11.10.04
One photojournalist, on edge and fleeing the country.
Seven Medical Missionaries, all ordering the fried lamb.
Three Koreans from the road survey team.
Five francophones, their third night in a row.
There were a lot of feringes in the hotel restaurant tonight.
The photojournalist woman Andy met when he went in to watch some CNN. She had a really cute short haircut, spiffy pants with lots of zippers, fancy running shoes, and a really nice camera. She told Andy she had been in Ethiopia three weeks, down photographing the Omo people, and was staying, no matter what it took, at the Sheraton hotel tonight. She was really on edge. She kept telling him, "I’m no American princess," as though even she was shocked at her reaction. But Ethiopia is a hard place to be. She said last night she lay down on her bed to go to sleep and felt something under her. She peeled back her sheets and there was a bed of cockroaches beneath her. When she came here and got told she couldn’t have the Chinese guy’s room (even though he’s almost never there) she refused to stay here. It was two hours till dark, and Andy told her about the bandits-on-the-road story we’d heard. My biggest worry would be everything else that is on the road--donkeys, cows, goats, children, old people, broken down truck--and the serious potholes. Although it did make her even more anxious, she was determined to be on her way. We could tell she needed something good to happen in her day, so we gave her the last two of the little Lindt bars Emily brought us back from the Duty Free shop in the Dubai airport (aha, we know Doug Bush’s secret!). We’d been rationing, but when you see someone in need . . . (Besides, I’d already eaten all the dark chocolate ones in the first week.) We also asked her how she got photos of people without them looking right in the camera smiling or waving, which we can’t seem to avoid. She gave us some tips. Andy asked how many she exposures she would go through to get a good photo. She said, "Out of 75 rolls, I’ll probably get five that are saleable. Saleable, mind you. You’d probably think there were lots of others that were pretty good." That’s rolls of 36. What would she have to make off each exposure to finance a trip to Ethiopia? Five thousand apeice? She said she had two homes, one in California, one in Aspen. Andy wanted to ask her if she knew John Denver. "I cross the line between fine art and journalism. Some photos I blow up," she sliced the air to show a four foot by four foot box, "and they’re knock-out. Really, They’re knock-out." She uses Velvia chrome, 35mm. That’s my favourite too, 100 speed, but I doubt I’ve shot 75 rolls in my life total. The photojournalist left in a weird, hasty, abrupt scuttle to her car. "Do you wear your seatbelt?" Andy called. "You should wear it tonight."
The medical missionaries I struck up a conversation with while Andy waited in the hall. When the coast was clear and a connection established, I gave him the signal and he came back in. They’re doing cataract surgeries, and he lent them his otoscope so they have a spare. They offered us a tour of the prison. I would love to go, but they’re going to be there tomorrow while we’re out at the villages.
The Koreans speak English as their second language or maybe speak Amharic. Whichever, there doesn’t seem to be the same natural reason to meet them as there is the Western feringes. Maybe its racism.
The francophones are a set of skinny, tall men in their late thirties probably, with dark hair. The first night, they called, "Bon soir," to Andy and I when they passed our table on their way out. I answered, "Bon soir," and I heard the last guy go, "Francophone?" but he was on his way out the door and obscured by a waiter, so I didn’t answer. I haven’t had the guts to say anything to them in French. My bet is they work for Medecins Sans Frontieres in Boditti, the first town north of us. Andy thinks it would be obnoxious to ask.
This evening, as the sun went down, fog descended off the mountain onto Soddo. I noticed out of the corner of my eye a milky white motion in the perifery. I thought it was smoke, but when I turned to watch it, it was filling the courtyard and bringing a new, wet smell, not a city smell. It floated and swept through and then it was just cloudy and then it rained some more. We’ve had much rain, most of it at night. It was so loud last night, the rain thundering on our tin roof, Andy and I clung to each other in the center of the bed like superstitious Greeks, imagining that by disguising ourselves as one person instead of two, one very still person, we might trick Zeus into passing over us without blowing the roof off, or soaking our toilet paper through the bathroom window.
For the second night this week, I had boiled sweet potatoes for dinner, the white ones. They are now my food of choice here. Because they ususally make it to us cold, I eat them plain with just salt. They’re divine. We bought them at the market the first time and Nado took them back to the kitchen. They served us and then ate the rest apparently, because when we asked for more the next night, they laughed and laughed. I think they should have at least replaced them. We brought them more tonight, and they returned the uncooked poatatos in the bag as we were leaving.
Tonight was our last night of freedom. We’ll be working hard everyday but the weekends until we leave after this. It’s been lazy and relaxed and nice. I miss housework though. Miss puttering around in my own place doing things for myself--making our own food, cleaning and doing laundry for ourselves, working in the yard, organizing--just doing the things you do in a home that is your home. We brought dishes and cutlery from the hotel and made our own lunch in our room today which we ate out on the covered walkway, and it reminded me how much I like to prepare my own food. We could eat so well here if I could do the food. And CHEAPLY, unbeleiveably cheaply. I bet we could both eat for 1 birr a day if I could prepare the food. That’s about 12 cents American. I bet we could. I bet we could eat for 70 centimes a day. Actually, if we were making fasting food, I bet we could eat for 50 centimes. Six American cents. I bet I could do it.
Seven Medical Missionaries, all ordering the fried lamb.
Three Koreans from the road survey team.
Five francophones, their third night in a row.
There were a lot of feringes in the hotel restaurant tonight.
The photojournalist woman Andy met when he went in to watch some CNN. She had a really cute short haircut, spiffy pants with lots of zippers, fancy running shoes, and a really nice camera. She told Andy she had been in Ethiopia three weeks, down photographing the Omo people, and was staying, no matter what it took, at the Sheraton hotel tonight. She was really on edge. She kept telling him, "I’m no American princess," as though even she was shocked at her reaction. But Ethiopia is a hard place to be. She said last night she lay down on her bed to go to sleep and felt something under her. She peeled back her sheets and there was a bed of cockroaches beneath her. When she came here and got told she couldn’t have the Chinese guy’s room (even though he’s almost never there) she refused to stay here. It was two hours till dark, and Andy told her about the bandits-on-the-road story we’d heard. My biggest worry would be everything else that is on the road--donkeys, cows, goats, children, old people, broken down truck--and the serious potholes. Although it did make her even more anxious, she was determined to be on her way. We could tell she needed something good to happen in her day, so we gave her the last two of the little Lindt bars Emily brought us back from the Duty Free shop in the Dubai airport (aha, we know Doug Bush’s secret!). We’d been rationing, but when you see someone in need . . . (Besides, I’d already eaten all the dark chocolate ones in the first week.) We also asked her how she got photos of people without them looking right in the camera smiling or waving, which we can’t seem to avoid. She gave us some tips. Andy asked how many she exposures she would go through to get a good photo. She said, "Out of 75 rolls, I’ll probably get five that are saleable. Saleable, mind you. You’d probably think there were lots of others that were pretty good." That’s rolls of 36. What would she have to make off each exposure to finance a trip to Ethiopia? Five thousand apeice? She said she had two homes, one in California, one in Aspen. Andy wanted to ask her if she knew John Denver. "I cross the line between fine art and journalism. Some photos I blow up," she sliced the air to show a four foot by four foot box, "and they’re knock-out. Really, They’re knock-out." She uses Velvia chrome, 35mm. That’s my favourite too, 100 speed, but I doubt I’ve shot 75 rolls in my life total. The photojournalist left in a weird, hasty, abrupt scuttle to her car. "Do you wear your seatbelt?" Andy called. "You should wear it tonight."
The medical missionaries I struck up a conversation with while Andy waited in the hall. When the coast was clear and a connection established, I gave him the signal and he came back in. They’re doing cataract surgeries, and he lent them his otoscope so they have a spare. They offered us a tour of the prison. I would love to go, but they’re going to be there tomorrow while we’re out at the villages.
The Koreans speak English as their second language or maybe speak Amharic. Whichever, there doesn’t seem to be the same natural reason to meet them as there is the Western feringes. Maybe its racism.
The francophones are a set of skinny, tall men in their late thirties probably, with dark hair. The first night, they called, "Bon soir," to Andy and I when they passed our table on their way out. I answered, "Bon soir," and I heard the last guy go, "Francophone?" but he was on his way out the door and obscured by a waiter, so I didn’t answer. I haven’t had the guts to say anything to them in French. My bet is they work for Medecins Sans Frontieres in Boditti, the first town north of us. Andy thinks it would be obnoxious to ask.
This evening, as the sun went down, fog descended off the mountain onto Soddo. I noticed out of the corner of my eye a milky white motion in the perifery. I thought it was smoke, but when I turned to watch it, it was filling the courtyard and bringing a new, wet smell, not a city smell. It floated and swept through and then it was just cloudy and then it rained some more. We’ve had much rain, most of it at night. It was so loud last night, the rain thundering on our tin roof, Andy and I clung to each other in the center of the bed like superstitious Greeks, imagining that by disguising ourselves as one person instead of two, one very still person, we might trick Zeus into passing over us without blowing the roof off, or soaking our toilet paper through the bathroom window.
For the second night this week, I had boiled sweet potatoes for dinner, the white ones. They are now my food of choice here. Because they ususally make it to us cold, I eat them plain with just salt. They’re divine. We bought them at the market the first time and Nado took them back to the kitchen. They served us and then ate the rest apparently, because when we asked for more the next night, they laughed and laughed. I think they should have at least replaced them. We brought them more tonight, and they returned the uncooked poatatos in the bag as we were leaving.
Tonight was our last night of freedom. We’ll be working hard everyday but the weekends until we leave after this. It’s been lazy and relaxed and nice. I miss housework though. Miss puttering around in my own place doing things for myself--making our own food, cleaning and doing laundry for ourselves, working in the yard, organizing--just doing the things you do in a home that is your home. We brought dishes and cutlery from the hotel and made our own lunch in our room today which we ate out on the covered walkway, and it reminded me how much I like to prepare my own food. We could eat so well here if I could do the food. And CHEAPLY, unbeleiveably cheaply. I bet we could both eat for 1 birr a day if I could prepare the food. That’s about 12 cents American. I bet we could. I bet we could eat for 70 centimes a day. Actually, if we were making fasting food, I bet we could eat for 50 centimes. Six American cents. I bet I could do it.
posted by Johanna Buchert Smith at 8:53 AM
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