09.21.04
Routine day. Got up. Andy had breakfast of here at Bekele Mole--the cereal, and I crossed the street to have fuul, not special, regular with avocado. That means I’ve had avocado for all three meals today. I thought it would take longer than that to get my fill of fresh ripe avocado. I guess its not the avocado so much as wondering while mushy green is going in, how and when mushy green will be coming out. I may seem over cautious, but dashes to the latrine were a familiarity the first few days in Soddo.
We were late to the office today and Alemush was sharp with Abaina our driver about it, so we made sure she knew it was because of his waiting for us, and apologized to him later. He laughed it off and was sweet, like he always seems to be.
Drove around to different villages and practiced weighing babies in the hanging scale and measuring arms and heads and heights--kids standing, babies lying down. Since none of the babies wear diapers around here, naturally, getting their little bums in and out of the scale’s seat, which is basically like a pair of undies, it going to be a wet chore. Although I’ve smelled a lot of urine in the wraps we’ve pulled off them to get them in the scale, I haven’t actually felt any really wet bums yet. Andy thinks we’re going to get lice and several viruses before we’re through, though he assures me that TB and leprosy are difficult to catch if you’re healthy. TB or not, we’ve both developed a dry smoker’s cough from the horrible air: dusty, smoky, full of thick oil and gas fumes whenever a macchina grumbles by.
When we got back from work, Nadu was hanging out on the porch of the hotel. "It’s my break. You come to my house?" He walked us proudly down main street Soddo (the only main street, the only paved road that comes south out of Addis in the whole country, I’m told) and very few people, even kids, bothered us. More of his story: He is one of six children, the oldest, and shares a room he rents with his sister from a wealthy-seeming family in town. His parents live in a village, "the country," and are farmers. Why isn’t he a farmer? "I made the difference, I have education. I have (something) degree. You want to see?" He pulls a several tiny keys from his pocket held together on a plastic $100 American bill an appreciative woman at the hotel gave him, and unlocks a chest that is one of the three pieces of furniture in his little house. He pulls out three pieces of paper, two with passport photos stapled on. They say he is a certified hotel person. Another paper was his report card, kind of, which showed he had excellent grades and graduated top in his class. Andy asked him how much he paid for his house per month--40 birr, about five dollars--and how much he makes per month--140 birr, about $17.50 per month. Walking home, Andy said, "It’s so weird, I make that in about fifteen minutes." It means that Nadu spends roughly one third of his income on housing, which is actually what we also spend on housing. While the ratios may be the same, the difference(s) is that most of the rest of the world, like airports, is calibrated to our ratio, and the housing we get for our third of income isn’t just a dark, 12 x 15 foot room with dirt flooring and one bed for two people. (Wait--yes it does.) Our third has a great bathroom, lots of rooms, lights, windows, washer and dryer, a great yard and big garden and garage and refrigerator and front porch and back patio and furniture and internet and dvd player and books and dishes and stored food. And a mailbox. And is dry and warm when we want it to be. (And we complain about cats?)
Anyway, Nadu fed us mashed avocado with bread and then pulled out a grimy plastic cup asking if we wanted water to clean our "teas, teas." We didn’t get him till he pointed to them in his mouth. Kind, I’m sure, but what, were we going to all gargle and rinse in the same cup? Uh, no. We let our dirty teeth stay that way.
I do like Nado. You can’t help liking a guy who is sweet with little kids who aren’t even relatives. They climb all over him and he brought in the neighbour’s baby just to show us.
Two new guys at the hotel have their tents out on the goat/turtle lawn tonight. One is American and one European, driving from Zambia on motorbikes. They asked if we do necks as well as eyes. I only do one neck, his, I said pointing to Andy. Let’s get that clear right now. They look like dudes with travel stories. They wear patagonia and have dirty hair and don’t give a care if they’re oil floating on the water of every local culture they motor through. If anyone would know about chat, I bet they would. They seem like the kind of people you want to know or be until you know them or feel like you think they’d feel. How’s that for projection?
I feel particularly uninspired writing tonight. It’s only 8pm and I’ve already finished the two novels I brought with me. It's stare at the cootie wall or dive into the harder stuff I brought--Umberto Eco, C.S. Lewis, and Wendell Berry. Or maybe some of Andy’s political biographies. He wants to get the expense report done for the day, and I’m done, so adieu.
We were late to the office today and Alemush was sharp with Abaina our driver about it, so we made sure she knew it was because of his waiting for us, and apologized to him later. He laughed it off and was sweet, like he always seems to be.
Drove around to different villages and practiced weighing babies in the hanging scale and measuring arms and heads and heights--kids standing, babies lying down. Since none of the babies wear diapers around here, naturally, getting their little bums in and out of the scale’s seat, which is basically like a pair of undies, it going to be a wet chore. Although I’ve smelled a lot of urine in the wraps we’ve pulled off them to get them in the scale, I haven’t actually felt any really wet bums yet. Andy thinks we’re going to get lice and several viruses before we’re through, though he assures me that TB and leprosy are difficult to catch if you’re healthy. TB or not, we’ve both developed a dry smoker’s cough from the horrible air: dusty, smoky, full of thick oil and gas fumes whenever a macchina grumbles by.
When we got back from work, Nadu was hanging out on the porch of the hotel. "It’s my break. You come to my house?" He walked us proudly down main street Soddo (the only main street, the only paved road that comes south out of Addis in the whole country, I’m told) and very few people, even kids, bothered us. More of his story: He is one of six children, the oldest, and shares a room he rents with his sister from a wealthy-seeming family in town. His parents live in a village, "the country," and are farmers. Why isn’t he a farmer? "I made the difference, I have education. I have (something) degree. You want to see?" He pulls a several tiny keys from his pocket held together on a plastic $100 American bill an appreciative woman at the hotel gave him, and unlocks a chest that is one of the three pieces of furniture in his little house. He pulls out three pieces of paper, two with passport photos stapled on. They say he is a certified hotel person. Another paper was his report card, kind of, which showed he had excellent grades and graduated top in his class. Andy asked him how much he paid for his house per month--40 birr, about five dollars--and how much he makes per month--140 birr, about $17.50 per month. Walking home, Andy said, "It’s so weird, I make that in about fifteen minutes." It means that Nadu spends roughly one third of his income on housing, which is actually what we also spend on housing. While the ratios may be the same, the difference(s) is that most of the rest of the world, like airports, is calibrated to our ratio, and the housing we get for our third of income isn’t just a dark, 12 x 15 foot room with dirt flooring and one bed for two people. (Wait--yes it does.) Our third has a great bathroom, lots of rooms, lights, windows, washer and dryer, a great yard and big garden and garage and refrigerator and front porch and back patio and furniture and internet and dvd player and books and dishes and stored food. And a mailbox. And is dry and warm when we want it to be. (And we complain about cats?)
Anyway, Nadu fed us mashed avocado with bread and then pulled out a grimy plastic cup asking if we wanted water to clean our "teas, teas." We didn’t get him till he pointed to them in his mouth. Kind, I’m sure, but what, were we going to all gargle and rinse in the same cup? Uh, no. We let our dirty teeth stay that way.
I do like Nado. You can’t help liking a guy who is sweet with little kids who aren’t even relatives. They climb all over him and he brought in the neighbour’s baby just to show us.
Two new guys at the hotel have their tents out on the goat/turtle lawn tonight. One is American and one European, driving from Zambia on motorbikes. They asked if we do necks as well as eyes. I only do one neck, his, I said pointing to Andy. Let’s get that clear right now. They look like dudes with travel stories. They wear patagonia and have dirty hair and don’t give a care if they’re oil floating on the water of every local culture they motor through. If anyone would know about chat, I bet they would. They seem like the kind of people you want to know or be until you know them or feel like you think they’d feel. How’s that for projection?
I feel particularly uninspired writing tonight. It’s only 8pm and I’ve already finished the two novels I brought with me. It's stare at the cootie wall or dive into the harder stuff I brought--Umberto Eco, C.S. Lewis, and Wendell Berry. Or maybe some of Andy’s political biographies. He wants to get the expense report done for the day, and I’m done, so adieu.
posted by Johanna Buchert Smith at 3:45 AM
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