In 2011 I went to Ethiopia as part of a US Forest Service/USAID trip to work with pastorlists to help restore native grasslands.  I fell in love with the country and its people.  Addis Ababa is the capital, where we spent two days before traveling for a day and a half to the rural southeast.  It's a huge city (5 million people), and home of the African Union.  Very cosmopolitan in some ways, but poverty is everywhere.  I had the chance to go again this coming February but had too many things going on at work.  I so hated to turn down the trip.  Here's a little slice of my visit.   

February 24

After leaving the bank with my newly exchanged birr notes, M and I continue to look for an internet café.  The first one we find is packed with people waiting in line to use the computers.  We keep looking.  The street hawkers are trying to get us to buy bootleg CDs and DVDs.  We wave them off with a loud “ai.” Small black clouds of diesel smoke from all the vehicles gather around the curb.  The sun is hot even at this altitude (7,000 feet).  There are so many beggars on the sidewalks.  I see an elderly man with a shriveled leg, sitting on the edge of the cement, his hand open, palm up.  Old women doing the same.  Where do they live, I wonder.  Where do they go at night? We see a large glass building up ahead.  Freedom Center.  It looks to be full of shops.  We walk in and I ask a young woman if there’s internet.  She points up and to the front.  We find it and it is practically empty.  After we sit down we soon realize why there is no one here --  it takes 10 minutes to send one basic email!   We make sure to tell our spouses in the emails we each send that this may be the last they hear from us for the next two weeks. 

Finished with the necessities we head for somewhere to have lunch.  The sidewalks are very crowded and we don’t have the first clue of where to go.  We both spot a place that has tables outside on a terrace.  I’m disappointed when I see on the menu that they don’t serve Ethiopian food.  But, we’re here and we’re hungry.  I order the vegetarian pizza and Mike orders a cheeseburger with fries.  Italy tried for many years to invade Ethiopia.  They finally succeeded under Mussolini’s reign in the early part of the 20^th century.  It lasted 12 years until the Ethiopian and British armies liberated the country during WWII. Ethiopians are fiercely proud of the fact that theirs is the only African country that has never been colonized.  An enjoyable holdover of that time is the abundance of Italian food and Italian restaurants throughout Addis Ababa and the rest of country.  The pizza is really good.  M and I chat, getting to know each other.  We talk about our jobs back home, our families, the things we like to do.  He tells me he went on one previous international trip for the FS to Portugal.  He spent six weeks implementing prescribed burns with his counterparts there.  I tell him my previous trip was to Belize with a group from The Nature Conservancy to teach basic fire behavior and do some prescribed burning.  We seem well-suited to the task we’re here for. 

When lunch is done we walk back to our hotel.  This is our one day off on the trip, and I propose we go to the Ethiopian Ethnological museum at Addis Ababa University.  M says it sounds good to him, and when we get to the hotel I walk up to my room to drop off some of the cash I’ve exchanged.  We decide to just hire one of the little POS (piece of shit) taxis that park across the street.  All the taxis in Addis are bright blue with white tops.  There are tiny 4-door cars and full-size vans.  We decide on a small car and walk up to the first in line.  “Can you take us to Ethnological Museum?” I ask.  “Yes, yes,” the driver says and opens the car door.  “How much?” I ask before getting in.  “150 birr,” he says.  “100 birr,” I counter with.  He thinks it over and agrees.  I slide into the back and M gets in front.  There are no seat belts, and the window crank-handles are broken off both doors in the back, with the windows up. M reaches for the seat belt harness, and the driver motions at him and says “No good.”  And we’re off. 

Our driver speaks pretty good English and points out various places of interest – the palace, Parliament, the UN -- as we weave through the crowded streets.  There are traffic signals but none of them are working, so different rules apply.  It’s ordered chaos.  The drivers merge in and out of traffic using their horns strategically, motioning to each other, sometimes yelling.  Somehow our guy is steering, shifting, honking his horn, and pointing out things to us all at the same time.  I see M’s hands gripping the dashboard in front of him, his knuckles white with the effort.  Me? I love this.  I’m just sitting back taking in all the sights, wishing the window were down so I could take some photos.  We pass a traditionally-dressed man taking his flock of sheep to market, right down a busy city street, the vehicles swerving and braking to avoid the animals.   Nearby are small groups of well-dressed men in expensive suits walking down the sidewalk, cell phones pressed to their ears.  At one point our driver has to practically stand on the brakes to avoid rear-ending the van in front of us.  He stops mere inches from its bumper.  Traffic begins to move again, and he expertly negotiates his way through the many round-a-bouts.  He tells us the history of the various statues and monuments.  He is proud of his country.  Soon, he takes a wide sweeping u-turn in the street and pulls up in front of the university.  We thank him as we get out.  “That scared the crap out of me,” says M, as soon as we’re out of earshot. 

The Ethiopian Ethnological Museum takes up two floors in a corner of one of the buildings that used to be the palace of Emperor Haile Selassie.  He ruled Ethiopia for nearly 50 years during the 20^th century until overthrown by communists during a coup in the 70’s.   The museum has displays and exhibitions of the many different ethnic groups that make up the country.   Glass cases hold traditional weapons, tools, and clothing.  There are beautiful baskets and various pottery, the shapes and colors representing the various clans. 

My favorite sections are upstairs – the musical instruments and the icons.  Three rooms hold musical instruments ranging from drums to string instruments.  The drums are covered with animal skins, the fur still intact on some.  They hang on the walls and I could reach out and touch them if I wanted to.  It’s tempting, but I know the damage the oils from my skin can wreak.  Two rooms hold the stringed instruments.  Some look guitar-like where you would strum them, others have bows so more like a violin or fiddle.  The main room has the icons – wooden boards with brightly vivid religious paintings.  Most people are surprised to hear that nearly two-thirds of the population in Ethiopia is Orthodox Christian, and that is reflected in these beautiful works of art.  They range in size from small hand mirrors to large windows.  The majority seems to depict the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus, but others show biblical scenes and saints.  What I really like is that all the figures in the paintings are black -- the Saints, Mary, and Jesus.  As it should be.

I have to pee so ask where the restroom is.  It’s on the third floor down a dark hallway.  I find it and am a bit surprised by the condition.  I expect a modern bathroom in this well-visted museum on the univeristy campus. There’s a rickety commode missing the top of the tank, but obviously there's no water.  A large bucket sits on the floor, a small pitcher floating on the surface.  I do what I need to do, then I scoop some water into the tank to “flush” the toilet.  I’m glad I have a little package of Kleenex and some hand sanitizer. 

I know I’m starting to drag from the lack of sleep, altitude, and jet lag.  M is, too, so we decide to go back to the hotel.  We walk back out to the street to hail another taxi.  We ask the first man we come to if he can take us to the Desalegn Hotel.  He says yes.  “How much?” I ask.  “One fifty birr,” he answers.  “One hundred birr,” I counter.  “No, no, no.  Very much traffic.  Take long time,” he says.  “We came here for 100 birr,” I tell him.  “From hotel to here?  OK, 120 birr,” he says.  We start to walk away as I tell him we will find someone who will take us for 100 birr.  “Ok, Ok, I will take you,” he says and opens the door to the taxi. 

Again, no window crank handles in the back seat.  He isn’t as talkative as the first driver so we ride in mostly silence.  He’s right; the traffic is heavier this late in the day.  We end up sitting still in traffic a couple of times.  Each time this happens our vehicle is surrounded by women holding babies on their hips.  They tap on the windows of the car.  They show their open, empty hands and motion towards their babies.  The women are so beautiful and so thin.  The babies smile, right on cue.  It’s fucking heart-breaking.  Our driver yells at them.  We move on, leaving them standing on the side of the street in the heat and dust and vehicle exhaust. 

I soon realize that we are not taking the same route back as we took to get to the museum.  It becomes apparent that he doesn’t know where our hotel is.  The driver stops to ask some men on the street.  They speak in Amharic and point.  He continues on.  Again he has to stop and ask for directions.  Then he’s pulling down a narrow alleyway and turns into a gated driveway.  There is a sign that says Desalegn, but it’s not our hotel.  We try to tell him but he insists this is it.  We tell him, “No, Desalegn #2.”  A man walks over and they speak briefly.  The man motions and points.  The driver turns around and heads back the way he came.  He’s very frazzled, and this trip has taken longer than it should have, and, after all, time is money.  Finally he pulls up in front of our hotel.  I hand him 110 birr instead of the reluctantly agreed upon 100.  He looks at it and smiles at me.  “Thank you, sister,” he says.  “You’re welcome, brother,” I say as I slide out.  “Amasayganallo.”

M and I agree to meet in the lobby at 6:30 to have dinner with F, whom I haven't yet met.  I’m determined not to sleep so I read and watch BBC World News.  When I walk down at the agreed-upon time I see M and F sitting and talking.  F jumps up and gives me a hug.  I like her immediately, just get that good feeling.  She’s maybe in her early fifties with short dark hair sprinkled with gray.  She wears funky, stylish glasses.  She has the wiry build of people with high metabolism and lots of energy.  She is so positive and has such good energy.  And her laugh is loud and genuine. This is her second trip to Ethiopia for the USFS.

We all talk for a while and then decide to look for a restaurant some folks at Save The Children have recommended.  It’s supposed to be down the street from the hotel, easy to find.  It’s already dark and we walk up the street.  The sidewalk isn’t as crowded but there are still people out.  We pass a painfully thin woman sitting under a street lamp, dressed traditionally in a gabi, holding her small infant.  She stretches out her hand, begging silently.  I have decided to at least acknowledge these impoverished women, and I look down and shake my head no.  It is so difficult, but I have learned in my travels elsewhere that giving someone money invites a mob demanding his or her share.  We continue walking but soon realize we must’ve passed the restaurant.  We turn around and walk back.  We’re talking up a storm, so it’s no wonder we’ve missed it.  We pass the woman again, and again she lifts up her open hand.  Again I look down at her and silently shake my head.  We walk another block or so and realize, again, that we have walked right by the restaurant.  Shit! We stop and decide to walk back once more.  As we get close to the begging woman, I tell M and F that I just cannot, will not pass her a third time and do nothing.  I fish around in my bag for some small birr notes, fold them into a bundle and walk towards the woman.  I stop in front of her, squat down to her level, and press the money into her hand.  “Thank you,” she says in English.  I look at her baby, and the baby is not as young as I had thought.  Malnourishment and an already hard life have stunted this little one’s growth.  As this lovely child looks at me with her big brown eyes and gives me the most beautiful smile, I wonder how the hell I’m going to deal with this for the next two weeks.