My Body...

My Body
This is an item for all those people who are getting old and have to come to terms with it! You might find consolation in my plight.

I have this thing called a body which resolutely accompanies me wherever I go. When I want to run, it slows me down; when I want to relax and enjoy a film, it forces me to go to the toilet; when I want to eat as much as I want to, it tells me I am full and must stop; when I want to sing the purest of sounds, it makes me croak in a most unacceptable way; so it goes on…… Maybe you know the feeling?

Having the time to contemplate these things, it seemed appropriate to write them down so that you will know what my situation is whenever we meet.



From HEAD to TOES:We celebrate birthdays and I am supposed to be 66 years old. But long before that I was already a being in my mother’s womb. She was on holiday with the family at my paternal (descended from German Immigrants) grandmother’s remote farm, when she threatened to have a miscarriage. When she was a student, she had an accident on a gymnasium horse and, in the 1920s, the practice was to put people in a plaster caste for ages. By the time she emerged 18 months later, her left hip had fused and she was permanently disabled. Doctors said she would never be able to have children, but she had four of us! The brother of my deceased grandfather, who died as a result of being in concentration camps during both world wars, despite having been born in South Africa, was an amateur herbalist. Uncle Herman saved my fetus and thus my second name is Hermine. To us children, he was known as Uncle Sweetie and in his later blind state, remained a favourite with us as he always knew just where the sweetie jar was.
My mother said I ‘popped out’ at 10.30 on a Saturday morning. This is very handy information for the astrologers and I made a point of telling my kids their birth details in case they were ever asked….
When I was about 4 years old, my brother (we were far less aware of animal cruelty in those days) put turpentine under the tail of the donkey I was straddling and the poor animal raced off, with me falling and bumping my head on a stone. No doubt the temporary concussion can be blamed for all my strange behavior ever since.
Most of us are aware of the fact that we cannot always remember details as well as before, but I had this aberration a long time ago when dreaming in a brown trance was part of life. So you can be assured that I have Alzheimer ’s disease!! – it is just clever enough to hide when you first meet me.
A much more insidious problem is my inability to recognize faces. A few years ago I realized that as a Tourist Guide I was not always recognizing my customers (if a coach had the right number of passengers, even if they were not from my group, I would think we could drive off); I decided to have some tests. The extensive visual/brain tests were easy, but when I was shown pictures of faces and the researcher then showed me two pictures of faces, one of which I had seen before, I could not identify it. I know somebody who also has this ailment and she gave me the name for it, but I cannot remember it. It had an ‘S…….’!! somewhere. Does anybody recognize it?
Fortunately my hair has never been a problem. It is now peppered with grey and judging by my mother’s hair, will never again be one colour only. As I have never dyed it before, it will remain as it is. Many days go by and I suddenly remember that I have not combed my hair for a few days; It is thick and falls naturally into shape. Francis inherited those hairs and his dark brown mop could do anything. At school he went through a phase of having dreadlocks and when he found that the police were stopping him too often in the streets, decided to gradually shave it off. So it went to a Mohican style, a single ponytail and eventually to a bald head (number two on his razor) with a long tail in the nape of his neck. The latter eventually disappeared and he used to say. “Summer is here, I need to shave my head”. He died in June before the annual cropping. As he lay in his coffin, I put my fingers into his beautiful hair as I so often did when he was alive and the thought of that sensation still brings forth tears.
My eyes are a sore point: Knowing that I would be away from England for a couple of years; my optician suggested that I have the two cataracts which were forming, dealt with. The first operation was a success and I just could not imagine that the world was really as bright as it suddenly seemed. The second operation was not so good and I spent some days in hospital before they redid it. Because of its nature, the head of the Dept. who taught future Ophthalmologists, asked if he could film me for teaching purposes. I agreed and he was very happy with it. After the operation to redress the damage, he filmed me again and I managed to slip in my dissatisfaction with his two assistants who were supposed to watch him repair the damage, but who ignored him and chatted about their holidays throughout the operation. There is nothing more disconcerting than to lie there immobilized while your eye is being worked on and to hear this inane chatter next to your head! Needless to say, my eyes are not of the best and although I have deliberately decided not to wear spectacles so that the eyes can get exercise, I now need reading glasses and have to wear them around my neck at all times. Very frustrating when I think how very good my shortsightedness had been for threading a needle or reading instructions on a medicine bottle. On the other hand, I am convinced that they are printing things in a smaller case these days… I wake up with tired eyes and the need for a sweet coffee to get my blood sugar up to scratch; Diabetes!!
One could say there is nothing wrong with my ears. However, they are invaded by thousands of microbes every now and then and boy, do they party! The irritation of these dancing bodies can drive one mad. I end up (despite being told not to) with my ears in my hands and rubbing, pulling and thumping them to try and get those partying microbes to stop. Eventually they do, but not for very long. All kinds of potions and Anti-biotics have not dislodged them. Age is no doubt responsible for my increasing deafness!!. With this in mind and because I thought it the right thing to do, I enrolled in a course of sign language for the deaf. I really enjoyed the course and was coming up to the first year’s examinations when Francis suddenly died. My brain just wiped out everything that I had learnt and it was interesting to realize that there was nothing I could do to bring back that knowledge. A good excuse to give up, I know, but very real.
Years ago I realized that the one nostril in my nose was larger than the other. This is not important and no need for vanity to try and take over with plastic surgery. I do not have a very good sense of smell and attribute this fact to the malfunction of my nose. For years I could only get to sleep if I lay on my left side and I eventually worked out that there was a blockage on my left inner nostril which meant that I could not breathe normally through it and would soon suffocate it the right side and my mouth was blocked. I decided that if ever I was in a situation where I would be required to sleep in a different position, it is time to change. Being calm here in Addis means that I have been able to retrain myself and am now deliberately learning to sleep on my back and even trying to go onto the right side. But my sense of smell has not improved.
The first five weeks in Addis Ababa have been marred by my not looking after myself. The sudden change from the tropics at sea level to a very high altitude with decidedly changeable and colder weather has meant a cold which developed into a cough and subsequently did not want to go away. Unlike my Ghanaian experiences when I asked to be treated like everyone else, here at the local clinic the staff insisted on treating me first. So I did only a modicum of waiting in queues to have my details taken, to receive my own sterilized and packaged needle for a blood sample, a plastic container for sputum, pay for various services and to finally see the doctor. I did not have TB or anything more alarming than a bit of Pneumonia. However, an American girl staying in the same hotel shared my cough with me. The management asked her to leave because she has TB. We were all up in arms. She says she has asthma, but we think they were trying to get rid of her because a boyfriend spends most nights in her room. As she says, he does not have TB as a result of being so close to her. She has been allowed to stay. The doctor told me my blood pressure was high and that I must eat less salt and fat. Well, I love fat but have not seen any for months. The meat from scrawny goats, sheep and cattle is not fatty. And I never salt whatever food I am given. More to the point, I do not believe these bloodpressure machines:
There is a flap at the back of one’s throat which controls breathing and if this is too flabby, you end up snoring!!. How embarrassing can that be?! I try to warn people and offer them earplugs when we share a room. There are all kinds of things one can do to mitigate the situation apart from cotton reels being sewn onto the back of pyjamas. I spent nights at the Sleep Clinic being assessed. Because of my job being reliant on my voice, the chance of having that flap cut so that it repairs itself and gets tighter, was not an option. So we settled for ‘jaw extension plates’. This involves a set of dental plates which would gently push your bottom jaw forward, thus eliminating the flapping which makes such a noise. It works, but is a great nuisance and needless to say, I never kept up with it as my teeth were constantly being changed.
With the money I have spent on my teeth, I could have bought a house (well, maybe not in England). My mother was very good at insisting we all saw a dentist twice a year. When we lived in Zululand in the 1940s, the nearest town with a dentist was 60 miles away. To arrange for a car-lift was a major operation. Roads were untarred and I remember watching dogs bark and chase cars because they were so unusual. The dentist was no doubt kind, but seeing all those ‘ropes’ which operated the noisy drill was already enough to make one terrified of the pain. I might be fantasizing, but I think it was foot-operated. So one was brought up with the fear of the dentist, but also with the obligation to visit regularly. My teeth were never good, so when I came to England with its National Health free service in the 1960s and 1970s, I was a dentist’s dream. Once I remember a dentist marking 18 holes to be treated. This was even too many for the Dental Council, so I was summoned to have my mouth assessed and that dentist reckoned that 4 suggested repairs were not necessary. The reason was of course that dentists were paid for repairs, so the more they did, the more they earned. It was only when I went ‘private’ that the great relief of not having to have stuff done to my teeth every 6 months, became a reality. It is not always wise to give freely without obligation. I am reminded of the ‘give’ culture that so many NGOs here in Africa have developed. It is often not to the benefit of the recipients. Thank goodness, Habitat for Humanity insists on people doing their own work and never to expect any unsolicited help from outside except maybe volunteer labour. And then the volunteers are not allowed to even give away an old shirt. Of course we help with technical stuff like getting permission from the government to build on land, which is a complete nightmare! Wherever one is in Africa… A local NGO has helped to make one’s conscience a bit cleaner. They sell coupons for meal tickets so that you do not give money, but food, to beggars. Back to my teeth… For over a year before I left for Africa, I had teeth removed and titanium drilled into my jawbones. I have ended up with eleven implants and a mouth of porcelain teeth which is finally happy and causes no problems. What a relief after years of always being aware of some or other sensitivity or discomfort! If you can afford it, it is the best thing you can ever do for yourself. And let’s hope no teeth in a glass when one is older…
My father’s side of the family has a tendency to get round-shouldered and I am of course well on the way to this. Seeing a reflection of me in a shop window is quite disturbing. But I never learn either. My father’s sister and my favourite Aunt was a great dressmaker. She insisted that one should only wear clothes with collars, to disguise this deformity. But I never remember the few times I go clothes-shopping. It is not my favourite occupation, so I try to get away as soon as possible. When I was between school and University, my Aunt decided that I should be taught some social graces. I stayed with her for a few weeks and she enrolled me with a woman who taught one to walk with a book on the head and how to elegantly get out of a car. Amongst the things this poor woman tried to get me to absorb, was the fact that I had a certain unique colour, number and so on. The only thing I remember to this day is that my perfume is ylang-ylang.
Somewhere along the line during the last few weeks, I have ‘dislocated’ my left shoulder blade. I think it was sleeping on concrete floors in Ghana and before I began to try and sleep on my back. Nothing shows, but I cannot put my arm overhead when swimming crawl and it is painful to undo my bra strap. See how the problems multiply! I know it should be rested in a sling, but that is too much trouble…
Fortunately I am not too scarred, when one considers the very rough childhood I decided to have. I only wore shoes to school when I went to secondary school at age 12. And my only dress was the Sunday school one. When I went scrumping at night and hid pillow-cases of fruit under my bed, the maids never told my parents. Swimming in the river in the dead of night (yes, one day I did jump in and hit a piece of iron which left a scar on my leg) or going off into the forest for midnight feasts with the tails of tadpoles being fried on a tin lid, were all adventures that I treasure today. On my grandmother’s farm, she has a vicious-looking grass-cutter for feeding her chickens. It was designed to cut soft grass and one day my sister and I were playing with it and I decided to slice a piece of dried twig. It was too hard, ricocheted off and my soft finger was the victim of the rotating blades. Fortunately the finger bone was also too hard, but it was Uncle Sweetie who once again stemmed the blood and tied it so that no stitches were necessary. The scar has never faded. On my upper right arm is another scar, this time completely spoilt by very incompetent doctor’s stitches. The ones he put in my knee soon fell out and left a large scar there too. I had been driving the car of the boyfriend of my flat mate. We had spent the weekend in Mozambique and as the two of them were cuddling in the seat next to me, I was responsible for driving in the dark on a typical strip road. This means two thin rows of tar. And when another car approaches, one drives off the strips into sand. As I maneuvered the car for such an operation, the boyfriend suddenly felt the change, turned around and grabbed the steering wheel. We ended up with a written-off car, a sprained ankle and my back causing endless problems for years (broken coccyx bones inter alia). The local Portuguese Hospital was not of the best and I sometimes wonder whether the doctor who sewed up my wounds was sober. That is the only car accident of note I have ever been involved in. And when one thinks of the thousands of miles driven over the years, one can but be grateful.

Ethiopia 2

Random thoughts….I was amused in Sierra Leone to see a billboard along the roads: Hug kids at home and Belt them in the car. It is generally quite acceptable to hit one’s children and shops sell whips like any other commodity. A few years ago when I was cycling for a charity in Uganda, we were careering down a hill and there was a school on the other side of one of the bends. To a group of children who had never seen so many white-skinned cyclists with women included do such a mad thing, it was quite an experience. The kids poured out of the school and ran down to the road to cheer and just enjoy the unexpected spectacle. However, the teachers had had their discipline thwarted and this could not be. They ran after the kids with very long whips (my father used to have such a 5ft long rhinoceros-hide whip and I think similar ones used to be used in the prisons to execute punishments) and began to beat them with energy for leaving the classes. When will they (the people in Africa, I mean) have the confidence to relax and turn such an event into a lesson?
After no visible anti–aids/HIV posters in the Saharan Muslim countries, the first large poster I saw as I entered Togo was an Anti-Aids one in the Immigration hut. These have been visible in all the other West African countries I have been to and the other day, whilst visiting a church on the outskirts of Addis, there was a long queue of ordinary men, women and children. I asked what it was about and was told that there is a feeding station and that these people were Aids/HIV positive patients being given free meals. I find that Aids is freely talked about, although I am sure the stigma still persists in many communities. Here in Ethiopia the rate is about 2% of the population.
Another poster which caught my eye in Addis and which I had translated, said: Remember! Female Genital Mutilation is illegal. Have respect. In a country where it is still widely practiced, I am not so sure about the efficacy of this law. I have become friendly with an Anthropologist (wonderful lady in her 70s) who has seen many actual female circumcisions. She assures me that it is as much part of the local customs as is the circumcision of men. And she has spoken to men who have slept with both circumcised and uncircumcised women and they do not find a difference in the pleasures the women get. But it is a traditional custom and I am ambivalent about just walking in and telling people to stop it. There seems to be resentment against Western interference. Difficult. It is like saying to us; “No more Easter Bunnies or Father Xmas”.
I went to a hospital, but could not enter although I looked into the very clean/sterile wards. This is a special hospital for women who suffer from fistula (OK I did not know what it meant either…) and is quite famous. Had a long chat to the sister in charge and will make an appointment to interview the staff and see the premises another day. It is sad that it is necessary, but wonderful to know that it exists for women who have generally been pregnant too early in life so that their bodies were not mature enough to accept the process of childbirth. This has resulted in the bladder or bowel being damaged and leakage occurring. One of the original doctors there is still operating in her 80s! I mentioned this hospital to an American nurse who is staying down the corridor from me. She was fascinated as she had never come across it in her profession. It really is a disease of a society where women are ‘exploited’.


ADDIS DIARIES

To give a picture of what my life is like now that I am static and not traveling so much, I have decided to keep a diary for a day or two. Some days it will be; ‘Went to work; went back to room’. And other days, I might have thoughts and describe the adventures which are very much part of my daily life here in Addis. It will certainly not be in the wonderful language of Mr. Bloom or Virginia Woolf’s flowing prose, but will, I hope, reflect the things that could happen to any visitor. This could be you, of course.

Sunday 17th September (Dafur Day)

Spent a lazy morning in bed reading a gentle book about a family living in Calcutta. The son has returned to his parents with his small son after a divorce in the USA. Nothing happens. This reminded me of the holidays I had with my parents in SA when both Ingrid and Francis were toddlers. Time went by and nothing happened. Bliss! It also highlighted for me the fact that Ingrid will not have that feeling of ‘home’ which my parents gave me when she stays with me. But she has it with Pete’s parents who are extremely homely and welcoming.
One of Ethiopia’s main exports is honey. Breakfast was a buttered roll with delicious real honey and yoghurt…on the balcony overlooking the car-parking area. The Orthodox Church services are broadcast all morning, but another noise which was new, was the chatter of people polishing and cleaning cars downstairs. Seven gleaming white vehicles (two stretch motors and Cadillac included) were being cleaned and festooned with ribbons and flowers. The wedding season is upon us and the car-hire company has 12 vehicles parked there. After the fasting season in August until the New Year on 7th September, we had the Graduation ceremonies. For two weeks, newly qualified graduates would be walking about in their black gowns and mortar boards, holding bunches of colourful artificial flowers (on sale outside the restaurants) and the restaurants would be packed with proud relatives and friends. But now it is the wedding season, as no-one wants to get married during the fasting month. On the dot at 9am the vehicles moved out of the parking lot. Later in the afternoon, as I was walking up Churchill Avenue, the main north-south road, a few of these wedding processions drove past. People were waving bunches of flowers and hanging out of the windows with loud hooting coming from the cars. The front car would have a video cameraman ‘taped’ to the roof and he would be taking pictures of the excited procession. Except that these recorders for posterity looked decidedly miserable. We had just had two very hard downpours and the poor cameramen were huddled under makeshift plastic covers or just thoroughly wet.
My toothbrush broke in my hand. It was a sentimental moment as I had bought it with a tube of paste in Ghana. That country was so over-the-top about its religion, that the toothpaste was called ‘PRAY’. Later I bought a replacement toothbrush at a small stall without testing it. Made in China, it has a handle that is so flexible that one cannot direct it onto the teeth. But at 1 Birr, I should have known, although I wonder why they manufacture and export these things that do not work. A shopkeeper, from whom I had bought a few items over the weeks and with whom I enjoy spending time, assured me that Chinese products are getting better. When he travels regularly to Dubai to get his stock, buyers are ever more frequently shown better quality stuff next to the famed tatty imitations seen all over Africa.
I packed my bathing costume, bottle of water and book. The Ghion Hotel is about two miles down the road and the sun was warm.
Tried a new café for coffee and cake and they charged me ‘ferenge’ prices; 5 Birr for a cake! Still very cheap though, so although I might sound outraged, I take it as it comes. Just to remind one, coffee originally came from Ethiopia and is still of the best and a major export. The Italian occupation (1936-41), was not successful because, contrary to what Mussolini had hoped, the Italians themselves did not want to settle in this country. The country was not developed as a result and there are Ethiopians who still wish the Italians had remained because they look longingly over the Eritrean border at where that country flourishes. However, the main legacy of this period is the cafes. Coffee (or tea) and cake is part of life here and I thoroughly support the custom!
Churchill Avenue is the broadest (6 lanes) of the major roads in Addis and divides the city. I often walk down this road and am always confronted by the beggars and homeless occupants of the quiet side-roads. At any time of the day one can see bodies just lying on the road, asleep. It looks like one of those horrible war-photos of slain people, although these are alive and just soaking the warmth of the tar road before having to find shelter during the afternoon downpour. In my early days here, when I asked someone where Churchill Avenue was, they would often be confused because they do not really know roads by their names. So they would direct me to the nearest church (geddit?). But the road-naming is very confusing in any case. My original hotel road has now acquired its third name within a few years and it depends on the age of the map, or where road signs have been placed or left, whether one in on Jomo Kenyatta, Haile Selassie or Ras Makonnen. Most of the roads have now been given the names of African countries because this is the diplomatic headquarters for Africa.
My route took me past my ‘friends’ at the small shops which sell coffins and funeral ephemera. Friendly waves and ‘come in’ signs greeted me. I spent some time there once admiring the soft velvet covers, the gaudily printed cotton ones, the intricately carved wooden and plastic-coated varieties. These coffins are amazingly colourful and the insides very comfortable. Shops selling a certain type of item cluster near each other and this is how I got to know that part of Addis shop-life.
Children were kicking a ball in a side-street and when it came in my direction, I kicked it back. A young man walked up to me and accompanied me down the road. “I liked the way you returned that ball” he said. “Are you interested in football?” I knew Chelsea was playing Liverpool and Arsenal, Man. United later that day. The young man told me that they would be showing the matches on the big screen in the square at the end of Churchill Ave. Meskel Square is where all the big celebrations take place and I could see that young and old men were already streaming toward it. Some had girlfriends in tow. My informant spoke very good English because he had been one of the SOS Village boys. This organization runs homes, schools, workshops and so on for orphans. As usual, he gave me his name and telephone number.
Further down the road another young man joined me. His was a sadder story. He came from the countryside and had been a student at the university a few years ago. At some stage a person (now a minister in the present government) had arranged for some of the students to come together for a ‘meeting’ and the police had then rounded them into vans and taken them to prison. He was first accused of anti-government propaganda three months later. Repeated prosecutions with no evidence finally ended with his release after 1yr and 11 months in detention. As his poor parents could not afford the costs of sending him back to university, he is now drifting… We were accosted by young men selling tickets for the screening of the football matches. 3Birr each. I was tempted, but already the clouds were forming as I turned in to the Ghion Hotel which is Government-owned. It is delightfully old and has a romantic feel about it. It is ideal for unpretentious International Conferences and I had been there a few times to get information. I was expecting something at Reception, but nothing awaited me. Then I was told that the person I need to contact is actually in his office and we had a chat and I explained what I required. Good, I could pick it up on Tuesday when I was in the area. “Would you like some tea or coffee?” But I declined as I wanted to swim. It was also a pleasure to find out that I could change money in this Hotel Bank as I had been told that the Sheraton is the only place. One always needs to consult a lot of people before really knowing what the situation is! I left for the swimming pool area. Watching the families enjoying the pools and children’s rides, I decided that I was too late to really enjoy the swimming. Clouds were forming too quickly and I felt sorry for the packed Square of football fans who would soon be soaked.
Back on the road, I crossed over to a row of shops and restaurants where I had eaten before. Just as I settled in, the rains came. This time they were more prolonged and after my Injera and wat (mutton stew), I passed the time while the rain persisted, with two cups of tea. Had started to read ‘The bookseller of Kabul’, so, as usual, never bored. Lunch = 12 Birr.
Further up the road, I visited one of the few supermarkets in the area. Bought 500gm yoghurt, 2 bread rolls, 500gm cheese, 2L water, a cucumber and lettuce. 33 Birr.
Across the road from the supermarket I had earlier noticed a mimosa tree tumbling out of the gardens of the French School. It was in full bloom and I could not resist ‘stealing’ some of these lovely sprigs of yellow puff-balls. The name, Addis Ababa means ‘the New Flower’ and refers to queen Taitu’s vision of these flowers when she decided to establish a town here in the foothills of the Entoto Mountains. Today Addis is more famed for its eucalyptus trees. Shortly after being established just over 100 years ago, the king started to plant these quick-growing Australian trees to supply fire and building wood for the expanding population. They cover all the surrounding hills as well as open spaces in town. There is a strict embargo on the gathering of wood. Women are members of the Wood-Gatherers’ Union and their work is efficiently controlled. They are not allowed to pick or cut off any wood and can only gather fallen branches. So one travels past these immaculately cleared forests and sees the women stagger downhill with enormous bundles of firewood, bent double under their weight. Anywhere else in Africa it would be carried on the head, but here in Addis I have not seen any head-carrying. And there is none of the frenetic selling through taxi/bus windows or on the sides of the road. There are individual sellers, but they are generally static. Mostly little boys and girls run around trying to sell packets of tissue paper or chewing gum.
As I neared the top of the road I was enthusiastically greeted by a pottery-seller. He had been hounding me for weeks and I had steadfastly refused to buy any of the lovely black pottery ware (“My mother makes them”). In the end I had succumbed as it was too beautiful to ignore. The coffee pot is pure design and a very pleasing shape on my chest of drawers next to a vase of flowers. I can lie in bed and get pleasure from the combination. I also bought three ‘dishes’ of varying size and they soon contained fruit and pencils, paper, pillboxes and the like. All very satisfying. However, the coffee pot has a rounded base and I did not realize it at the time. This was a good opportunity to buy one of the cloth rolls made especially for the hot pot to rest on. A bit of banter about him selling me a dud and we made the transaction at his asking price. When one gets to be familiar with someone it is more difficult to bargain.
I turned into Gen. Wingate Road. How many Ethiopians know anything about the man? I had never heard about him, but he was the British commander who routed the Italians in 1941 and thus restored Ethiopia to independence from colonizers once again. Although so many of the other streets have changed their names, Churchill and Wingate are still important to the Ethiopians. I recently read a tome about the Italian occupation and its author is probably the best-informed person to do so. At least his credentials are impressive. It helped me understand the reasons and consequences and also to be able to counteract some of the claims Ethiopians make against the Italians. The most frequently voiced argument it that, when Gen. Grazziani, who was in charge of the occupation, was injured during an assassination attempt, he took his revenge and killed 30,000 Ethiopians. The author says it was between 3-4,000 people.
Passed a bar and was amazed at how full to overflowing it already was and the Chelsea/Liverpool match would only start I an hour’s time. At a hotel near my own, I again investigated the situation. Every spare place taken up. I decided to wait for the Arsenal game. After all, I live near their grounds and am traditionally a fan as a result. And of course Francis grew up as a devoted fan. All along the road I had been bantering with the respective fans and stood out clearly for my team. So support was necessary.
In my hotel room, I did a bit of reading, had something to eat and wrote a few postcards. Then off to see the Arsenal v Manchester United game. It was an hour before kickoff, but I managed to just squeeze in after paying my 3 Birr. I stood at the divide between the tented Billiard Room where about 130 people were squashed in and the main hall where there were at least twice as many supporters. The two normal-size TVs were full of sporting news. Being a woman with a white skin really can be advantageous and after a short while a man waved me towards himself where he was against the furthest wall and I struggled across legs and bodies to get where he had cleared a space for me. The room has one window, but as non-paying fans could peep through it at the screen, the window was closed and I anxiously watched the rising condensation on the panes as the game progressed. For good reason I thought of Health and Safety Regulations in the UK and the small open spaces provided for the slaves in the Slave-Forts along the West coast of Africa. There thousands died of suffocation before they had a chance to be shipped off. However, for the next over two hours, apart from standing for the half-time break and madly jumping about and being hugged, doing high fives and shaking hands when Arsenal scored the only goal of the match, I was physically immobilized. My credit was high as I live near the grounds and of course my team won!
We streamed out of the rooms and I returned to the main building of my hotel where I could order a pot of tea and watch TV. Athletics this time. And for somebody who knows nothing about sport, it was quite a sporty evening!

Monday 18th September

Rahel and Hilda in the HFHE Office

The walk down Mundy Street to the office of Habitat for Humanity Ethiopia is quite a treacherous undertaking. It is not one of the original main streets in Addis and was tarred only much later. But it is narrow, steep and the traffic is heavy. An important bridge down Wingate Street has been damaged and out of action for weeks. This is not likely to be repaired in the near future and as a result the traffic on Mundy is even worse than usual. One would not mind it so much if it was not for the fact that Addis vehicle owners have never heard of clean oil filters or whatever one needs to allow a vehicle to operate efficiently and each vehicle spews out the most awful black soot. On both sides of the road are deep cement gutters and the space between them and the tar is minimal with stones and puddles impeding any straight progress. One is constantly hopping from the road onto wet grass and stones and then back when a car needs to pass. I have to negotiate this road every day and it is quite a nightmare!

Work, if this is what writing my blog means, is very pleasant. At the moment the National Director is in South Africa at a conference and there have been other pressures on the relevant people in the office, so that I am unable to continue with what I have been doing. Approval of the Manual and Leaflet proposals has to be sought and I have to be patient. They have therefore said that I might as well do my blog.
I brought salad stuff and cheese for our lunch. Rahel and I often share a meal like this as we are the only ones in this room. Melkan, the cleaning lady, makes the tea and coffee and does cooking for people. We just ask her to go and buy fresh bread rolls if we need some. At first I really disliked the idea of having to have to ask her, as I am perfectly capable of doing it myself, but it is regarded as her duty and one does not interfere. Melkan is am obsessive cleaner and the wooden floors are constantly washed and polished by her sliding on them with old woolly rags under her shoes. She made a lovely salad and only then did Rahel tell us that it had been decided that it is ‘staff luncheon day’. We piled into the office vehicle and went to the famous old restaurant where one can have baths in the naturally warm spring water. And a massage if necessary. I am determined to indulge…Outside are tables and umbrellas and I can imagine that the place is very popular in the summer. It is Government-owned and the drilling machine, from which drilling I assume they are trying to get another hot spring, has been idle or desolately pumping for weeks. Govt. employees are poorly paid and do not see the necessity to work hard. The food is traditional and one goes to the back of the building to wash hands before eating. Six of us sat around a vast platter of Injera on which the waitress emptied various dishes of meat and vegetables. It always looks very attractive, but within no time, the different foods have merged and the eating process when one tears off pieces of Injera to wrap around a piece of food, has made a complete mess of the whole plate. But I was once assured that this is the way they like to eat: all mixed up.
After work I walked down the road towards the Hilton Hotel. But first a coffee and cake. OK, I am getting fat again… This was a new café and as I waited to be served, a woman spoke to me in perfect English. She is the daughter of the owner and works for UNICEF and was rushing off to an examination. But our short conversation elicited an exchange of names and addresses. She went off and her mother had a chat and then a young man who had been listening, joined in. It was a spirited political discussion (he does not think knowledge of history is important) and I had to cut it short to get to the hotel on time. But every Monday from now onwards, I shall have my coffee and cake there.
Monday evenings at 7pm is the time for the Addis Ababa Bridge Club. They have been meeting in the Hilton Hotel for over thirty years. Because numbers have dwindled and the hotel wants to keep the club there, they give us reduced-price drinks and provide a wonderful spread of food and snacks for nothing. The last time I was there, before the New Year Celebrations interrupted the flow, we were only two tables. This time, there were three, which seems to be the norm. The members are ex-pats; French, Italian, Indian, British. I asked if Ethiopians ever came and they remembered one who came years ago and who subsequently went to live abroad. The Indian chairman who gives me a lift back after play stops at about 11pm, says he has been in Addis for over thirty years but is still regarded as an incomer. Reminds me of the Yorkshire Dales where Dick and I bought a run-down property in 1971 and despite the fact that we were involved in the village, we were/are still always regarded as incomers. The waste of left-over food disturbs me. The waiter said they just throw it away. So I asked for a ‘doggy bag’ and took it back to the hotel where the security men at the gate were delighted to have pieces of tasty meat. Ditto for the reception where I collect my key and then the security men who sit outside my building. They finished it and the next day I was still hailed as a hero with many ‘thanks’ being said. The security men by the side of my building always amuse me. At night they take up a position on two very broken plastic chairs and do not seem to move after that. The one is huddled behind a vast blanket and only his eyes can be seen and the other one has a thick parka with padded hood into which his head shrinks. As I go past, we always exchange pleasantries and they then retreat into their warmth.
Good to see that the breadcrumbs I had left out that morning had all been pecked away by the birds. I do not know names, but pigeons and sparrows are joined by some very colourful garden varieties. At the office, the security men have virtually tamed the wild birds which they feed in the entrance courtyard. Some eat off their hands and there is a particular pigeon which is quite a character. The other day I watched him sit on a pole, completely exposed but oblivious to the tremendous downpour of rain soaking through him.
The rainy season should be coming to an end within a fortnight, I have been assured.

Tuesday 19th September

Margaret had emailed that she might be coming over between 10th -18th October. So it is now a good opportunity to start investigating the tentative prices and options for a tour of the historic sites in northern Ethiopia. That is where the ancient civilization of Axum had its centre with the most amazing stelae (the second tallest was taken by the Italians and has now been returned) and the incredible Orthodox Churches which are carved out of stone, can be seen. I do not think anyone can imagine what they are like unless one actually sees them. Then there are the amazing 17th century stone castles in Gondar and the still-inhabited monasteries dotted on islands in Lake Tana where the Blue Nile has its origins and its gorge can be admired (had it been in America, it would be teaming with restaurants and helicopter pads). All to be seen and explored!
There are two travel agents in the hotel environs and I had decided one was good enough, so went to them very early and chatted to the manager who gave me different options to consider, depending on the time we will have available. He was in a hurry and offered to give me a lift, so we jumped into one of the very comfortable 4x4 vehicles with their driver-guide. The manager had a meeting with the minister of Tourism in the Sheraton Hotel. Then I realized why my appointment for that morning with the Tourism Director at the school for Tourism, had been postponed. She was at this meeting too. The driver then dropped me off at the Ghion Hotel to collect the ‘conference information’ I had been promised as well as to get some money. The latter was an easy matter and I safely tucked the 500$ worth of Birr into my rucsac. The information I had requested was not at the reception desk as promised, but I finally tracked down the Banqueting Manager where he was having breakfast. This time, after getting the piece of paper with not-very-detailed-information (how on earth do they ever run conferences?!) I agreed to a cup of coffee and we could finally relax in each other’s company.
Afterwards, the official Government tourist agency which I visited was not very impressive with their prices and I did not think would be any more efficient than the private one I had seen that morning. But they advertise themselves as the ‘best’. What I did learn though, is that the local airline has two prices; one for residents and an exorbitant one for tourists. There are great distances between the sites and I need to work out whether we travel by road or fly.
During my flight to Addis from Sierra Leone, I had read in the in-flight magazine about a ruined church carved out of stone which is in a remote area far from roads. It is one of the furthest south of these intriguing churches and is about two hours’ walk from Addis. I hope to visit it with Felik on one of our Saturday exploratory walks, so went to the airline office to get a copy of the magazine. They kindly obliged and I could finally get to work!
My work on the Manual has been approved by two managers here. They did not want to change or correct anything and seemed pleased with what I had written. Maybe I should have put in a deliberate mistake to see if it would be picked up. I am suspicious when something is approved without corrections… It now awaits the National Director’s approval.
After work, there was just enough time to walk up the hill towards the Alliance Françoise buildings. Felik and I had explored the place the previous Saturday and I had already looked at their cultural program. They present regular art exhibitions, shows, films and theatre for adults and children. Most of these activities have an English base or subtitles. Their monthly booklet is well-produced and one can have delicious food at the cafeteria which is set amongst lovely gardens. The gardener will be having an open day soon and will conduct one around it. What a contrast to the British Council building! No gardens, not very informed staff, no cultural activities and just a café in the internet/TV/newspaper area. Enough comparison! It was time for a film of a delicious modern French farce. Utterly absorbing and in the closing minutes, there was a brilliant cameo performance by Hugh Grant. I was happy.
It was dark and I asked a man emerging from the theatre if I could walk with him towards Churchill Ave. He introduced himself as a professor and talked about his engraving work and imminent (when he gets a visa) departure for Canada and then a job in a small town in Wales (Llan something or other). But as we talked and he went on, I began to wonder…? He said, “I British Citizen” in his broken English and then said he could not speak French. He gave me his email address (what’s new?!) and I agreed to be in touch. Something did not quite gel.
Walking alone back to the hotel, I was very pleased to realize that I am beginning to be recognized and accepted. It would mean more protection in these dark streets where young men gather and can be intimidating. The men jokingly called at me ‘Manchester United!’ and awaited my return with ‘Arsenal!”
In need of sustenance, I decided to eat in the hotel. What they call a ‘mixed grill’ really is a huge plate-full of meat of all kinds; some more tough than others. I missed the taste and texture of a sausage though.
The TV was showing the opening speeches at the United Nations Assembly. Talking about the UN and AU forces in Dafur, reminded me of the airport in Accra. I was following a group of about 80 Ghanaians in jeans and ordinary clothes who were being escorted up to the last gate, by gun-wielding soldiers. I asked what it was all about and was told that they were AU soldiers on their way to do a year’s peacekeeping in Dafur. They were calm and at ease with themselves. What a contrast to the same scenario about 18 months ago at Shannon Airport. I had been to Ann’s cottage on the west coast of Ireland for a weekend and we were waiting for our flight to be called. The departure lounge was crowded with USA soldiers in their desert fatigues returning to Iraq after a two-week break with their families. They had been through it all in Iraq and were reflecting the anxiety and fear of their return. After kissing goodbye and wondering whether, at least knowing that some of them will not return alive, the air was filled with their unsettled state. I did not like it.

Enough of this ‘diary’ business. Following another’s life can become very boring for others. If you were interested, you now have an idea of how my days are spent…. Adieu!

Ethiopia

Ethiopia


At Lagos airport, I was quite upset to have to give up (no doubt to be sold in the market the next day) an innocent little spoon from SA Airways which Margaret had given me. It was inside a plastic container of glucose and was in my small rucsac. I am all in favour of security at airports, but really would love to know that they are actually working. In my bum bag, at the same time, I was carrying a metal nail file, metal whistle, metal nail clipper set and knife with a metal blade that goes through the wooden handle and sticks out for four inches with a sharp edge and pointed tip. I had forgotten the restrictions on carrying these things and would normally have put them in my large rucsac. But the electronic screens did not pick them out and I innocently carried them through security. The Queen has the right attitude about security. If they are going to get you, they are going to get you and there is nothing you can do about it.
Security in Ethiopia is very prevalent and one is inevitably ‘searched’ when entering a building. I am used to it, but have my doubts….Dad’s metal whistle, which is quite large and all-metal, fits neatly between my stomach and upper leg when I wear my trousers. It has never been picked up by the body-searchers or metal detectors. I am sure one can usefully use that indentation if one is intent on causing problems… I watched about 3000 people being ‘searched’ when we were all entering the National Theater the other night and just thought it a bit of a waste of energy. So many bags could have held parts… But it does not stop the Ethiopians from enjoying their cinema or theatre outings. Unlike the British/USA airports which are now probably putting people off air travel altogether.
To prevent me from having to translate all the time, the national currency is the Birr (100cents) and 15Birr is equal to 1 UK Pound or 8.9 US$. In ordinary cafes a cup of excellent freshly brewed coffee (this is where coffee originally comes from!), costs 1.5Birr. Tea costs 75cents, a Coca Cola, 2.5Birr and a piece of cake 2Birr. But if you are a ‘ferenge’ (white skin), you might be charged more or some cafes have aspirations…. But let’s face it; we can afford a bit more! Entrance prices for the cinema vary according to whether a film is locally produced (15Birr) or only in English/American (5Birr). The Ethiopian cinema is alive and well and I have seen some excellent films.
Having crossed the continent from west to east, it was a pleasure to arrive in Addis Ababa and experience the high altitude (2.500meters) and clear air. They say it can take up to three weeks to acclimatize. It is the rainy season, but there are generally only short bursts of heavy rain. I deliberately refuse to carry an umbrella as it gives me a chance to shelter in a doorway where I would never otherwise have stopped. Thus I can talk to people and it works out well. On the second day here, at about five in the afternoon, I was going to the cinema when the rains came down. I chatted to a young man and he told me that it was Haile Selassie’s birthday and that the family was gathering for a celebration that night. Would I like to go along? What a great opportunity! Although it was early, it was OK to go to the house, so we got a taxi and arrived at a house where some young girls were already in the mood and dancing to loud traditional music. They were very sweet and I chatted to them through one who spoke quite good English. We discussed the types of dances, the traditional dress from the various regions and the studies they were undertaking. I danced with them and they showed me how to do the amazing shoulder-shake which is part of their routine. As the Ethiopians are thin and tall, they do not have so much bottom, but even in their dances, they can match the West African ‘bum-dance’ (called Apalogo in Ghana) and the head-dance is something to be seen to be believed. The head is rolled and the hair goes flying and you think the two will be severed from the body during a very active dance. I bought the young man and myself some of the traditional Ethiopian ‘mead’ drink and later, after they had done the whole coffee ceremony for me from the roasting and grinding of the beans to the brewing and ceremonious pouring of this wonderful dark liquid which originates in this country, I offered to buy the girls some drink too. Four more bottles. I was told a bottle costs just a bit more than a coke. Two hours went by and we all seemed happily awaiting the other family members, when the man who had served the drinks, came in to say that he was going off duty and could I please settle the bill now. 420 Birr. It was only the equivalent of 28 pounds sterling. Scam!!!! Only then did I realize that I had been the innocent victim of a scam which I subsequently found is very common (OK, I do not have a guidebook in which it is described). Being a big lady, I rose to my full height from the cushions by the wall and loudly proclaimed, “This is OUTRAGEOUS!!!” He replied, “You can pay in dollars if you do not have Birr”. I just rose even more and with an even louder voice told him that I refuse and he can have 10Birr for the coffee and my drink, but that is all. And I marched out. I think they were a bit stunned and one of the girls ran after me in tears and repeatedly said, “I am sorry”. So I got out of that scam without too much loss of face or money, although I fear a more gentle stranger would have been intimidated and paid up. This is what happens to hapless men in Soho in London, so nothing new.
I walked home to my modest hotel with its row of rooms overlooking flowers and shower/toilet around the corner. I’d been there two nights and was happy. I asked the receptionist at the desk to give me 500 Birr from my kitty in their safe that night as I paid for another night. One of the permanent residents is a (very rich, according to the staff) middle-aged woman who could be speaking quite lucidly one moment and then suddenly walk off in a huff or get aggressive. Next morning I went off to have a shower without locking my door and when I returned, my purse had been neatly emptied of its contents. How stupid can one be?! We knew who had done it, but I accepted the situation and asked for 500 more Birr from the safe. I was off for my first day at work.
That afternoon, maybe a bit tired from the unaccustomed discipline of sitting down and enjoying the company of a small office, I walked down the road to get a taxi-bus back to the hotel. It was rush-hour, so I patiently waited and then decided to get my taxi-fare ready. The purse in my hand was very firmly and accurately grasped and a supremely attractive young man just sprinted off amongst the traffic across the road into the alleyways. I forlornly tried to follow but obviously could not keep up with the famed Ethiopian physique. And it did not occur to me to bring out Dad’s whistle in my pocket; exactly the reason why it always lays there. A very kind lady, who witnessed the incident from her car, took me to the police station and after many minutes of confusion and paperwork, it transpired that the incident had taken place in another police precinct. The fact that the man had crossed the road into their area of authority, did not count. I was finally driven to the other station by them and the two police stations’ personnel had more talking to do. It was interesting for me to see how they operate and the buildings they occupy; do not ask about the toilets!!! (In the main police station in Lome (Togo), they slept/ate in the main charge office, so one cannot be surprised). We ended up by going to the scene of the crime. It was dark and for ages I sat in a vehicle watching eight policemen with guns hang around. And hang around. I was finally put in a taxi after 2 1/2 hours. There was no way that the youth would be caught, but they had to go through the motions…
So that is the story of my 24-hour crime wave. Now I carry less money less conspicuously and look into the eyes of passersby. And since then I have only had kindness and friendly help.
Ethiopia is famed for its ancient history. It is mentioned in the Bible and features in the stories of the Queen of Sheba and the Axumite Kingdom and is seen in the remains of ancient Orthodox Coptic churches and monasteries. All these mentions are brand new compared to the fact that modern mankind’s ancestors (Homo Idaltu - meaning ‘elder’) came from the rift valley system 100,000-300,000 years ago and that the skeleton of ‘Lucy”, the oldest known humanoid to walk on two legs (3.5million years ago), was found here and is displayed in the National Museum. ‘Lucy’ was discovered in 1974 and given her name from the Beatles’ song, ‘Lucy in the sky with diamonds’. I never knew that. See what travel does to the mind!
With nine museums to explore in Addis alone, you can understand that I was hungry for some ‘culture’ after the lack of accessible history in West Africa. But it does not mean that all displays in the museums are to the standard we in Europe and the USA are accustomed. There are still glaring omissions and dirt and decay to contend with (but not as bad as in WA museums…). I was amused in the National Museum here by the oft displayed notice: ‘Shooting all works of art with a flashlight is not allowed’. However, the thing that has delighted me is to find that the locals are very keen on the theatre and cinema. There are four cinemas and three theatres within walking distance that I know of. Fortunately I can usually find someone to go with me to translate or the film is in English or subtitled. And Traditional dance does not need an interpreter. Once only, before a performance, I heard an announcement with the word ‘mobile’ in it. Not that it puts anyone off keeping their mobile telephones on. In the dark auditorium on can constantly see flashes like blinking stars as their owners check the time or the name of an incoming caller. They happily chat to whoever has ‘phoned or they themselves have contacted. Once only so far have I seen a cinema usher remove a man who had been on the ‘phone constantly throughout the film. The audiences are enthusiastic and cheer and clap when the man and woman finally kiss or the baddy has had his come-uppance. During dance routines they clap and stamp with the music and I find myself doing the same.
Another place where I really let my hair down and jumped up and down with the crowds was at an inter-African football match between Libya and Ethiopia. It was the first of the season. Someone from the office had asked me if I was interested and we met 11/2 hours before the match was to start. Those 90 minutes were as full of entertainment as the match itself. The warmer-uppers were dressed in colourful costumes (often the Ethiopian flag of green, yellow and red) and they all had their stands to enthuse against the others. They were full of the most amazing contortions and dances and the responses from their crowds matched them in inventiveness. My companion is a loyal follower of the local St George Team. St George is also the Patron Saint of Ethiopia (England, Turkey, Portugal…) and the match was being played in their stadium. It is the largest in Addis and the owner is Sheik Mohammad Al Amoudi (‘long may he live’, as the large banners around the stadium declare). When the teams stood for their National anthems, the Libyan one went on for so long that the 40,000-strong crowd began to slow-clap it. The very small supporters’ stand must have felt humiliated. Then we waited for our National Anthem to begin. And we waited. And we waited. And we waited. Someone must have lost the tape because the crowd eventually began to sing it themselves. However, they were interrupted as the game had to start for the sake of the TV audience. Thank goodness we won 1-0.
Sheik Al Amoudi is the 46th richest man on the planet, I am told. He has Ethiopian origins but has made his money through Saudi oil. Not only does he own the National Stadium (which he is rebuilding), but he owns vast tracts of land and buildings in Addis itself. A massive glass skyscraper has recently been completed at the bottom of the hill and he is developing a very large tract of land a block away from my hotel. This is the centre of the old town and it will have a very large supermarket and all the other things which go with these developments. Sadly, the run-down but human character of the area will change, although a small men’s clothing shop owner, with whom I chatted whilst avoiding a rainstorm, told me that he thought it would do his own business good as many people will avoid the hyped-up prices. I hope for his sake that is true. The building most associated with the Sheik though, is the Sheraton Hotel. It is about 5 years old and its luxurious opulence has to be seen. It really is one of the greatest hotels in the world. The swimming pool snakes amongst the foliage and can give one good exercise without one having to make a turn. At night the place lets me down although it no doubt attracts the lovers of Disney or Las Vegas. Bright coloured lights blink and flash continually from the vast building and the elaborate gardens and parking lots. One has to get used to the fact that there are thousands of beggars with appalling homes or shacks or streets to sleep in whilst thousands of dollars are spent in a second in this place. I have to go there to use my Visa Card to get my dollars/Birr and thus justify the use of their toilets.
The sheik is also the owner of Pepsi Cola. This drink is not quite as popular as Coca Cola, but if you are given a free refrigerator, you are not going to object. Except that, if you will not easily be caught out (as we found in the hills above Addis) you will stock it with Coca Cola. Because Sheik Al Amoudi supports the current government, he is not popular with many and I have witnessed people refuse a Pepsi when they have asked for a Coke.
Addis was established just over a hundred years ago amongst swift-flowing streams and on hills just south of the Entoto mountains where the original royal town was. But the climate is better, water is plentiful (except in my hotel, but that is another story) and there are hot springs for one’s enjoyment and relaxation. One of the original but still very presentable hotels has a very large swimming pool complex where, for a relatively modest charge, one can swim in the warm, sulfurous water. There are also traditional hot baths where the locals go. The high altitude makes for clear air to breathe and I feel very healthy here. Although the temperature is cool and I have had to buy a cardigan, I sleep with my French windows wide open. Soon the ‘winter’ will be over when the rainy season stops. Funny to think that we are in the Northern Hemisphere, yet, when the rest of the northern world is enjoying summer, we are having winter.
When Addis Ababa (originally sometimes spelt Abeba) was laid out, straight roads divided it into squares or followed the contours around the rivers. The hilly bit where I stay was the ‘centre’. Between the broad streets were little ethnic villages with broad paths which have stones laid like cobbles. Although they are not as smooth as cobbles, they are roughly passable and occasionally a car ventures down one. At least this means that the roads are static, whereas the roads in West Africa were all make-shift and totally impassable and full of holes or stones and detritus.
My guilt at not giving alms has not been resolved. So many people are constantly bombarding me for alms that one has to be circumspect. Here at work (Habitat for Humanity Ethiopia) we have a very strict code of not giving anything but one’s labour and I am glad to adhere to it. But it does make living in Addis very difficult. I have never seen so many beggars. Whereas everyone in West Africa (always take this with the pinch of salt it deserves---I am only speaking of my very limited experience there) was seen to wear plastic shoes and the washing of clothes was obsessive, here I am suddenly confronted by barefoot people and very dirty clothes. The colder weather means people being wrapped in tatty blankets and huddling against buildings. The ‘hovels’ some have constructed against walls, are ingenious but humbling. And these plastic and stone structures are not just in the main roads; if you venture into the side streets (the way I found HEHE offices when I offered to work for them on the spur of the moment), you can glimpse the most varied structures where one just does not want to believe that actual human beings live. Poverty was not as blatant in India when I saw a bit of that country. Having flown from countries where clean feet are an obsession, I now recoil from the dirty feet and all the illnesses and deformities one cannot imagine. Sarah in Lagos was going to go north as part of her remit to assess the spread of Polio there in the mainly Shi’ite area. When the WHO (World Health Organization) had just about eliminated polio a few years ago, the local mullahs prevented further inoculation and the disease has spread once again. I think something similar probably happened here in the north-eastern area of Ethiopia, as I am told that most of the deformed beggars come from there. Or at least form the rural areas. But maybe I am wrong, as I have not seen young deformed beggars, so the disease may have been halted. But what one does see, is lots of little boys all over the place. There are a few who hang about near my Hotel and I occasionally give them an orange or banana or small bar of soap from the hotel, but others who do not know me, will persist in asking for 1Birr, just like the many women with small children and the very many blind and crippled adults. Early one morning I watched a Muslim shop-owner who had just opened his shop, come to the doorway with a handful of small coins which he then handed out to the gathered group of beggars. That may be one way of doing it.
It reminds me of my stay in Mopti in Mali. We would eat by the roadside and soon there would be a gang of little boys with empty tins standing behind us. One does not finish a large plate of food and once one’s hunger is sated, one gave the half-eaten plate of food to a boy who would promptly empty it into his tin and return the plate to you. I asked about these boys and was told that, contrary to what one thinks, they are not homeless, but have come from the countryside to learn the Koran. They are given sleeping quarters by the Mosque, but must beg for their food. I still have to learn to live here in Ethiopia with this ever-present problem.
However, one must not forget the opposite side of the coin. There is a lot of money around as well. The tickets to the New Year Festivities (7th Sept. according to the Ethiopian calendar) at the Sheraton Hotel were 1000Birr each and the place was packed with thousands of customers! The majority of ordinary people do wear shoes! They are generally leather ones as well. This is the time of year when the very many small shoe-shine boys are extremely happy. The rain and mud everywhere causes shoe-wearers to constantly have them cleaned – whether it is to have mud removed from their shoes and muddy trousers with the dirty water from the boy’s plastic container or to have a bit of shine with polish. Hides are one of the country’s main exports and during on of my rain-shower stops, I entered a shoe factory and was shown some very well made all-leather shoes. They are exported to Italy, so when you praise Italian shoes, you might be talking about Ethiopian-made ones.
I suggested to the very accommodating staff at Habitat that I find a hotel closer to the office. They suggested the Taitu. As I have not read the travel guides, I did not realize that it was where I should have been in the first place. The backpackers’ heaven! It is the first hotel to be built in Ethiopia. When king Menelik 11 and his wife, Taitu, moved down into their new town with its hot springs at the end of the 19th century, they encouraged governmental visitors. But accommodation was scarce and thus the idea of a hotel was born. It was inaugurated in 1907. The king came to stay and pay in order to encourage others in this new practice. Today the hotel shows its age but manages to function in a way. There are two restaurants and one can watch TV in three lounges and outside, the cascading gardens have chairs and tables. Many clients are tourists on a small budget. I love the old wooden interiors and its air of age. My room is on the first floor in one of the four separate blocks from the main building and although I have a basin, the toilet and shower are down the passage. But the room has French doors which face the setting sun and open onto a large wooden balcony. It overlooks a car-parking area with buildings beyond. A new 7-story building is being constructed to the south-west and partly obscures the sunset, but I love lying in bed in the morning to watch and listen to the sounds of the workmen beginning at about 7am. One can see them clambering all over the silhouette of the rickety scaffolding and hear them give instructions. This is two hours after the muezzin has called the faithful to prayer and the many different birds (whom I have naughtily encouraged with crumbs) start their chorus. I would not change a thing.
The first day I took up the room, the cleaning lady, called Tsehaye (meaning ‘the Sun’) was there to welcome me. Poor woman did not know what hit her! For 1.5 hours we cleaned the room and brought in a carpenter to release the large 3-drawer chest of drawers. The cleaners generally only wipe the floor and make the bed, so the idea of wiping above the door and cleaning the walls of finger-marks, was quite foreign to Tsehaye. Or maybe they are just paid so little that it does not matter. But the group of cleaning ladies is a very cheerful lot and we are now firm friends. Every day they have their communal lunch on the floor at the end of my passage. I had a bunch of flowers which I had brought from my previous hotel. These were soon in a plastic bottle and Tsehaye was so pleased with this that she immediately went out into the lovely, slightly neglected garden and brought me more! Since then I have always had three ‘vases’ of fresh flowers; on my chest of drawers, my table and my bedside cabinet. And having a decent reading lamp is the epitome of luxury! Every day my bed is made with fresh linen sheets and a fresh towel and soap/toilet paper distributed. Compare to many a concrete floor-bed in West Africa! I do not use all the soaps, so have been giving them to beggars. You can see that I am very happy with my room, although this part of the hotel suffers from water shortages and one does not always have cold running water. I bought a bucket and bowl for clothes-washing and when there is no cold water, I run off the boiling hot water and add cold from the large bucket the women always leave in the shower room. Thus one manages. And when I feel like it, I can go to the main building for my showers. I mention all this because the cost of the room is only 46Birr per day!
At ‘work’ for Habitat for Humanity Ethiopia I have been updating the Manual which is sent out to potential volunteers. This has involved many hours at the Govt. Statistical offices, pouring over all kinds of heavy-going charts and dry summaries of statistics and projections for the future. Each one, when I query the findings, comes up with slightly different figures and it was a minefield to negotiate! But I have also had to learn the history and customs of the people of Ethiopia and still hope to go to the various sites where houses have been constructed. It will also be a pleasure to help build, although there are no projects planned for the near future. I was invited to meet a returning group of volunteers from Northern Ireland at their farewell dinner and their enthusiasm for the work was very infectious. The office has kindly included me in their activities and at this moment I am groaning with a full stomach after one of their regular staff meals in a traditional restaurant. I have also redesigned their little publicity leaflet, but as both projects await official approval, I am work-less and they have kindly allowed me to type my blog in the office. Hence all this endless chatter.
One of the staff members, Rahel, has a brother who is a student of Tourist Guiding. We meet every Saturday and ‘do’ things. It is fun and I am glad to have an interpreter with me. We end up by going to the cinema in the evening and his translating skills are well-used!
Despite the promise of better internet facilities in the country (and on dare not say too much about the present government which has all the opposition leaders and journalists in prison), the service is very slow. It has been impossible to open my blog in order to put stuff on it or, despite the attempt, the typed stuff has not been printed. So the office here has kindly let me type this and then send it as an attachment to Ingrid’s email address. I hope she can transfer it. Well, if you are reading this, she has managed it!
If all the above seems negative, don’t take notice…. This city is so vibrant and the people so kind that it is a pleasure to be here. I have not regretted my decision to stay here for a while for one minute. If you can afford the time and money, do visit! And I will happily be your guide.

Sierra Leone and Nigeria

This continuation of the blog is a bit delayed as I am slowly settling into a life of 9-5 office work. Living in Addis Ababa is a daily joy. Yes, there are endless beggars - far more than in any other place I have been to – but one is more accepted and not constantly required to smile and say hello to every passer-by. There are many cinemas and theatres; I can get books from the British Council and the museums are superb. I love my old hotel room where the cleaning lady makes sure that I have fresh linen sheets and towel, new soap and loo-paper and fresh flowers in my three ‘vases’ every day. It is many years since I did not make up my own bed …..


It all seems so long ago…….

Sierra Leone:

Arrival at the Freetown Airport meant getting a helicopter (there is a remote and erratic ferry service to the other side of town) to fly over the mangrove swamps and lagoon to the city itself. Evy and her French Intern, Nico, met me and we negotiated the 3 mile journey south of Freetown to the Environmental Foundation for Africa Offices and purpose-built accommodation unit. It is the worst piece of road I have ever encountered. On average it took 45 minutes to cover the distance and one always emerged shaken to pieces! Naturally, the money for the re-building of the road was allocated a long time ago, but it has disappeared as is so often the case. Some Swiss Bank account and expensive overseas school is benefiting instead. Corruption is so much part of African life that everyone just shrugs shoulders and will probably do the same when the opportunity arrives.
Evy and Nico spoilt me and it was a great pleasure to be able to just walk out of the security gates with the 5 dogs and go for a swim in the sea across the road, or to walk endlessly on the beach or in the many paths amongst grass or cultivated fields in the countryside. One day when our neighbour and I were walking the last mile back from a visit to Freetown, I was just about to use the usual short-cut through the grass when she said that she never used it. I asked why, and she replied ‘snakes’. Just then, in the road, a long snake came slithering past. This is part of living in Africa and one does not jump away. Live and let live, I say. It reminded me of Malawi in 1960 when I was staying on a lake-side beach in a grass hut built for an earlier visit by the Queen Mother. One morning the resident snake introduced itself. Unlike Oscar Wilde, I was not going to succumb to a choice of who has to go. Being a female, it is easier to compromise and I just went for a long walk along the beach to give it some space (as we say these days!) and returned to the hut. We lived together happily ever after…
Rural people are flocking to Freetown and endless ‘illegal’ homes are being built without the provision of the standard infrastructure of roads, water and electricity. The hills are being denuded of ground-cover and erosion is soon a problem. Urban problems are multiplied. Sadly, the need for sand for making bricks is in demand. The lovely beach sand is an ideal and cheap ingredient for these bricks. Over the last few years, endless large ‘sand trucks’ have scooped up the beaches. The result is that the homes, restaurants, swimming pools and tennis courts of the beach owners have slowly but inevitably been undermined by the lack of sand on the beach. They are forlornly abandoned and crumbling into the sea. While I was there, we had a full moon and high winds, so the tide was very high and most of the locally-made beach umbrellas, firmly installed outside bars, were ‘uprooted’. It is a very sorry sight, and although it is now illegal to collect sand, I saw various stealthy removals going on when out walking.
Evy was making a film about the lack of water in Freetown (in our area we were lucky to have it every second day) and I was fortunate to be able to go out with the film crew and see places which no tourist would normally see. In these overcrowded, unhygienic and unplanned environments, it is quite humbling to see how people manage to keep healthy and clean. Water is a very heavy commodity to have to carry over distances in any situation.
Nico had been in hospital with malaria at the same time as I was in Accra and Evy had her 4th bout while I was there. I began to feel weak one day, so went to a pharmacist and told him that I think I have malaria. He loaded me with medicines and sent me home. Next day Evy watched me vomiting and said that it is not malaria, but typhoid. So off I went to the clinic and missed an eagerly anticipated trip to inspect the dwindling water supply in the reservoirs because of the lack of tree-cover on the hills. I was collected from the Clinic that night after having had 4 IV drips. It amused me to observe the way the place was administered: the usual lack of water, paper or soap in the toilets; my separate room with mosquito net dangling from a piece of string with drying washing being used by the nurses as their changing/store-room; the complete lack of contact with the staff unless one called very loudly for attention; the cavalier way veins are probed; the disregard for instructions (I thought I would time a drip after I noticed that the instructions said it should be administered for at a minimum of 30 minutes. It was emptied in 7 minute). Despite our precautions with inoculations at home, typhoid is so prevalent that it is just part of the scene, as is malaria. Both Evy and Nico had typhoid after I left despite the fact that they only drink sachet water.
Freetown is a ramshackle place on hills, full of bustling taxi-life, beggars with amputated arms (the rebels would invade a village and do the usual unspeakable destruction and offer men ‘short sleeves or long sleeves?’ before amputating the arms/hands), badly neglected roads, overstuffed tourist shops where no tourists go, run-down bars and hotels and many buildings still burnt-out or pot marked from bombing. The war with the rebels is still too recent for tourism and the present authorities do not regard it as a potential money-earner. During the war, which was mainly in the north and around the rich alluvial diamond-producing areas, there were all kinds of activities going on. Evy gave me a book (‘Blood Diamonds’) to read and it was disturbing to find out just how many illegal diamonds, which are adorning peoples’ necks and fingers, are the result of unspeakable atrocities. Interestingly, a few months before 9/11, there was an upsurge in this illegal diamond production. It transpires that Osama Bin Laden knew that his assets would be frozen, so he decided to convert his funds into diamonds. The American Embassy is next to the famous Slave Tree in the centre of Freetown. As it has had to do in the peaceful environs of Grosvenor Square in London, it has had to take over half of a very busy street in order to put up barriers around the building. Although there are quite a few high-rise buildings in town, none of the lifts/elevators work and are permanently sealed off. Well, you would not want to be stuck in there when the electricity goes off as usual. At the EFA we had our own power generator.
As Evy’s organization (EFA) is involved in the care of the National Parks, she kindly decided to show me one of her favourites. It would normally be impossible, given the state of Sierra Leone’s roads, to get anywhere near them with public transport. She cleverly negotiated the need to go with the Head of the Biological Sciences Dept. at the University (and his girlfriend) and the PR man from the Tourism Board. Meetings were set up with the local Chieftains who all expect many tourists to soon descend upon their villages. The 12 sq mile Island of Tiwai on the Moa River is a subtropical paradise with 12 species of primate, chimps, numerous bird species, a great variety of plants and the rare pygmy hippopotamus. It was necessary to check the camp-site and research laboratory buildings which had been rebuilt after the war. The rebels had destroyed them and many of the animals, but the guides told us that the animals are increasing in numbers. The relatively short journey of about 140 miles would take up to12 hours. We set off, laden with food, in a Toyota pick-up. Three in front and four squashed in the back. Boy, was it an uncomfortable journey! Late at night we arrived to be ferried across the river. At the campsite our erected tents with foam mattresses were awaiting us on their platforms and there was water in the ablution facilities. The whole week-end was a delight and although we did not see many animals during our guided walk (left rather late in the morning!), one was aware of the fact that they were there. The island is cleverly dissected into a grid pattern with paths at right angles to each other and small tags on the trees at intersections giving one a ‘site reading’. Thus one could not get lost in the thick undergrowth of such a marvelous natural forest. One afternoon there was a meeting with the local Chieftain and I elected to remain alone on the island. This was a good opportunity to wash my clothes. For two hours I walked about naked and must have frightened the monkeys; there I was, with dark brown arms and shoulders and similarly dark legs. In-between my flabby torso is white. As I walked along the paths, I no doubt I looked like a new species of panda to them.
My dark arm against the white torso reminded me of 1952 when I was 12 years old. The Nationalist Government had just been establishing its Apartheid regime and even books like ‘Black Beauty’ were banned. We had moved to a new town and the summer was spent in the local public swimming pool. My skin was very very dark from sunburn. One afternoon there was a prize-giving at school and my mother attended. I had to go onto the platform for something or other and that night my mother told my father about the proceedings. She said about my appearance; “I was ashamed”.
We returned with even more goods piled under the tarpaulin. As we were traveling through the rice-swamps area (rice is a national food), the driver could not resist getting bags of rice and large containers of oil. No doubt we also had quite a few bottles of palm-wine, the local drink. Evy had bought a few bunches of ‘country’ chickens for our own use and to give as presents, so these squawking bundles also added to the inevitable pile.
When it was already dark and raining, we came to a halt as a nut in the engine had come loose. Because the road was wet and potholed, there was no way in which it could be retrieved a mile back in the dark. No suitable nuts with similar thread could be found. Eventually, miraculously, the driver found the nut embedded in the engine! All he needed was a small piece of wire with which to secure it. I produced a paperclip and we could set off again... Evy reminded me that, years ago, Francis and I were driving her and a friend in the streets of London in my little Citroen 2CV. The engine broke down and Francis set to to find the fault. He needed a small piece of wire. Evy produced a hair grip and we could set of again…
Three weeks of bliss had to come to an end and I decided that the hassles of trying to go down the West coast of Africa were not worth it. I have seen enough slave forts and related sites to last me. There is not much more than bad roads and rain to contend with and I am not particularly brave enough to fight endless bureaucracy. A change of scene was called for, with the result that I decided to go east. Ethiopia had always fascinated me with its incredible mountains, the Rift valley, ethnographic (the birthplace of mankind) discoveries, Biblical references and recent (last 1600 years) religious buildings. Addis Ababa has 9 museums…
To fly to Ethiopia involved an overnight stay in Lagos. I had long ago decided that there was no way in which I was going to go to Nigeria. The stories of aggressive demands were too apophrical to ignore. And then I decided that I cannot be quite so prejudiced and that I should give it a chance…
A ticket to Ethiopia with a week’s stay in Lagos was purchased.

Nigeria:

An ex-driver from EFA who had bought one of their old vehicles and was intending to convert it to become a taxi-driver, offered to take me to the end of the bad road on the outskirts of Freetown, although he was not licensed. We left very early with Evy and Nico giving us a push to get started. I suggested to him that he made some more money by picking up some of the many people who were already on the road trying to get to town. Soon we were full to bursting and he kindly let us all off where we could get other taxis. I needed two to finally get me to the Ferry where one had a relatively cheap crossing to the airport.
On the ferry a young man came to me and said that he had been one of those early am passengers. One of those co-incidences I am getting used to…. He said he was seeing off his ‘sister’. In this case, from the church and not a relation. He introduced me to her and her husband. The husband is a Lawyer working on the prosecution of Charles Taylor (ex-premier), in The Hague. She is a medical doctor with a two-month old baby, so was using her maternity leave to return to Lagos to stay with her mother. Dr. Harriett (Hettie) had vast amounts of luggage and I helped her with it and the baby and we had a very pleasant flight to Lagos.
That day her mother had moved into her new house which had taken 5 years to build and which was still not finished. But she wanted to give Dr. Hettie space and I was generously invited to stay.
The house is huge. Built in a north-Lagos area where one had to go through security gates and where every house is behind vast walls with razor wire or broken glass (and has its own security employees as well), I was in awe. The house needs endless things done to it, but at least it is dry and we each had our own bedroom with plug-less basins and Jacuzzi baths. The impressive staircase with marble fittings needs to be finished off, but money is tight and the mother only builds when there is some. The beds were enormous, but this reflects the African way of life, I think. Wherever I have been, people share a floor space or a bed with other members of the family and large beds, if one can afford it, are the norm. In ‘my village’ in Ghana where I had the use of a house, my bedroom was filled with three large double beds and nothing else. But living in Lagos has its drawbacks. We were lucky to sometimes have running water. When it did appear, the security man filled a large plastic drum on the first floor. We could then take basins of water from this for our body and clothes’ washing. I could not imagine the baths ever being filled. Nor is there a regular supply of electricity. Just as one can ‘flash’ to somebody on a mobile telephone so that it costs nothing, but leaves the sender’s number, the Lagos inhabitants are now saying that the Electricity Supplier is ‘flashing’ them to remind them that it still exists. It is erratic and most of the time I was there we sat in the dark. My torches were in great demand, but when I bought some candles, they were rejected. “Mother does not like candles”. So I bought more torches.
The youngest daughter has just graduated and was the Chairman of the organizing Committee for the Graduates’ Dinner-Dance. One of the daughters-in-law had been given the catering contract for over 300 people and throughout my stay, as we had no cooking facilities, mounds of food would appear from the caterers and we would often sit in the dark on the first floor landing eating with our fingers.
The mother is remarkable: She has ten living children and started off selling things in the market to support herself and the children. She has ended up with quite a few luxury coral jewelry shops in Lagos. During her expansion, she flew around the world many times to buy her stock and it seems, was a great character in her flamboyant clothes. Dr Hettie’s wedding photos show her festooned in coral. Each one of the children is either a doctor, mechanical engineer, lawyer or accountant. They live across the globe. It was explained to me that this drive is why Nigerians have a reputation for forcefulness which the other African nations do not have. Judging by my short visit only to Lagos, it may well be true. They do not have the diamonds of Sierra Leone and the maladministration of the oil-fields is very ‘African’, but they have established themselves in many overseas countries and Lagos has a dynamic buzz to it which I did not find in Togo, Ghana or Sierra Leone. How one makes ill-informed judgments!!!
The other person sharing the house with us was David. David is a sweet 8-year old boy, but lacks confidence. His father, a lawyer in the USA, took responsibility for this illegitimate son. However, he was cruelly neglected when his father’s new wife totally rejected him in favour of her own two sons. The grandmother therefore took him into her care. I tried to encourage him to talk and play games, but he was always careful to be there to obey orders. Dr. Hettie said he must work. “Children must work in our society’. So he was endlessly ordered about to fetch water, food, nappies, and lamp or to answer the door. The mother spent two whole days sorting out her clothes. This meant rolls of cloth of the most exquisite designs and the wraps that went with them. Each would be unfolded, admired, the dirt-marks commented upon and then rolled tightly again. I could imagine how she ‘wowed’ the Europeans and Japanese on her overseas trips. Upstairs in the penthouse flat, was the most emormous bed I have ever seen. Five large adults could easily stretch about in it. David was given the task of taking the rolls upstairs and carefully placing them in rows upon rows up and down the bed. Eventually the rolls were piled high on a large sheet on the floor as well. I did a count of what I could see and think there were at least 2000 rolls! During the four days I was there, I went to church (a very large Baptist Church with much waving of arms and singing enthusiastically) on the first day with the mother and she was beautifully dressed. However, she wore the same dress for the next three days. I comment on this, not so much to show how David had to run up and down the stairs all the time, but to remind me about old age and the fact that I will no doubt do exactly the same. One gets into habits and feels comfortable in certain garments. So it is easier to stay in what is familiar. I have told Ingrid to leave me, when I become more impossible, in my own surroundings and no matter how much the authorities think that I would be better off in a clean and sterile Nursing Home, I know that I would rather remain in my familiar, if somewhat unacceptable to others, environment.
One day I took David with me to explore the surroundings of this new house. Each of the palatial houses has a high wall with the usual razor wire or broken glass on top around it. Behind one of the large steel doors we could hear children laughing and obviously kicking a ball. I suggested we make contact. After knocking on the gates, the kids opened it and we introduced ourselves. I explained that David has just moved in around the corner and could he perhaps one day come and play with them? They were very welcoming, but said that they would have to ask their father. Of course. David was very excited, but back home it was a matter of ‘you stay here and you must not leave us alone as there is no one to open the door’. I wonder now if he ever goes out to play (we met up with others too and one day one of those boys came to the door to play and was sent away because David was busy…) or whether any of the family play the card games I taught him or read to him from the books I bought.
Isolated in this vast house with elaborate staircase, Jacuzzi baths and marble everywhere, one was vaguely aware of Lagos beyond. Outside my bedroom window I could look down on the neighbour’s yard. There is a large swimming pool which has probably never seen water and the filthy generator room spews out soot and makes a loud noise all night. Just about as bad as the frogs outside my room in SL! Otherwise I was isolated from the vast city of Lagos with its wonderful bridges connecting the islands and its skyscrapers (I assume the tall buildings all have their own generators). But Lagos is also a city of endless shanty towns tucked in everywhere. From one of the bridges one could look down on the stilt village in the water below and I determined to visit it. The population is vast and the roads are crowded. It is not like Lome with its masses of bicycles, or Freetown with its endless battered taxis, but has reasonably well-maintained taxis and frighteningly athletic motorbikes. These moto taxis have shortened their handlebars so that they can get through even more narrow spaces between cars. Thus balance is a bit dicey, but they are efficient (if you close your eyes!) and I later enjoyed using them very much.
I was short of Nigerian money, so we popped into a taxi and went to the moneylenders. These were supposed to be unofficial, but we ended up in a crowded area where there were rows of tiny booths. Outside each sat a Muslim dealer with wads of notes in his hand and an inviting gesture with his other. “Change here”, was the cry and you did not have a choice to bargain because they all agreed the exchange rate that morning and stuck to it. Later I used an ATM machine in downtown Lagos and it was heaven! To just tap in a number and get crisp notes!!! Up to now, getting money off my card has meant complicated journeys to the right Bank, endless waiting in queues and for officials to make calls to Nairobi, which seems to be the Banking Centre for Africa, and then waiting to get the money after signing lots of forms. After I lost my temper in Freetown when they refused to give me money (Nairobi said I had none) and they told me to telephone the UK from outside, they were surprised to find that they could actually do it themselves and that I could have as much as I wanted….
Dr. Hettie and her family were wonderfully hospitable, but I had a contact who invited me to stay with her. I left the palatial home and went to the airport to meet Kat, who was arriving from Port Harcourt where she had been interviewing rebel leaders, kidnap moguls, oil workers and goodness knows who else. She is a journalist and used to share a student house with Francis at Leeds University. We had been keeping in contact and it was good to know that we could spend some time together. It was utter bliss to go into a flat where the electricity generator took over when necessary and there was always running water and hot showers. The refrigerator was full of ‘Western’ food and the cooker worked! Best of all, books and newspapers littered every room in the flat (bliss, even in the loo!) and there were TV and video facilities and a Broadband computer connection. She shares the flat with another journalist colleague and his girlfriend. I must confess, I was thrilled to be in this atmosphere. Conversation was exciting and ongoing and one night we went to a bar, met up with other journalists and then went to a nightclub where I enjoyed dancing in the darkness to loud music. I think we got to bed after 5am. To listen to Kat deal with incoming news and then to hear her discuss and finally file her copy is quite riveting. There had been further dramas in the oil-rich Delta region and she had to make many calls to the rebel leaders, police and military chiefs and her stringers (“get as close as you can”, “try to find out how many bodies there are”, “do not get shot at”, “I owe you a drink”). I was thoroughly spoilt.
In the bar I met Sarah, a lovely English worker who, from her NGO headquarters in Senegal, had come to investigate urban matters inter alia in Nigeria. She needed to see the area around and in the stilt village and so I was a willing hanger-on the next day when we went there with one of the local journalists from Kat’s office. We drove around, interviewed and were accompanied by the local leaders on walks which took us into the heart of some of these shanty towns. The good thing to know is that, although it all looks like chaos, there is a very organized social system with a hierarchical order of command/responsibility within each small community. We then hired a small boat and set off amongst the houses where people have managed to build their habitation in the relatively shallow water. Women maneuver their boats amongst the houses with their wares and selling goes on just as it does in the streets. The only problem is that there is not a live thing in the water because all effluent is just dumped overboard. It is quite funny to watch little children unselfconsciously expose their bottoms at you while they defecate into the water. You are amongst the turds and just have to accept it. Kids swim in the water and even the smallest are deft at handling a boat. The stilt village is vast, but I do not know its population size.
My ‘fish research’ always means that I am going to places I would not normally go to. I hired a moto-taxi one day and we went from fishing area to fishing area in search of live fish. In one place, an isolated fishing community cut off from the distant skyscrapers, a young boy kindly threw a net especially for us. He would walk into the shallow, polluted and detritus-strewn verges of the lagoon and deftly throw a round net onto the surface of the water. We managed to get a few small fish, but the vast array of different types of fish at the fish market, were too dead for sampling.
I would have loved to spend more time in this dynamic city where the drive of the Nigerians has isolated them from the rest of Africa. They are thought of as aggressive by many and I was under that impression myself before going there. I only found kindness. I left Nigeria humbly asking forgiveness for my prejudices.