Lastest Update

Wow.

It's been a while since I've posted. The idea was to return from Ethiopia and Zanzibar, write up the adventures and post the fantastic photos from Addis Ababa and Stone Town. Well, I was sick in Ethiopia and went to the doctor twice before beginning to recover, so there aren't many photos from Addis Ababa. There are, however, tons of pics from Zanzibar, including images of Stone Town, the old Swahili capital, and the island's beautiful and untouched beaches.

My time in Africa was cut short, however, because the day after returning to Kisumu from Zanzibar, I was attacked and robbed (during daylight) while walking home from town. This incident caused me to rethink my personal safety and weigh the risks against the work I'm doing in Kenya. After much agonized consideration (and hearing story after gruesome story of the real dangers in Kisumu), I've decided to return home to Atlanta.

It's very hard, leaving TICH, for it's an excellent organization doing phenomenal work in development. I love the people here at TICH, love their drive and commitment and senses of humor and warm hearts. But I simply cannot stay in Kisumu. Leaving is bittersweet, for while I regret separating from TICH, I'm longing to hold my children once again and see family and friends.

School Boys in Stone Town

Zanzibar Harbor Through Decorative Glass

Suzuki, Juma and Rasta Friends Show Off Kangas in Zanzibar

Boys Playing on Boat in Indian Ocean

Our Banda at Kendwa Rocks "Resort"

Stone Town Harbor

Windows

Shutters

Carved Wooden Door Frame

Annex Malindi Reception

Cat in Cemetery

Woman Washing Dishes

Freddy Mercury's Bar in Zanzibar

Indian Ocean from Slave Port

Seafood Feasts and Sugar Cane Juice

Kili from 30,000 Feet

Zany Zanzibar

Michelle and I fly into Nairobi at 5:30am and hang out at the Java House watching CNN coverage of New Orleans. We contemplate sleeping but there’s no sleeping in the hard plastic seats. Our flight to Zanzibar takes us over the top of Kili and we get some great photos through the plane window. Michelle is shocked at the barren summit and the sheets of ice. She questions why she’s climbing the mountain in two weeks. Looking down on the mountain feels strange to me, like I’m looking at home. I’ve spent time there, I think, like it’s my old stomping grounds. We get to Zanzibar at 9:45am. It’s Saturday and we arrive on a plane loaded with white people. Only white people. All the planes coming to Zanzibar are full of white people from all parts of Europe and Australia.

Michelle and I are both anticipating a week of relaxation, where we can let our guard down and not worry about Africans leeching off of us because we’re white. Oh, boy, are we mistaken.

A visa to enter Tanzania costs $50USD. We get our visas at the tiny airport and exchange our money into Tanzania shillings. Knowing we’ll be spending about $10/night, I’ve budgeted approximately $100 for our seven-day stay; $60 for six nights and $40 for food/souvenirs. I’ve become accustomed to living off very small amounts of money, watching what’s spent on food and buying only essentials.

The minute we step outside the airport doors, a crowd of men rush at us asking if we want a taxi. We’ve already decided that instead of spending $10 USD on a taxi to town, we’ll spend about 20 cents and take a dalla dalla. The dalla dalla is the bus system on Zanzibar island and gets it's name from "Dollar, Dollar," which is what it costs to take the taxis to other parts of the island. A dalla dalla is a truck with a covered back, fitted with a ledge for sitting around the perimeter. As we look for the dalla dalla stand, men get in our faces and won’t back away. Even when we say no, they follow closely, bending to put their faces in our line of sight.

We enter a small office at the front of the airport, labeled TOURIST INFORMATION, where an air conditioner spits out humid air. The guy points to the covered dalla dalla stand across the street. We pull our bags in the direction as a taxi driver in a striped shirt latches onto me and another, seemingly crazy guy, latches onto Michelle. We’re having difficulty pulling/carrying our luggage across the dirt parking lot and seeing where we’re going, so it’s rather annoying to have these two men on us. The guide book warns about men who get a kickback from certain hotels, so we are aware their advice may not be in our best interest. We tell them we know where we’re staying and do not need their help, but they do not back down, only insist on knowing where we’re staying. Michelle and I have studied the city map in the guide book and feel if we head toward town we can easily find our way to the Annex Malindi Guest House, the first place we’ve decided to check out. The annoying taxi driver finally leaves us because his taxi is at the airport, but the crazy man is still with us, climbing into the dalla dalla.

“We do not want your assistance,” I tell him rudely in front of the other passengers. “So if you’re getting on here and going to town because of us, we don’t want your assistance.” He assures me he is going to town for his own business. Right.

People crowd into the back of the bus until we're smashed against each other. A woman on my left in a burka presses into me every time the bus brakes. Because I’m against the cab of the truck, the entire line of people on my side lean forward as we brake and their total weight presses me into the cab. When we stop to pick up passengers, I lean forward into the open center space to relieve the pressure. This seems to piss the woman off. Well, I’m pissed at her and the others, who seem to do this intentionally. We also get no direction or advice from the conductor of the bus, who rides in the back and takes money. When we ask about the best place to get off, everyone is vague or acts as though they don’t understand English. Finally, Michelle and I just pick a place and pull our luggage down from the roof. The tall, crazy guy climbs out, too, and tries to assist us with our luggage. We refuse his help.

But where are we? It seems town is back a certain way and we’re not quite sure how to find it. The guy keeps saying, “this way, follow me,” and while we don’t want to, because he’ll want money for his guidance, we follow him slightly. We walk along sandy alleys then come upon a main road, congested with traffic and market stalls, tiny shack stores and gas stations. None of the pavement is smooth, as though the entire island is unpaved, and dragging the luggage is a chore. There’s noise and people staring, trying to sell us things, cars honking and the crazy guy towering over us. At one point, Michelle turns and walks away from the main road to get rid of the guy. We end up on quieter city streets, but he’s still with us.

There’s a small police station sitting under huge, spreading trees and surrounded by green lawn. When we approach the building, the crazy guy drops back for a block, watching us from a distance. We sit on a bench under the roof’s edge and ask a man if he knows where Annex Malindi is. He attempts to give us directions but consults with the police woman behind the counter. We tell them the crazy guy is following us and won’t leave us alone. They point us toward town and we again set out with our heavy luggage. The crazy guy soon rejoins us.

At one point, we turn into the maze of streets that make up Stone Town, with the stone buildings and houses creating twisting paths of narrow streets. Michelle is so exasperated, she walks up to a man relaxing outside a store. She’s seeking refuge and assistance. When he stands up, his striped shirt seems familiar. Then I see his face and we both realize it’s the taxi driver from the airport, the one who wouldn’t leave us alone! How can it be that with the thousands of people in town, we had to approach this guy for help? We quickly retreat.

This time we follow the crazy guy's directions. The streets are so narrow and there's no way to see ahead, to know where we are. He leads us straight to the Malindi Guest House, where two men run out to greet us and take us inside. Everyone on Zanzibar is anxious to get the attention and business of whites. The rate is $15 per night, which is higher than we had anticipated. They offer to show us Annex Malindi, which is just around the corner and only $10 per night. After vieiwing both places, we choose Annex Malindi and settle into our rooms.

The guest house is in a stone Swahili building, which means it has mangrove poles as ceiling braces throughout. China bowls are inset into the walls in the fashion of Swahili culture. The walls are thick and the ceilings exceedingly high. The staircase leading to the three upper levels is narrow and the steps are deep and uneven. Typical Swahili style also provides a courtyard in the center of the building which is open to the sky. On the roof are tables and chairs where we will eat our free breakfast each morning. The Indian Ocean is only a few blocks away.

Keys in Africa are huge, like the large keys in old horror movies. They're used in houses and hotels and even on my office door at TICH. Annex Malindi leaves the keys dangling in unused rooms, so are able to go from room to room and pick the one that suits us best. My room is in the corner with two shuttered windows. As with most buildings in East Africa, there are no screens or glass in the windows. Two beds line the walls, both with mosquito nets. A chair sits next to the door, at the bottom of the deep step into the room. A ceiling fan helps to keep the mosquitos from alighting and to keep the room feeling somewhat fresh in the humidity.

At Annex Malindi, the bath is communal. Each floor has two baths. These are large rooms with a shower head in the corner, a toilet and a sink. Part of the wall is tiled, but the floor is raw cement throughout. One bath has a switch for heating shower water. There is no soap, no towels and often no toilet paper. Travelers in Africa should always carry these basics. I have the travel toilet paper roll, but no soap and no towel. I improvise and use shampoo for soap. Luckily, the weather is warm so a towel is not needed, but I shower in my bathing suit, so I can move from the bath to my room without showing too much, and then use a t-shirt to dry off. Living in Africa, I’ve learned to get by periodically without electricity, to spend a week or more without water and to not bathe or wash my hair regularly. Since electricity is sketchy, I do not invest in a blow dryer while in Africa. Just comb through my wet hair and allow it to dry naturally. I grow used to not putting on makeup in the mornings. It’s a freeing way to live, as long as everyone else is also unable to bathe and shampoo, too.

After resting, Michelle and I walk to the main harbor in Stone Town where vendors set up nightly barbecues. Walking the path through the city’s main “square,” means walking past table after table piled high with seafood. Each table has a hot grill waiting, a jiko with hot oil for frying chips and a crew to make sure your food is prepared and served promptly. Crew members call out to those walking by and those taking a peek, competing with the crew at the next table for customers.

Shark, Barracuda, shrimp, lobster, squid, red and white snapper, tuna, mackeral and other fishes are cut into pieces and skewered. Crab claws are stacked next to Octopus tentacles. The food is beautiful and especially alluring lit by kerosene lamps placed on the tables. Each skewer, which contains about eight to ten pieces fish, costs 1000 shillings, which is $1 USD. Though sometimes they’ll drop the price to 800 shillings when negotiating. Two skewers of fish and chips costs about 2,500 shillings, or $2.50 USD. And it’s delicious. Set amongst the tables of food are sugar can juicers. The men run foot-long pieces of sugar cane through the press about four or five times, until the cane is dry and splintered. They add a slice of lime to the glass. It tastes almost like lemonade but isn’t overly sweet. One glass costs 200 shillings, or about 20 US cents.

We pass through the crowd and are amazed at how many white people there are. Still not used to seeing white faces, Michelle and I find them exotic and interesting. Beyond the tables of seafood are rows of booths where vendors sell cloth, jewelry, shawls, original oil paintings (Tinga Tinga) and batik (cloth hand-painted with African scenes). These vendors are aggressive and sometimes desperate, so we walk through and avoid making eye contact.

During the day, all these booths and tables of food disappear. The harbor park is a grassy expanse with a central, round pavilion. Facing the harbor at the grassy edge is the House of Wonders, a massive, restored building that once housed the sultan of Zanzibar. Now a museum, the building is devoted to the maritime history of Zanzibar and explores the Swahili culture found here and along Kenya’s coast.

Zanzibari Sunset

Last Day in Addis

Michelle wants to leave work early today so she can pack for her three-week trip. She asks me to wait to go to the hospital until she’s off work. That will allow her some quiet time at home to pack without my intrusion. I’m a little depressed because I imagined the minute we got to the office today, the driver would take me on to the hospital. But I can wait a few more hours.

Getnesh, a lively and lovely co-worker of Michelle’s who handles the finances for RaDO, makes a phone call to the guy who maintains RaDO’s website. His name is Ramseret and he is so nice, asking for feedback on his web design. Ramseret is paralyzed from the waist down, which is why he wants to be RaDO’s webmaster. After discussing possible changes and suggestions with Ramseret, it’s time for lunch.

Getnesh insists on taking Michelle to lunch since Michelle is going to be gone for three weeks. Getnesh chooses a traditional Ethiopian restaurant at the Lalibela Hotel around the corner from RaDO’ office. The furnishings are authentic Ethiopian with handcarved chairs and wooden, carved pictures on the walls. The table is a large woven basket. When the lid is removed, a gorgeous, wood table top is exposed. A metal tray, the size of the tabletop, sits on the wood surface and is filled with food. The baskets are handwoven by women and they incorporate bright colors into the weave. The shape is distinctive, getting larger in the middle and coming to a point at the top. Many people use these basket/tables in their homes. When the top is on the table, fitted crocheted covers, the exact shape of the basket, are placed over the basket, acting as decorative dust collectors. They make beautiful, functional additions to any home. Unfortunately, we do not have time for the coffee ceremony, a ritual revered by Ethiopians.

Getnesh orders for us and the food is served from a multi-tiered "tree" hung with many small containers. The large table top is covered with a giant Injera, about 2 feet in diameter, and the waitress spoons out the various meat and bean-based dishes on the Injera. Ethiopian food is quite spicy so I taste for the lumps of food with the least spices. It’s a beautiful meal, but I still do not have an appetite. And because I’ve been nauseous for days, I’m beginning to associate Injera and the meat sauces with nausea. And it’s truly unfair because Injera and the sauces that go with it are tasty and healthful. I’m still not feeling well and while it’s a great meal with truly warm people, all I can think about is getting to the hospital. Soon.

Thomas, a RaDO driver, drops me at St. Gabriel’s. I’ll walk to Michelle’s when I leave. Just like the first visit, they move me through the process relatively quickly and soon I’m facing a new doctor, one who asks a lot of questions but doesn’t give me time to answer. At least he looks into my sinuses and ears (do you notice hearing lose in your left ear? He asks) and agrees I need antibiotics!!! I want to do a jig of joy but haven’t the energy. So I grab the medicine from the pharmacy and call Michelle. We arrange to meet in one hour at a college. She has drawn me a map on a sticky note. The walk takes only 15 minutes but I want a little extra time to look for authentic Ethiopian shawls in the shops along the way.

It’s nearing the end of the rainy season, so I carry Michelle’s rather long umbrella, using it as a walking stick. I’m feeling tired and weak. I don’t walk quickly. Just stroll. I have the sticky note with drawn map in my left hand. As I stroll, I pass masses of marked goats, being tended and kept motionless by men of all ages. There are men with cars the size of shopping carts, giving driving instruction and they playfully call me over, offering to teach me to drive. I keep strolling. A homeless guy who mumbles to himself walks next to me. Some people know him and speak, others turn away from him. As small children come out to beg from me, I don’t increase my pace. Just look at them. Eventually the mumbling man will tell them to leave me and they do.

As I near what looks like the college, a very tall man comes up behind me and speaks to me in Amharic, though he appears to be enjoying some pre-New Year’s libations. He also appears to be mentally unstable. He is talking to me and I look at him as I continue to walk slowly with my umbrella walking stick.

The man is very tall and bigger than most Ethiopians. He’s also making noises that do not sound like any language. His skin is light brown, as are his eyes, and he has them locked on me as I search the street for the college. When I don’t pay him any attention, he grabs my left wrist and tries to read the sticky note. His grip is strong and I don’t pull away or yell, for fear he’ll react irrationally. I keep moving with him at my side, holding my wrist and making strange noises. People on both sides of the street are looking. Then the grabs my arm above my elbow and pulls me so I turn toward him. I resist and keep moving down the street. He pulls me again. Suddenly from five different directions, five men step onto the sidewalk at the same time, placing themselves between the man and me. There is yelling and gestures. The man doesn't retreat right away but I am very grateful to the men who have intervened and am sure it shows on my face. It’s probably good that I am sick and not myself, that I don’t resist or fight back, because the guy is unpredicatable.

Each man who stepped in on my behalf is extremely apologetic. They make the man move away from me and two of the men insist on walking me to the college. They confirm he has been drinking and is crazy. These men did not have to step in and I’m very grateful they did!

Michelle meets me at the college and we walk back to her place, down the side streets flooded with rainy season showers. We step on rocks and dodge mud all the way. Michelle is packed, sort of. We go through her clothes, choosing the best ones for Kilimanjaro, where the temperature can be close to zero degrees fahrenheit. She has lots and lots of stuff, but only two backpacks as luggage, so we unpack and then pack again so everything fits.

We are ready for our flight to Nairobi, where we’ll have a layover for the flight to Zanzibar. But our flight doesn’t leave until 2:50am. We walk from Michelle’s place to a hotel just across the expressway from the airport. It’s 10:00pm. We eat dinner and chat and then, at Midnight, start crossing the highway and walking the mile or so to the airport. Michelle and others tell me Addis is safe. Women can walk alone any time of the night or day. We have no trouble whatsoever as we walk about town after Midnight.

That’s certainly not the case in Kisumu where everyone is in their homes by 8:00pm.

Oxen Plowing

Michelle and I meet two friends of hers, Faskia and Mesele. They are brother and sister (their father was a polygamist so they have different mothers) and have started a farmer's cooperative as part of a non-government organization they've formed. Fasika is a teacher and she's taken the day off to go to the rural farm with us. We meet at 7:30am and take a matatu to a taxi stand. In Ethiopia, they call their van taxis "Line taxis." In Kenya, we call them matatus. Michelle is craving coffee so we stop at a small cafe-type place. But I'm not hungry or thirsty. The infection creates sinus drainage that makes me nauseous, killing my appetite. I've felt so badly for so long, even while consistently taking Panadol to relieve the pain, that I'm beginning to get used to walking around like a zombie. No energy.

From the cafe, we take a regular taxi to the main line taxi stand. We wait for the bus to fill before we head out of Addis, toward Nazareth. Fasika and Mesele grew up in a village built by a sugar cane company. The company operates the mill and provides housing for its employees. The village also has stores, everything the families of the employees might need. It takes about two hours to reach Nazareth. We get on a large bus crammed with lots of people. Religious beads and artifical flowers create a shrine around the bus driver. A large painting of mother Mary looks at us from the front. Their village is 20 kms outside Nazareth.

The road is barely a path in some areas and the bus bounces and jolts us. We drive alongside a lovely, curving river until we get to a checkpoint. We are officially entering the sugar cane village and everyone must get off the bus and be searched. For what? No one is sure. As we move away from the bus, trying to avoid falling into the river where people are pushing and shoving, I feel a hand move from my upper back, down over my butt and onto my thighs. Very strange. Turning, I see a female guard and understand this to be the search. Back on the bus, we enter the village built by corporate funds in rural, poor Ethiopia. We pull in front of a few wood and tin stores, stopping in the dirt parking lot.

There are very few white people in Ethiopia. In the rural areas, there are fewer still. As we stand in the dirt parking lot waiting for a line taxi to take us to the farmers' plots, all the people in the village stare. Especially the children. Some come up and touch us on the arm and run away giggling. Others touch my hair. Sometimes I tire of being a sideshow. But being sick, I have no energy to react, positively or negatively, and just stand, moving as little as possible, as adults and children near and far notice me and Michelle.

We climb into a line taxi and head into the bush over rough roads. After driving for about three miles, we pass a line taxi and stop next to it. Mesele has a conversation with the driver and suddenly we're leaving our taxi and climbing into this new one. They disgorge their passengers and make them take the taxi we were in. It seems this new taxi is driven by a of friend Mesele's and they had arranged for the friend to take us to the farmers' plots. They still charge us for the ride, but supposedly less. In addition, the driver waits for us at the site, as we walk the fields and meet the farmers.

Granted, Fasika and Mesela are like many Africans who start their own NGOs to help their fellow countrymen and women. They think white people have money and means. Michelle has been working with the pair, helping them write proposals for funding. Now that I'm in town, she wants to expand their network by plugging me into it. That's fine, but I'm not at all sure how I can help them. This is common, though, because we simply cannot know how we can assist until we learn more about what they do. I think of Pambazuko's work in Nyalenda, the slums of Kisumu. Can I support more than one organization? I also recall how I've become disappointed in Walter's behavior recently. Will I continue to support Pambazuko? How? What can I do for any of these people and what's the most effective way to contribute?

By the time the taxi stops, we are deep into Ethiopia's rural land. Mesele explains how the farmers' cooperative works. There are 20 families who have joined together, under Mesele's guidance, to help each other farm their plots. It is difficult for a single farmer and his family to own all the tools and knowledge necessary to cultivate crops. If the farmers pool their resources, they are able to cultivate their land and share techniques to increase crop yield. Alone, it's very difficult. Together, they can accomplish much. These farmers have rented plows and other equipment. They take turns using the equipment and share oxen in pulling the plows. They're also able to buy seed and fertilizer at reduced costs because they're buying in bulk. They help each other in tilling or weeding or harvesting if there is illness.

As we walk the freshly plowed fields, we meet the young men of seven farming families. While we're there, three young men relieve each other from leading the oxen as they pull a large, metal plow. Mesele shows us a large, circular hole that's been dug nearby. The hole will capture rain water, which will then be used during times of drought to water the crops and the animals. They're growing teff, a thin, grass-like plant that's used to make Injera.

The sun is intense while we walk the land. Soon we leave the farmers and take the line taxi to Fasika's house. Fasika and Mesele's father is an employee of the sugar factory and they grew up in this house. Waiting for us are 25 orphans and their guardians. These children have been selected by Fasika and Mesele to receive assistance in the form of food, school fees, school uniforms, shoes and medical care. These children, just like millions of others in African countries, lost their parents to AIDS. Many of these children are probably HIV positive themselves.

As we enter the gate, the small yard is full of children and the women who have accompanied them here. Not knowing when we would arrive, they've been waiting for us for five hours. Michelle has brought bubble gum, lollipops and balloons, but before we take photos and pass out the goodies, I suggest each child tell us his or her name. It's an opportunity for us all to meet on a personal level since the language barrier and the size of the crowd makes it difficult for us to interact. Each child steps forward or stands up and says his or her name. Some of them speak English. Most of them are confident. A few are shy but speak up so the whole crowd can hear. Their Amharic names are translated into English for us; Joy, Peace, Hope, Strong, Justice. They smile and we smile. Mesele speaks and they hang on his every word. I'm moved by their respect for him and Fasika.

Once the speeches are over, we realize we should head back to Addis, so we can arrive before night falls. Fasika pulls a Pomegranate from a tree in the back yard and offers sections to me and Michelle. Not quite ripe, it's slightly bitter. I give Fasika $5 USD. Ethiopia will be celebrating their New Year in a couple of days and she wants to cook a big meal for the children. I don't have a lot of money and regret it's in dollars and not birr, but the $5 should buy two chickens for the meal. I know Fasika was hoping for about $25, enough to buy a goat for slaughtering, but I don't have that much on me and didn't really plan to give anything today.

The last few days, all over Ethiopia, we've seen men watching over groups of nearly 100 goats. Many goats are marked with green or red on their forehead. Or their horns are wrapped in color-coded scarves. Ethiopian New Year is a huge celebration. Everyone gathers with their families for traditional meals, which they begin preparing the day before New Year's. Some men, we notice, have already started celebrating by drinking the local brew. There were a few on the line taxi that brought us into the sugar cane village.

In addition to the men who were drunk, there were also men and women in the taxi carrying produce and livestock for the local market. One man sitting next to me, facing me, had a chicken with it's legs tied together. He had to keep the chicken facing him so it's head wouldn't protrude into my face. The chicken was protesting somewhat and he and I grinned at each other. He was a very lean old man with a thin jacket and he exited the taxi with others carrying potatoes, grains and handmade goods to market.

We left the small house in the sugar cane village and returned to Addis via bus and line taxi and regular taxi. We had left at 7:30 in the morning and arrived at Michelle's house at 8:00pm. It is a long journey and I can't believe Mesele and Fasika travel the long route regularly while running their NGO.

When we're settling in for the evening, I tell Michelle I'm going to the doctor again the next day. Popping pain relievers before sleeping, my spirits are buoyed somewhat knowing I'll get medicine the next day (I hope!).

Ethiopian Landscape

Michelle with Ethiopian Orphans

Interior of Ethiopian Bus

Fasika, Michelle and Mesele (from Left) with Farmers

Farmer with Oxen

Farmer's Hut

Sick as a Dog

The next few days, unfortunately, are a blur to me. Because I’m feeling so badly, I just want to curl up and sleep all the time. I have no energy, find it hard to talk and am practically unable to smile. We go to Michelle’s office and she’s up and down, in and out of her office. Her co-workers are so thoughtful and they boil water, bringing it to me and instructing me to place my face over the bowl and breathe deeply, to open up my sinuses. Esther constantly walks quietly to my desk and sits down a cup of strong tea or Macchiato, knowing the warm liquids are soothing to my throat and sinuses. Yiberta, Getnesh and the others wonder if it’s the altitude, if it’s the flu. I tell everyone it’s a sinus infection and I just need antibiotics, but they don’t really listen because I don’t say it with energy. I just want to sit very quietly, very still and let time pass. Because with every minute, perhaps I’m healing and on the way to feeling better.

Today I look over a printed copy of RaDO’s website. I edit the copy, which is in English, and make suggestions for additional info and pages to be added. I read through their annual report and research papers and other literature documenting their programs. All of this info will help to sketch a marketing plan.

Michelle is busy tying up loose ends because she and I will be flying to Zanzibar this Friday night. After we spend a week in Zanzibar, Michelle is going on Safari in Tanzania and will climb Kilimanjaro. She will be away fron RaDO for three weeks and she’s feeling pressure to put things in place before she leaves.

Doctor, Doctor, Give me the News

We ride to RaDO’s office with Yiberta and meet Michelle’s co-workers. They’re all very lovely and kind. RaDO stands for Rehabilitation and Development Organization. The organization was founded to provide physical rehabilitation to people with disabilities. They set up rehabilitation facilities in several Ethiopian hospitals, providng both the equipment and trained personnel. Government-run hospitals in Ethiopia did not have rehabilitation services until RaDO started their program. RaDO soon expanded into providing prostethics for people injured by landmines. Recipients of prostethics include refugees from the Sudan and Eritrea where wars have been fought for years.

Eventually, RaDO created a landmine education program for people living in or near war zones. Many of these landmines and explosive devices aren’t buried, as most people suspect. They’re often found lying on the ground, near water sources and in open fields. When an adult or child finds them, they often do not recognize it as an explosive. Some are made inside wooden boxes or metal containers, looking like delightful play-things to children. Plus, metal is hard to find in the rural areas and many people pick up the devices so they can re-use the metal.

RaDO has produced brochures using illustrated warnings, with big, red arrows pointing to the dangerous devices in each scene. There are no words in the brochures or on the posters, for many of the rural people are illiterate. RaDO has several cloth posters they put up during training and these posters are painted with the various types of bombs. After meeting the people at RaDO, and learning more about what they do, Michelle and I go to lunch at a nearby restaurant.

The “diner” is really just a nice-sized room made of plywood with a tin roof and tables and chairs. A TV plays a local channel. We wash our hands in a large sink outside then take a table inside. Michelle orders Tywat for me, a beef stew poured over Injera. A guy at a nearby table is eating a soup that looks delicious so Michelle orders the soup, as a change to her usual lunch. The soup is yellowish (saffron?) with potatoes. When they place the bowl in front of Michelle, I notice a row of small, regular white dots protruding from the soup, some with sharp edges. Looking closer, I realize they are teeth and I tell Michelle. But she doesn’t hear me. When I ask her if they are teeth, she puts her spoon into the soup and elevates what looks like a lower jawbone, split down the middle, with the teeth explosed from the back of the jaw to the front. She eats the soup and potatoes but does not touch the jaw. We later learn it's from a sheep.

A RaDO driver drops me at the VSO office, where Tracy writes a letter authorizing me to use their medical care services. I walk the half mile to the hospital and am impressed with their efficiency. They are not friendly, but they build a file on me and I'm sitting with the doctor very quickly. He is about my age and earned his medical degree in Poland. Though his English isn’t that good, and I know no Amharic, we’re able to talk. He asks me about the U.S. and my volunteer work. I tell him my complaint is a sinus infection and I simply need antibiotics. I have a headache and feel awful, tired. He doesn’t look at my sinuses or my throat or ears. Simply writes out three perscriptions. I’m feeling better already knowing healing pills are so close at hand.

When I get to the pharmacy window, just down the hall, they pass through the tiny window a bottle of antihistamine (which I avoid at all costs), claritin and panadol, a pain reliever like Advil in the states. I’m so disappointed to see the antihistamine and feel deflated there are no antibiotics. Damn!!

I walk back to the VSO office, feeling worse by the minute, and take the medicine right away, hoping it will help. I save the antihistamine for bedtime because it always knocks me out. That evening, Michelle and I meet up with other VSO folks at Pizza Del Roma. The pizza is good. Jimmy is from Uganda and volunteering in Addis. Jeanta is on the VSO staff. She’s originally from Britain but lived in Canada before coming to Ethiopia. Jeanta has given notice of her departure and she’ll return to Canada in October. Jimmy has brought a friend, Betty, who works at the Tanzania Embassy in Addis.

Before bedtime, I take the antihistamine and am reminded why I never take them!! They cause my head to stuff up and I cannot breathe. Not only am I weak from feeling so badly, I now can’t breathe or sleep. It’s cold in Addis and Michelle has given up her very comfortable bed to me. She’s sleeping in the next room on the living room chair cushions and a sleeping bag. She and I argue over the sleeping arrangement but I soon become too sick to raise my voice and have no energy to fight with her. Tonight I’m extremely grateful to Michelle for this cozy bed and the warm blankets.

Sick Day

It is Monday, but instead of going to RaDO to work, Michelle spends the day at the VSO office facilitating a capacity building workshop with VSO staff. I stay at her place and read and sleep and feel somewhat better but then begin to feel worse. If I don’t get antibiotics, the infection will not get better. Over a scrumptious dinner of Salmon (from Vancouver), sauteed zucchini, sliced tomatoes and avocados and Stove-Top Stuffing (which Michelle has been saving for a special occasion), we decide I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow. VSO has great medical coverage for all volunteers. St. Gabriel’s Hospital in Addis is where volunteers get medical treatment. All I’ll need is a letter from the VSO office confirming I’m a volunteer in Kenya.

Visiting Lucy

Sunday in Ethiopia. Michelle and I enjoy a relaxing morning with great coffee. She boils the coffee grinds in water then strains the juice. Rich and delicious. Not many people drink coffee in Kenya. Tea is the drink of choice in East Africa but coffe is, hands down, my favorite beverage on the planet.

In the afternoon, Michelle and I walk through town to see the sights. Addis is a large city in every respect and it does have its poor population. When we begin our trek, I tell Michelle I normally ignore anyone begging (even children) and I hope she isn’t offended by such behavior. She tells me she does the same thing. So we walk and talk along a new, wide road into the more properous parts of town. We pass a hotel and Michelle says there was a shoot-out in the lobby of the hotel in May, during the national elections, and several people were killed. For a week during the elections, Michelle and other VSO volunteers were told to stay home and not go to work. Most people in Addis avoided going out because of the potential for election-related violence to erupt. But violence of this sort, related to politics and elections, is common in developing countries where ongoing political instability prevents these countries from developing.

It’s a lovely day and we walk for five hours, trying hard to ignore the very tiny children who run beside us with their hands out. At least many of them are offering purse-size packs of tissues, instead of begging outright. Not so with the very ancient men and women who approach us. There are many people with disabilities begging. More than in Kenya, where most people who ask for handouts are young and healthy.

Ethiopians have small builds. I’m larger and taller than most of the men. Years of malnutrition hasn’t helped. Small children, begging, seem even tinier, as do the old, old men and women. As we walk, we get used to people calling out to us because of our white skin.

Michelle and I have collected three children as we walk about town. We decide to stop mid-day for a meal. We chose a restaurant called Dashen and enter with the children following. The waitress shoos the children back out the door where they wait for us. A TV in the corner, just over my left shoulder, shows the New Orleans flood damage from Hurrican Katrina. While everyone around us is speaking Amharic and eating Injera, the traditional pancake-like Ethiopian food, I’m fascinated by my fellow Americans who fill the TV screen. They seem so foreign to me in this foreign country.

Michelle orders and soon a large, oblong plate is set before us. On top of the Injera, which is folded in half, sits a bowl of what looks like ground beef in a tomato sauce, with a hard boiled egg's smooth white curve peeking from the center of the bowl. Michelle unfolds the Injera on the large plate and pours the contents of the bowl on top. She instructs me to rip off a piece of Injera and scoop up the meat sauce, using only the right hand. It is very similar to pinching off ugali and using it to soak up meat with sauces. The Injera is gray and spongy and has air holes like a not-quite-done pancake. It is tasteless but takes on the flavor of accompanying dishes and dips.
We drink orange soda poured from a glass bottle and I sip it conservatively because the Injera sauce is slightly spicy. Michelle then orders a second dish, this one with chicken poured over Injera. We complete the meal with small, strong shots of macchiato. The total is 24 birr, or about $2.40 USD.

We walk a few blocks to the National Museum where we visit Lucy, the 1.1 metre tall skeleton unearthed in the Hadar region of Ethiopia. She’s tiny, this skeleton that is part actual bone and part reconstructed bones. This miniature woman, only three feet tall, is just a replica, the sign tells us, for the real bones of Lucy are locked away in the basement of the museum. A sample of primitive australopithecines, Australopithecus afarensis, Lucy walked essentially erect approxiately four million years ago. She's the most complete early hominid skeleton yet recovered and she shows postcranial features that permitted her to process judgments about early hominid (bipedal) locomotion. Well, that's a fancy way of saying her brain allowed her to walk upright, on two feet.

As Michelle and I bipedal ourselves home, I being sneezing and my nose is running. Not sure if it’s from the dust particles in the air, from the high elevation or just a cold coming on. But it worsens as the evening goes on and when I wake the next morning, feeling headachy and stuffy, I know it’s a sinus infection. I get them regularly and normally take a 10-day course of Amoxicillin, which halts the infection. I had planned to bring Amoxicillin on the trip, but the bottle of pills is on my kitchen counter in Kisumu!

Kisumu to Addis Ababa

Kisumu airport is tiny, with a front waiting room where a TV is showing a Ghanaian reverend preaching about how Afrian blacks value whites more than themselves. I move to the departure lounge on the other side of a glass wall and watch our plane land. People disembark in the beautiful, windless sunniness. Our luggage is piled high on a walled cart and two men push it to the two-prop Kenya Airways plane. We follow and climb the steps from the tarmac to the plane. When I find my row, a fat mama has taken my window seat. She knows she's not in the right seat and I say nothing. She's so big, she keeps bumping me and takes up some of my space. She won't speak to me, though, even when I nod and say hello.

The short flight takes 50 minutes. Kisumu is quite lovely from the air. Lake Victoria is massive. When Kisumu ends, there are green fields leading to the hills of the Great Riff Valley escarpment. At least that's what I see in the tiny landscape view obstructed by the large, inconsiderate woman.

We land at the Jomo Kenyatta Airport in Nairobi and though it's not yet 10:00am, I go to Ethiopia Airlines, hoping to check in and relax. But a flight just left for Addis and they're not checking in for our 8:00pm flight until 5:00pm. Instead of going to the international concourse, where there are duty-free stores and a Starbucks-like coffee shop, I must wait in the ticketing area for hours.

Soon, passengers for a flight to Saudi Arabia fill the space. The women all wear burkas, with only their eyes showing. Their hands are painted with henna in two or three colors, their fingertips coated solid. While the women sit or stand in groups around their luggage, the men hurry to and fro getting their families checked in. Children push luggage carts into each other and run and climb noisily, unless they're running to fetch water for the women.

The large group has brought food. The men put a tray of assorted dishes on top of a luggage rack and they stand in a circle, eating with their right hands from the same tray. Some of the men wear slacks and western-style shirts while others wear white tunics to their knees (with slacks underneath). Several men wear a full white, dress-type robe with a white scarf draped over their head. One old man, accompanied by a thin Arab in a Western-style suit, has a black cord tied over his head scarf, like Yassar Afrafat. At the end of the terminal, six men stand shoulder to shoulder forming a diagonal line and facing a wall of windows. They're facing Mecca. One man stands in front of them and leads their afternoon prayers. They stand, then knell, putting their foreheads to the floor. Their prayer takes a while and people walk around them on their way to the restrooms.

At 5:00pm, I stand at the Ethiopian Airlines counter and a young man walks to the next console, preparing to open. Suddenly, a woman with a teenage boy and a man approach and begin to push their tickets in his face. He takes the man's ticket and the woman, who feels she should be helped first, says something in a perturbed tone. I say, "I've only been here since 11:00am waiting to check in." The airline guy smiles and says, "We'll get you ticketed." He hands the woman her tickets and she moves out of the way. I step up the counter. She asks the man where gate nine is and he asks to see her ticket again. He notices she's exceeded her travel time on the return trip. She becomes frantic and pushes back to the counter, knocking me out of the way.

"Let me take care of her," he says to the woman while motioning to me, "Then I'll look at your ticket." She doesn't move, leaving me to stand between counters. Sarcastically, I say, "I'll just stand over here." Of course, my sarcasm has no impact on the woman. In all my months in Africa, I can never get over the irritation of how people push and shove and cut in line and stand very close when there is no need to stand close. Men do not give women courtesies such as allowing them to walk through doorways first. Not even if the woman approaches the door first. The men will pass through with power, leaving anyone less forceful in their wake. I never get used to such rudeness. But the airline guy does ticket me soon enough, with a smile, and I'm free to relax until the flight.

Entering the international concourse, I'm a little overwhelmed by the shops with their fancy goods. It's much like shops at Heathrow or Atlanta or Amsterdam airports. When I go to the restroom, however, there is no water for flushing the toilet or washing my hands. The restroom attendant confirms the water is not available throughout the airport. A reminder that even though we're surrounded by fancy shops and lots of people waiting to fly to Dubai, Zanzibar, London and Mumbai, we're still in third-world Kenya.

I go to the Java House coffee shop at gate 14 and buy a macchiato and large brownie, both of which are delicious. There are mostly white people in the booths, watching CNN on several overhead screens. Two white women, who seem to be American, take the table next to mine and I notice one is carrying a bottle of Rwenzori water. I cannot resist asking her where she got the water. Uganda, she says. I tell her about the boys in Rwanda calling out from the roadside for empty bottles. She asks if I'd like to join them, so I do. They live in the American South and are both married with children. Both of them also worked as volunteers in Africa when they were younger. The three of us are about the same age.

They're in Kenya and Uganda to check out programs set up by their church to feed orphans. I tell them about TICH's newest program to feed orphans in Western Kenya. I also tell them about TICH's upcoming nutrition workshop that will focus on nutritional needs of people living with HIV/AIDS and promise to get info to them about the programs. Talking with the women is energizing. It's rare that I get to be around people from the U.S. I have no idea of the time and only realize, once we've parted, that my plane is already boarding. The plane is new and extremely comfortable. Ethiopian Airlines' inflight magazine says the airline gets calls from clients asking if there will be food on the flight.

It's been a while since I've been on a big plane with a TV. They show episodes of Home Improvement with Tim Allen. Wow. America. Americans. I sometimes forget what it's like to be around my fellow country men and women. Most of the time, I'm surrounded by Kenyans who speak English with accents. All I see are black faces and all conversations are passed through cultural filters. I work hard to avoid misinterpreting their words or meanings and and work equally hard to ensure they won't misinterpret mine. Also shown during the flight is a travel piece on Zanzibar, which is extremely helpful and puts me in the mood for visiting the island.

We arrive in Addis Ababa, at their lovely glass and steel airport, at 9:00pm, though getting a visa takes nearly an hour. Michelle is there to meet me, accompanied by Yiberta, the director of RaDO. It's a little cold in Addis because the elevation here is approximately 8,000 feet. We take a quick tour of Addis, through the relatively empty streets, passing the Italian Piazza. Mussolini invaded Ethiopia in 1936 and wasn't driven out until the early 40s. In the interim, he stole many of their cultural artifacts, like the mysterious obelisks constructed centuries ago. But with the help of the UN, Ethiopia is now regaining those obelisks, which are being shipped from Italy and reassembled in their oringinal locales.

What the Italians left behind in Ethiopia that few other African nations have is excellent, excellent coffee.

Yiberta drops us at Michelle's place, which is a very nice two-bedroom, one-bath townhouse with a tiny courtyard and a guard. Yiberta lives four houses down across the lane. Michelle and I stay up late talking about our experiences as volunteers. We discuss the cultural differences and getting used to new languages and new foods. In Ethiopia, the official language is Amharic. Some people speak English, but not many. Because East Africa (Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania) was colonized by the British, English is one of the official languages and is taught in schools, along with Kiswahili. But English is not an official language in Ethiopia. The few people who speak English speak very broken English. But Michelle seems to have caught on to many Amharic words and is able to communicate efficiently.