What's to be done?

A nice meal at a cozy Iranian restaurant and a nap in the afternoon have me feeling quite good, if a little fat. Nothing to look forward to but the second leg of the trip and some visits with other family members in town before the airport.

Posted by Lo Fat Mo at 1:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)