Weekend in Ethiopia, Oct '07

Boarding the plane I realised that I was not the only one who thought of getting out of the dry land for the long weekend. Half of the passengers seemed to be international aid workers from the UN and NGOs, using the opportunity of Idd and the two extra days off work to escape the oppressive heat and dust of Northern Sudan to the cooler highland air and comfort of Addis Ababa. The thought of spending another weekend around work colleagues did not entice me, and I was glad when I realised that they all, not surprisingly, were staying within the four walls of the exceedingly luxurious Sheraton Hotel, notorious for its glamour starkly contrasting the surrounding shacks and extreme poverty. Luckily, I did not yield to the temptation and convinced my travel companion that the old, nostalgic and rather rundown Taitu Hotel in the heart of the Piazza area would be much more interesting for our short break. Built by Empress Taitu, the wife of Menlik II, it was once the one and only hotel in Addis Ababa, and must at the time have been a rather majestic novelty. Today one can still sense some of the history left in its creaking wooden floors, its high ceilings, and the staff dressed as if time had stood still since the early 20^th century. It may no longer be luxurious, but it does offer large rooms with clean sheets, a shared bathroom, with hot water and stunning views of the city from the terrace. One can only imagine what it once may have been like in its former grandeur.

Addis Ababa, translated means the new flower, but there isn’t much that aspires to being new in this city, despite the several recent commercial buildings and hotels that have come up over the last seven years since I first visited. This time, like every time I come here I am shocked at the striking poverty; it is everywhere, on every corner and wherever you go. As my travel companion nicely put it “the Ethiopians seems to be proud of what they once had, or what they once were, but unable to appreciate that they do not have it anymore”. People seem to live in the past, unable or not willing to fathom how it all came to be what it is today. The reign of Haile Selassie is glamorised and looks mild in comparison to that which followed by Mengistu. Today people still like to believe in the liberation and the new start that was promised 15 years ago. But although everyone thought that Ethiopia would be on the forefront of democratisation in the mid-90s, the great promises have slowly been washed away and replaced with a regime that is becoming disturbingly similar to the one it once fought and overthrew.

I found the Piazza area more crowded at night then I remembered it to be, and the drunken boys more aggressive. But in the day the familiarity returned and my favourite café for my morning coffee and mixed juice was still where it used to be, the staff still as friendly and the coffee still as good. Young children walked pass trying to sell a small pack of tissues and a variety of bad sugary chewing gum. Barefoot and dirty with big begging eyes, it was at times hard to say no, but how many tissues and how much chewing gum could I possibly need. I smiled politely and gently said “alefellegem” (meaning “I don’t need”) in my rather rusty Amharic. Little by little some of the language came back to me but most of what I once knew has gone, replaced first by Somali and lately by my attempts to learn Arabic.

We walked from the piazza to St George’s Cathedral, down along Churchill Avenue past my old silver shop, passed the young boys shoe shining at the foot the famous Lion of Zion statue, before passing the national theatre and ending up down by the old railway station. In this part of the city it seemed time had not passed in the last seven years. All was how I remembered it to be, and somehow I found a certain comfort in that. As if the familiarity made me feel more at home. I guess with my current lifestyle, the sense of “home” has become a rather relative term, determined more by some sort of peace of mind, than relevancy to where I grew up.

In Meskel square (once revolution square) the huge placards of Marx, Lenin and Mao, which once decorated this massive square in the 70s and 80s, have been replaced by a massive advertisement and more recently by kitschy colourful decorations celebrating the Ethiopian Millennium. All, of course, in yellow, red and green, celebrating the greatness of Ethiopia. It seemed all a bit too arranged. And not only in this square, but on every Government building and Ministry; flashing lights and catchy but empty slogans promising freedom and democracy.

Surprisingly, I had never visited the National Museum in Addis before, and I was excited to finally get to browse the museum that some claim to be one of the most important in this part of Africa. Not so surprisingly however, was the over-emphasis on Ethiopia’s great past as the cradle of human kind. Lucy was found here, and a replica is placed in a corner of the dark basement of the museum together with a number of other fossils of strange animals that once used to wander this land. Some of them look like odd mixes of Zebra and Giraffe or extraordinarily large elephants with unexpectedly short teeth. The next two floors showed an eclectic mix of old stone tools, Axumite coins, royal regalia and tribal costumes. On the top floor there was an exhibition of Ethiopian modern art by various artists. Nothing really caught my eye until I had almost finished my round. There in the corner hung a picture, a wooden coloured carving that at first impression made me think of Picasso and cubism; the lines making it hard to immediately capture what is actually portrayed. It was when I read the title and looked back up that I saw, and what I saw made a real impression. At first I did not want to look at it, but something in its bare honesty and cruelness held me to it. Looking back at it I could see a young girl being held down for circumcision. The pain and sheer terror is reflected in the whole girl, her body, her face, and her eyes. I could almost sense it, and my thoughts wandered to all the women I know that most have gone through exactly the same agony I was witnessing in this simple, but such powerful piece of art.

Back out on the street, the crisp, cool highland air woke me up. Walking from the Trinity Cathedral along the road below the old palace, now the residence for the Prime Minister, I passed one of the many scattered slums of Addis. Covering the hill was a carpet of corrugated iron sheeting reaching down towards the centre. The light of dusk giving it a gentle touch. In the narrow streets between the mud-encrusted shacks hung the washing and children were playing, while women were preparing the meagre evening meal of shiro and injera. The local kiosk had just lit its lantern and the boys were playing table football outside the tiny local bar. It all seemed almost like a picture of idyllic poverty, a romance in the growing dusk, but should you dare to venture closer the sharp smell of urine would quickly bring you back to reality. I was astounded by the number of police that were lined up along the sidewalk on the far side of the road that bordering the large slum area. My first thought was that the Prime Minister might soon be passing, but the lack of heavy armament and the fairly relaxed attitude made me doubt it. Looking down the hill I realised there were more of them scattered around the slum too, but no one seemed to have really taken notice; like it was the most usual thing to be surrounded by police on every street corner. I sadly made a note of my observation and too afraid to question it further, not really wanting to know the answers, I wandered along to the safety of the plush Office Bar within the high walls of the lavish Sheraton Hotel.

As I entered the hotel grounds the world was transformed into a glossy scene from a bad in-flight magazine. A trail of wealthy Ethiopians, waiting to attend a wedding reception were lined up to get through the security check. Inside was the bride, posing on one of the Rococo divans while politely greeting each and everyone with a kiss on the cheek. It seemed rather absurd considering the women perspiring over their charcoal cookers only a couple of streets away. The luxurious hotel has become the new ‘in place’ for Ethiopia’s wealthy upper class to see and be seen. Once dominated by foreign business men, the Office Bar seemed to have a majority of Ethiopians, mainly men, as their main clientele. Women in their nicest frocks and men in suits; there were no jeans to be seen here. Well, except for my friend and I. We did not quite blend in; although, with a dry martini in hand, we certainly did try. The men were leaning on the high tables, resting one hand around glasses of whiskey or one of the infamous Ethiopian beers, chatting intensely while occasionally glancing up on the televisions strategically placed around the bar area. I took myself in wondering what they might talk about; latest political developments or just the sports of the day? It certainly seemed to be the place in which one might meet some of the movers and shakers of Addis Ababa.

We savoured our two pre-dinner drinks; a novelty almost after months in Sudan where all forms of alcohol are strictly forbidden by law and only acquired through underground channels. Followed by an amazing three course meal and a bottle of wonderfully balanced red wine at Castelli’s (the infamous Italian restaurant in the piazza), the evening was complete. Back at the hotel, having ended the meal with a luscious hot chocolate, it felt luxurious enough to fall back on the old, small, but clean bed. And not long after I was fast asleep.

At the crack of dawn, the car was waiting for us to take us out of the city to the holy town of Debre Libanos just north of Addis Ababa on the road to Bahir Dar. The morning air was chilly, but after warming up with a milky cappuccino in the old hotel bar we were ready to hit the road. As the morning fog cleared, the crisp highland air gave view to wonderful scenery of green hills, large yellow patches of the blooming Meskel flower, men with their donkeys and women carrying heavy loads on their way to the closest market. We stopped on the way to visit one local market. It was an open patch of land in a village packed with people, at first sight it was in a sort random and disorganised order. But once one has entered the crowds, one realise that there is order to the mess. On one part of the patch were the women selling butter and milk, another was for the vegetables, then another for the donkeys and so on. I stopped by a small stall (four sticks and a thatched roof) with two women squatting on the ground with a huge bag of berbera (the local chilli powder and a stable in any Ethiopian stew). As I stopped, one of them tried to either entice me or challenge me, it was hard to know which, to taste the berbera, by sticking her finger in the bright red powder and patting it on her tongue with a big smile. I sensed a challenge, and to prove a point I bended down and did the same. By this time, a small crowd had gathered around to watch the faranji tasting this hot spice. Certainly faranjis must in general have been a novelty in this little town, but one that tasted their hot spice seemed to create more excitement than needed. After a lot of cheering, I smiled politely to the request for money and bought instead a small bag to support the local trade. As I walked away, crowds of young children followed us through the rest of the market back down to the car.

Just before arriving at Debre Libanos, we stopped at the edge of the Jemma Valley Gorge; with the typical spectacular scenery of the Ethiopian Highlands with its flat, roof like, mountains and deep steep valleys. But my attention was quickly caught by something else – the Gelada Baboons, or as they say in latin Theropithecus gelada. I had long wanted to see these creatures which had so vividly been portrayed in various documentaries, most recently by David Attenborough in BBC’s Planet Earth series. The Gelada are only found in the Ethiopian Highlands. The male Gelada are the most spectacular to watch. They have an impressive mane of silky hair, almost akin to the mane of a lion. On their chest, a red patch shaped as an hour glass makes it look like they are wearing a wonderful fury cape. Showing off their set of threateningly large canine teeth, it is hard to believe that these creatures only feed on grass. They basically spend their days eating, while at night they regroup and sleep in the treeless cliffs, well hidden from any predators.

Leaving my companion and the driver, as well as a large group of children whose curiosity we had immediately caught, I headed down into the largely open area where the Geladas were feeding. Patiently, I slowly sneaked closer, trying to hide myself behind some of the small bushes so as not to frighten them. The Gelada tend to live together in groups of up to 600 with bands of 50 – 300 rummaging together. I was lucky. There were a lot of them around. Vary about my presence they still seemed surprisingly calm and would only distance themselves when I got to close, about 2 m or so apart. Completely fascinated by my new surroundings I lost track of time as I followed the different groups through the bushes. Had it not been for the others waiting up on the road, I am sure I could have stayed the whole day watching these creatures, and what seemed to me a wonderfully relaxed and comfortable lifestyle. Called back to reality an hour or so later by the engine of the car, I bid farewell to my newfound friends and wandered back up the crowd of young children surrounding the car.

Debre Libanos was once home to a famous saint of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church called Tekle Haymanot. He founded a major monastery in Debre Libanos in 1284 which became one of the most important religious institutions in Ethiopia and its abbot became one of the principal religious leaders only second to the abuna (the head of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church). Tekle Haymanot is typically depicted with wings on his back and only one leg visible. The latter allegedly is attributed to several years spent as a hermit, standing on one leg and praying in the cave up on the hill behind the church. We were told that today he is buried under the current church built by Emperor Haile Selassie in the 1950s. The church and nearby cave continues to be a place of pilgrimage, and as we witnessed, a famous burial place for many Ethiopians. There must have been at least three funerals taking place during our visit; all strangely happening outside the church, with women wailing loudly, mourning the dead. The procession was quite different from the Western traditions of wearing all black. Here, the mourners were covered in white shawls and the priests wore their traditional colourful gowns embroidered with gold thread, a most spectacular sight. The inside of the church had some wonderful glass paintings, but frankly little else to offer. A lost pigeon was flying around up in the roof. After visiting the church, we decided to the little walk up to the cave. In my mind I was visualising a large dark cave dripping with water (they say the water is holy and can cure all sorts of illnesses), but when we finally reached I was admittedly rather disappointed. The cave had been closed by a concrete wall. Inside, the ground was covered in bad laminate flooring taken straight out of a 1960s home. The cave was much smaller then I had anticipated and packed with huge buckets to harvest as much of the ‘holy’ water as possible. It smelled of cheap cologne, the bottle strategically stored within the colourful cloak of the priest. To be on the safe side I sprinkled some water on my face. You never know…

When time came to return to Khartoum the next day, I was longing to stay behind. It had been a wonderful and much needed break. Despite the complexities and terrible poverty of the place, I had felt more at home here than any other place in Africa. As the plane took off, leaving the green hills behind, I slowly but reluctantly got ready to face the oppressing heat and flying dust back in Khartoum.