Day one: 09.09.04
09.09.04: First day
Jet lag is real. I wouldn’t believe it at first--we were only tired because of three days of flights and sitting in airports, but now I’ve been lying in bed for two hours trying desperately to fall back asleep and it’s not happening. It’s nigh on to 5:00 a.m. now. I’ve heard three big airplanes go over, lots of dogs, and Andy getting up to see if sitting downstairs and watching some Ethiopian TV will help. It will not, apparently. He is back and couldn’t get it working. And, “the British newspapers are horrible. They’re impossible to understand.”
Yesterday morning we arrived at our guest house here at 4:30 a.m. or so. The taxi from the airport drove us crazily swerving down pitted roads to avoid the deeper potholes. I didn’t even think at the time about our “rolly bag,” as they say on British Airlines, slung on the top of the car and sitting there w/o anything attaching it. It survived, obviously. So did we, though I felt bad for the other people staying here. Everything here is marble stone and tile, so any move you make echoes tremendously, and the keys in our doors are loud and rattley. Although we have a private bathroom, ours is the only room with it across the hall. I wish the whole place didn’t have to know when we were getting up to go to the bathroom. We’ve both been twice tonight. I think our bodies are digesting at their daytime rate.
Morning is finally getting on here. Outside, the first of the day’s call to prayer just sounded. “Allaaaaaaaaaa-hu akbar!” God is the greatest.
We let ourselves sleep in yesterday, though I argued the best way to deal with jetlag was to make yourself get on the local schedule as soon as possible. Andy argued we hadn’t had more than bite-sized chunks of sleep in 72 hours and we needed what we could get. At 8:50 am (breakfast closes at nine) we went down for breakfast. Basil, one of our fellow guest housers, a British man who told us upfront “I don’t know much about the Americas,” was still eating. He assured us we weren’t too late, that he has come down much later than this and still gotten breakfast. He explained the straw strewn all over the hardwood floor in the foyer; it was a tradition that came from having earthen floors. It was put down in times of celebration. The day before had been the owner’s birthday.
A beautiful young woman brought us each a glass of fresh orange juice (yowee, on the tart side) and three delicious slices of fresh pineapple. Then she brought Andy four slices of toasted white bread and a plate of curly butter slices with a thin jam in a puddle to the side, and another plate with a perfect little round omelet in it. Basil noted out loud, “Notice how they serve the men first, here.”
I wasn’t’ sure how much English the young woman knew, and didn’t want to make her feel awkward (maybe it wouldn’t have) so I only said, “Yes, I read that.” So? Tradition is tradition. I read the whole of The Da Vinci Code on the airplane(s) coming over and am a little tired of the whole worshipful feminine stuff right now. I can (finally) acknowledge that there are fundamental differences between men and women, but I can’t handle the whole natural superiority of women thing. Equality is equality. Union is only meaningful if both parties bring similar-sized offerings of. . . well, everything, I guess. (The book’s other two main flaws: 1. Despite going on and on about the divine feminine and having one of the two main characters be a woman, there wasn’t a single female perspective throughout. Even the explanation of secret society’s way of experiencing god, through sexual union, was only explained for men. 2. The romantic subplot was weak. This was somewhat inevitable because the whole book takes place in a frantic 36 hours or so, with very little of that time free of action, providing a space where romance could flower. So when at the end the two characters kiss (even though as soon as Sophia is introduced on page 8 you know what is going to happen) it seems too odd.)
Not long after, the beautiful young woman brought me a plate of toast, a plate of butter and jam, and a plate of omelet. Plain, but so good, with sauteed onions and chopped tomatoes cooked in it. Basil called to a woman he saw through the door, headed outside. “Aneesa, come meet our new guest mates!” Aneesa is a warm, focussed looking woman with short brown hair and very few angles. I can’t place her accent, though she said she is here studying from a British university (I can’t remember which). She wears heavy-rimmed glasses like mine, is probably 5.5, and wears loose, knit clothes. She is here following a (rare) successful NGO whose mission is to prevent/stop/reeducate about female genital mutilation. She is in Ethiopia for two and a half months. She asked us what we were doing here, and I passed the question to Andy, “You want to explain what were doing?” He did not. “I can’t explain it now, I’m too tired.” Aneesa graciously excused us, “I know what jet lag is like. I’ll ask you again later.”
When we were finished eating, we came back upstairs and went to bed again. I slept until 2:00 pm, when Andy woke me up with the valid warning, “We will be up all night if we keep sleeping.” I think it’s just been so long since I had all the sleep I wanted, that I forgot you could get enough and want no more.
We showered, (it’s a handheld shower head and Andy drenched the bathroom somehow), dressed, and then waited until a HUGE downpour stopped, then went walking. The road we’re just off of has about 20 embassies or ambassador residences (they’ve all got huge handpainted signs pointing to them) so we figure we’re in a fancy part of town.
There were a lot of people, mainly men, of course, out and about. Groups of young boys connected shoulder to shoulder with their arms crossed over each other’s shoulders, marched in laughing lines making weird noises as they got closer to us and laughing when they’d passed. Tiny boys with big beautiful eyes look deep into ours as they skip along and keep pace and say, “mumble mumble mumble mother father dead mumble mumble,” until some nice teenage boy says something to them sternly, and they skip away. There is a song the begging boys sing, and it’s lovely. I’m going to record it before I leave. These kids are really so beautiful. Most everybody is beautiful. It makes me feel pasty and bland and ugly.
The birds just started outside. Daylight must be coming.
There were herds of goats on side roads, and men and boys carying them around on their shoulders or dragging them unwillingly on ropes. There are chickens in big boiling over pens in markets and cats that pick their way through muddy streets, and dogs that wander seeming aimlessly. We only saw a few dogs (of all different mutt breeds, unlike on the reservation where they all looked somewhat the same) but last night about 11:45 when we got up the first time, this whole quarter of the city’s dogs were communicating and there were barks and howls and yips and yaps and woofs; it crescendoed after about 10 minutes and you could tell there are many dogs in Addis. I don’t know what set them off or what eventually calmed them all down again.
We wanted to eat Ethiopian food on our first day here, and found ourselves in a restaurant on a little side street where the guard at the entrance saluted Andy and shook my hand warmly. Then more beautiful young women offered us coffee (no thanks) and a menu. After three or four tries at ordering and being turned down with, “We don’t have that today, you should try our lasagna. It is very very good,” we tried the lasagna. The young women turned on some loud reggae music for us, which Andy thought he recognized as a famous South African musician.
We walked some more and found another restaurant that had Ethiopian food. The place was really neat; we sat in a yurt looking thing with goat-skin stools around the outside, and each got a little round basket table. Our waiter brought is a big platter of injera with a sampling of dips and sauces. Unfortunately, neither one of us liked it, really. This is a big disappointment and a bit worrisome. I’ve only had Ethiopian food once before (Dave Buehler’s house) but I loved it then. Andy’s had it several times, and liked it the other times, so we’re hoping it is just this restaurant. For me, it was just too greasy or meaty or both. Ugh. I’m in trouble.
When we came home, we went pretty much straight to bed. When I woke up to go to the bathroom at 11:45, I was starving, I don’t know why, so I ate one of the granola bars we brought with us. I’ve had three others tonight, and Andy has had two, so we’re going to be out soon.
The curtains out to our balcony are beginning to show light through them. I can hear someone down at the entrance/driveway walking around and moving things and talking quietly. We have two more days in Addis, then we go south. We’ve got to make these days great.
Jet lag is real. I wouldn’t believe it at first--we were only tired because of three days of flights and sitting in airports, but now I’ve been lying in bed for two hours trying desperately to fall back asleep and it’s not happening. It’s nigh on to 5:00 a.m. now. I’ve heard three big airplanes go over, lots of dogs, and Andy getting up to see if sitting downstairs and watching some Ethiopian TV will help. It will not, apparently. He is back and couldn’t get it working. And, “the British newspapers are horrible. They’re impossible to understand.”
Yesterday morning we arrived at our guest house here at 4:30 a.m. or so. The taxi from the airport drove us crazily swerving down pitted roads to avoid the deeper potholes. I didn’t even think at the time about our “rolly bag,” as they say on British Airlines, slung on the top of the car and sitting there w/o anything attaching it. It survived, obviously. So did we, though I felt bad for the other people staying here. Everything here is marble stone and tile, so any move you make echoes tremendously, and the keys in our doors are loud and rattley. Although we have a private bathroom, ours is the only room with it across the hall. I wish the whole place didn’t have to know when we were getting up to go to the bathroom. We’ve both been twice tonight. I think our bodies are digesting at their daytime rate.
Morning is finally getting on here. Outside, the first of the day’s call to prayer just sounded. “Allaaaaaaaaaa-hu akbar!” God is the greatest.
We let ourselves sleep in yesterday, though I argued the best way to deal with jetlag was to make yourself get on the local schedule as soon as possible. Andy argued we hadn’t had more than bite-sized chunks of sleep in 72 hours and we needed what we could get. At 8:50 am (breakfast closes at nine) we went down for breakfast. Basil, one of our fellow guest housers, a British man who told us upfront “I don’t know much about the Americas,” was still eating. He assured us we weren’t too late, that he has come down much later than this and still gotten breakfast. He explained the straw strewn all over the hardwood floor in the foyer; it was a tradition that came from having earthen floors. It was put down in times of celebration. The day before had been the owner’s birthday.
A beautiful young woman brought us each a glass of fresh orange juice (yowee, on the tart side) and three delicious slices of fresh pineapple. Then she brought Andy four slices of toasted white bread and a plate of curly butter slices with a thin jam in a puddle to the side, and another plate with a perfect little round omelet in it. Basil noted out loud, “Notice how they serve the men first, here.”
I wasn’t’ sure how much English the young woman knew, and didn’t want to make her feel awkward (maybe it wouldn’t have) so I only said, “Yes, I read that.” So? Tradition is tradition. I read the whole of The Da Vinci Code on the airplane(s) coming over and am a little tired of the whole worshipful feminine stuff right now. I can (finally) acknowledge that there are fundamental differences between men and women, but I can’t handle the whole natural superiority of women thing. Equality is equality. Union is only meaningful if both parties bring similar-sized offerings of. . . well, everything, I guess. (The book’s other two main flaws: 1. Despite going on and on about the divine feminine and having one of the two main characters be a woman, there wasn’t a single female perspective throughout. Even the explanation of secret society’s way of experiencing god, through sexual union, was only explained for men. 2. The romantic subplot was weak. This was somewhat inevitable because the whole book takes place in a frantic 36 hours or so, with very little of that time free of action, providing a space where romance could flower. So when at the end the two characters kiss (even though as soon as Sophia is introduced on page 8 you know what is going to happen) it seems too odd.)
Not long after, the beautiful young woman brought me a plate of toast, a plate of butter and jam, and a plate of omelet. Plain, but so good, with sauteed onions and chopped tomatoes cooked in it. Basil called to a woman he saw through the door, headed outside. “Aneesa, come meet our new guest mates!” Aneesa is a warm, focussed looking woman with short brown hair and very few angles. I can’t place her accent, though she said she is here studying from a British university (I can’t remember which). She wears heavy-rimmed glasses like mine, is probably 5.5, and wears loose, knit clothes. She is here following a (rare) successful NGO whose mission is to prevent/stop/reeducate about female genital mutilation. She is in Ethiopia for two and a half months. She asked us what we were doing here, and I passed the question to Andy, “You want to explain what were doing?” He did not. “I can’t explain it now, I’m too tired.” Aneesa graciously excused us, “I know what jet lag is like. I’ll ask you again later.”
When we were finished eating, we came back upstairs and went to bed again. I slept until 2:00 pm, when Andy woke me up with the valid warning, “We will be up all night if we keep sleeping.” I think it’s just been so long since I had all the sleep I wanted, that I forgot you could get enough and want no more.
We showered, (it’s a handheld shower head and Andy drenched the bathroom somehow), dressed, and then waited until a HUGE downpour stopped, then went walking. The road we’re just off of has about 20 embassies or ambassador residences (they’ve all got huge handpainted signs pointing to them) so we figure we’re in a fancy part of town.
There were a lot of people, mainly men, of course, out and about. Groups of young boys connected shoulder to shoulder with their arms crossed over each other’s shoulders, marched in laughing lines making weird noises as they got closer to us and laughing when they’d passed. Tiny boys with big beautiful eyes look deep into ours as they skip along and keep pace and say, “mumble mumble mumble mother father dead mumble mumble,” until some nice teenage boy says something to them sternly, and they skip away. There is a song the begging boys sing, and it’s lovely. I’m going to record it before I leave. These kids are really so beautiful. Most everybody is beautiful. It makes me feel pasty and bland and ugly.
The birds just started outside. Daylight must be coming.
There were herds of goats on side roads, and men and boys carying them around on their shoulders or dragging them unwillingly on ropes. There are chickens in big boiling over pens in markets and cats that pick their way through muddy streets, and dogs that wander seeming aimlessly. We only saw a few dogs (of all different mutt breeds, unlike on the reservation where they all looked somewhat the same) but last night about 11:45 when we got up the first time, this whole quarter of the city’s dogs were communicating and there were barks and howls and yips and yaps and woofs; it crescendoed after about 10 minutes and you could tell there are many dogs in Addis. I don’t know what set them off or what eventually calmed them all down again.
We wanted to eat Ethiopian food on our first day here, and found ourselves in a restaurant on a little side street where the guard at the entrance saluted Andy and shook my hand warmly. Then more beautiful young women offered us coffee (no thanks) and a menu. After three or four tries at ordering and being turned down with, “We don’t have that today, you should try our lasagna. It is very very good,” we tried the lasagna. The young women turned on some loud reggae music for us, which Andy thought he recognized as a famous South African musician.
We walked some more and found another restaurant that had Ethiopian food. The place was really neat; we sat in a yurt looking thing with goat-skin stools around the outside, and each got a little round basket table. Our waiter brought is a big platter of injera with a sampling of dips and sauces. Unfortunately, neither one of us liked it, really. This is a big disappointment and a bit worrisome. I’ve only had Ethiopian food once before (Dave Buehler’s house) but I loved it then. Andy’s had it several times, and liked it the other times, so we’re hoping it is just this restaurant. For me, it was just too greasy or meaty or both. Ugh. I’m in trouble.
When we came home, we went pretty much straight to bed. When I woke up to go to the bathroom at 11:45, I was starving, I don’t know why, so I ate one of the granola bars we brought with us. I’ve had three others tonight, and Andy has had two, so we’re going to be out soon.
The curtains out to our balcony are beginning to show light through them. I can hear someone down at the entrance/driveway walking around and moving things and talking quietly. We have two more days in Addis, then we go south. We’ve got to make these days great.
posted by Johanna Buchert Smith at 8:41 AM
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