Map of Ethiopia / Carte d'Ethiopie

A chat on chat / Un tchat sur le khat

He didn't board the well-stuffed minibus when it left Harar, but rather signaled it's halt just beyond the cities limits as we headed in the direction of Dire Dawa. His luggage was typical for the region; a tight bundle of sticks and leaves tied firmly with banana leaves and straw, shaped like some Neolithic horn of a giant sea monster, or like the humble chrysalis of Mothra (for those who enjoy such B-film references). He sat near the driver in the only available seat, eyes glossed and fixated on some inexplicable point of abstraction somewhere on the other side of the windshield. His bundle was put into the trunk by one of the men, and we began moving again. As the saying goes, "don't hash your stash" seems entirely applicable to this small time vendor of the local treat (drug) chat (sometimes qat) who was too stoned for the one hour trip to notice that immediately the other passengers began ravaging the vessel, pulling twigs and handfuls of leaves in the plenty, then nonchalantly mashing away the bitter green bits till there was little left of the product when we arrived. Luckily for him, he was still too stoned to notice that his bundle was any less than when he entered. Not even tipped off by the mosaic of half bitten leaves which where peppered over the entire bus.

Chat is a lesser known drug in most of Europe and the Americas seeing as it is not only illegal in most countries, but not as good a high as more common "drugs" which one would have to pursue the same complicated measures to attain. Essentially you take the fresh leaves and chew them (the same flavor one would expect from chewing fresh maple leaves) releasing the juices into your mouth to be swallowed. The high is, in theory, rather mild (not much more than a nicotine buzz) and the amount one generally chews to even achieve this peak effect is astronomical. But the region surrounding Harar in Ethiopia's eastern provinces are world renowned for the strength of their chat. in fact it is nearly the only past-time of many of the ancient cities inhabitants. From young sporty hooligans to elderly women, the whole city sells and chews while lounging about the stone streets for the better part of each day and night. By the end, there are certainly those (particularly if they have combined their days sun basking and chewing with a little local alcohol) who exhibit clear signs of madness and aggression from the drug. Men flailing their arms wildly at unsuspecting pedestrians, or raving hysterically to themselves as they lay in front of trucks driving on unlit streets. But this doesn't seem to deter even the military from offering us a flavor of their pride-filled local export (even more powerful in the region than their peanut exports).

But fear not dear readers, if you are traveling near Harar and someone offers you a chew, your biggest fear need be whether you have access to your toothbrush to remove the lingering taste. The more extreme effects seem to be rooted in a complex web of social circumstances (under the rule of integrated unconscious expectations) more than potency of the leaves themselves.

Assis à l'arrière d'un minibus qui s'avance vers Dire Dawa à l'Est du pays, deux jeunes ne cessent de piquer dans un ballot fait de paille et de feuilles de bananes posés dans le coffre du véhicule. Leurs dents sont verdâtres et ils ricanent comme des enfants. Comme un grand nombre d'homme de la région, ils sont de ceux qui passent leur temps à mâcher des feuilles de khat. La petite feuille verte oblongue est cultivée dans la région ainsi que dans les pays de la péninsule arabique et d'Afrique de l'Est (Yémen, Djibouti, Somalie), le terme écrit aussi qat ou kat vient d'un mot arabe qui signifie arbuste. Ce dernier est apprécié pour ses dites vertus euphorisantes et stimulantes. Peut être est - ce à cause de la chaleur mais les mâcheurs que l'on reconnait facilement à cette grosse boule d'herbe calée au creux de la joue ont l'air bien plus somnolents qu'euphoriques. Mâcher du khat est une véritable activité sociale, on se retrouve entre amis, petit sachet rempli de feuilles à la main et on s'installe tout en mâchant laissant ainsi passer le temps. L'activité est surtout masculine, mais il arrive de croiser des groupes de jeunes filles elles aussi touchées par les effets de la drogue, comme un adolescent  après sa première cigarette.

Les feuilles doivent être consommées 24 heures après la cueillette, alors, dès le lever du soleil, les marchés se remplissent de vendeurs de khat qui parfois sont les premiers à consommer leur marchandise. Bien installés sous un parasol, les sacs entiers ne tardent pas à disparaitre. Le commerce du khat est lucratif et le produit cher, pour deux trois heures de khat il faut compter environ 20 birrs, à titre comparatif, un repas coûte environ 7 birrs. Les échoppes d'Addis sont toutes ornées de ces paniers faits de feuilles de bananes où l'on conserve la feuille tant appréciée, les consommateurs sont nombreux mais restent discrets. A Harar, les mâcheurs s'installent à chaque coins de rues, dans les cours des maisons que l'on aperçoit au delà des portes laissées ouvertes. Alors que pour certains le khat est un véritable fléau qui éloigne les hommes du travail, pour d'autre il n'est ni plus ni moins mauvais qu'une cigarette. Le khât, petit plaisir interdit dans la majorité des pays européens.

The descent / Vers le Sud

The horizon forever faces south: solitude on the “unforeseeable”

Often in the throws of such travel, one chooses not the routes to take, but simply marks destinations with sloppy circular blue markings on their Michelin then proceeds to connect the dots. We've been, until this point, remarkably blessed in such chance decisions. Roads can be difficult, dangerous, and even non-existent in regions of little development; a fact which becomes more concerning as we descend equatorially early rain season. But this is a tale of voyage which would be incomplete and sadly lack-luster were it without a muddy lane and smoky trail depreciating the poor snout of some haphazard bus mid jungle.

We are well adjusted at this point to such frequent pauses as flat tires (particularly common on the rocky slits spiraling the high peaks of Ethiopia's landscape) and hourly (and humorless) armed road stops. But generally speaking, our expectations of “African” roads has been met by an entirely unanticipated preparation on the part of drivers for such familiar setbacks (another example of how under-developed inner fantasies allow our suppositions great disappointment in fieldwork – where oh where did “primitivism” hide). Normally only seconds after a problem has been detected, the drivers and any male accompanying the trip leap from their seats, descend, and gallantly slay the source of concern. Rarely are these stops for long enough to fill a single journal page. But there there are exceptions to these auras of luck which seem to have traveled with us thus far, there are days which overwhelm ones motivation to continue. Our journey south from Addis Ababa marks an extended period of unmanageable bad luck, which finally completes our testimony of hardened expedition.

Of these blue circles scattered about the face of our trusted map, the only two (of particular importance which landed between Addis and the frontier of Kenya were Asela and Arba Minch (both which contained orthopedic and prosthetic rehabilitation centers funded by the ICRC – part of a project ongoing). There are not many choices of direction reaching either, both being parallel to the main roads, so the travel line was forged with few considerations in mind. Asela is only 160 km from the capital, a mere 70 km past Nazareth, and the roads are all paved, clean, flat, and wide enough for buses to drive on. Somehow, still, it took nearly five hours to reach (a reality which has yet to settle upon any memory of causal rationale). This is, I remind my dear readers, after sitting needlessly in wait, seats full and motor running, in the parking lot of the bus station for two hours. Apparently there had been a “choosing straws” system of bus scheduling around the time we boarded the bus at 5:00 am, and our driver must have picked the shamefully inadequate straw. The remaining savior of the Ethiopian personality caricature is that they can patiently sit still, quiet and with the pervading air of attentiveness with implausible ease. I on the other hand, am not so obedient by nature.

After the usual argument when leaving a bus in this country,

“This is not your stop, get back on the bus!”

“This IS my stop, thank you, but please release my bag.”

“NO! Shashemene (or Bali Mountains, or any other tourist trap) is not for four more hours.”

“Is this Asela?”

“Yes”

“Then let go of my bags!”

We strategically crossed the street to find a room directly facing the bus station entrance. This technique of hotel browsing has a number of clear benefits for travelers such as Eugénie and I. Firstly, regardless of the distance a bus travels, nearly all buses in Ethiopia are scheduled to leave between 5 and 6 am, so we buy ourselves a bit more sleep if we need only cross the road. Also, assuredly the hotels near the bus stations will be full of prostitutes for the lonely traveling laborers who are accustomed to dirty rooms and no bathroom or running water, making the rooms significantly cheaper than the hotels closer to the commercial centers. Finally, most bus stations are surrounded by local market vendors simplifying the early morning search for grilled chickpeas and bananas before a long trip.

It would be untrue to say that Asela is an interesting town. In truth, there is literally no reason for someone without business in Asela to go for a visit. But, perhaps for this reason, it was one of the most livable and pleasant towns in our travels throughout Ethiopia. Every street in bloom with University students and couples, pop music smearing from one block to the next, and a pleasant mood infecting the air. Even as the soft sky hardened and singed with electricity, the terraces flooded with content bodies. It became our first “rain season” downpour, knocking out the electricity and turning the unpaved streets to a smooth red stew swishing to and fro in every direction.

It wasn't till we awoke to the muezzin in the morning, a sound so at the core of our journey which we had missed dearly in Ethiopia which is predominantly Orthodox Christian, that we could reflect on how the power outage might affect our work in the town. Since the machinery and lighting were down; we would have to spread our work at the center out over the course of three days. When not working we spent our hours exploring the markets, and speaking with the regulars at our preferred tea shop. It was a muddy but lovely weekend getaway in this lost town. We discovered that it was impossible to travel directly to Arba Minch however, not from Asela at least. We had planned on meeting with the managing director of the center in Arba Minch on a Thursday, but would have to reschedule to Friday as we were leaving Asela at daybreak Wednesday, would have to stop in Shashemene for the night, and continue from there the following morning on the bumpy trek to Arba Minch.

Shashemene is most famous in Ethiopia for it's enormous (though fairly unimpressive) market (being the stopping point between the major border town to the south, Moyale, and the capital), and most famous in the world for being the figurative Mecca for Rastafarians (and the last remaining bastion of evidence of the Rasta movement in Ethiopia). It was a depressing layover, a dirty town, and an uncomfortable social scenario for farengis who are not particularly known for being popular amongst the inhabitants. In reality, it was a fairly typical Ethiopian town (with few to no rastas still there), and it was a clear indication to both of us that we felt ready to be moving on to the next border swiftly.

Arba Minch was constructed in the valley beside Lake Abaya, the invisible boundary of the tropics storybooks define as the African climate, we had yet to fully experience. The humidity rose immediately as we arrived to town, the vegetation lusher, and the tribal colors exploded with the palettes of fruit and bird life. The unrestrained banana plantations and jungle surrounded us and the sky buzzed with torrents of storks and gigantic vultures. The lake sits languid as a puddle of oil, protected all around by thick greenery and mountains.

Sellers of dripping mangos hoard the bus-side of the road. For one birr, and bushels of the world’s finest mangos on stand-by, they do not lack customers. Enter Arba Minch, a relatively touristic town at the gateway of the South. Most visitors here come for it’s close proximity to the famous tribes who wow their tongue dangling audiences with their abilities to walk across the backs of cows as if they were mere stepping stones (a spectacle, I promise you, we did not partake in). Most tourists come equipped with their 4X4’s to maneuver slyly the torrents of rain season and the harshness of the terrain. There were certainly moments when I envied such luxuries. The children from the region, whose reputation had been vocalized often to us before our arrival, was dead-on. Between the thrown stones, the crass English vulgarities yelled constantly to your back, and the unending annoyances, we would eventually leave this place earlier than expected just to be rid of their company. It’s a good thing Eugénie knows the age-old fear tactic of banging on shanty doors and pointing the children out to their mothers. I could hear the screaming a valley away.

We continue our journey to the mountains in peace. In Ethiopia, the collective-consciousness and educational-rearing of children is dismally absent. Mostly, when an adult is present during a moment of morale opportunity and lesson giving, she/he does not react to the misbehavior or verbal abuse of a child of five years old. Instead she/he responds with a big smile, "He is a normal child, you know." In no other country we had crossed thus far was such behavior nearly as tolerated (least of all from youth). But that is not to say we did not spend a wonderful afternoon stroll in the mountains with the better seeds of the village. Upon our arrival to town (and a few detestable incidents on the street) we quickly booked a bus towards the south.

To reach Moyale from Arba Minch, the border town to Kenya, Konso is a necessary pit-stop along the way. Unfortunately, that doesn’t mean it is an easy one to leave, once you stop. There is a market twice a week in the town, and there is only transportation leaving on the two days following the market days. That would mean Tuesday and Friday. We arrived on a Saturday and spent our first five or so hours on the road hoping a single car would pass which would take pity on two hitch-hikers in the rain. Unfortunately, as everyone from town had already explained to us, this was impossible as not a single car passed on the only road out of town. A couple days later, after long negotiations and too many teas under the tropical showers, we managed to catch a ride in the back of a large transport truck bringing cereals from the market. Eugénie sat with the driver and two other men who chewed chat silently for the whole trip. I was laying with two laborers upon the heaps of cereal: watching the rain pass with distance, the sun coming out as flocks of children and tribal herders fought for my attention from the back, the sun falling and the brash drone of wind through the plastic cover of the lorry giving way to deep reflections on the country we were soon to leave behind. The rainfall during the day had flooded the dirt roads making the ride a slow and dangerous one. It was sometime just after midnight when the truck broke down and we stayed stranded until the following afternoon in the desert.

The desert here was redder than those we had crossed before. There was evidence of large animals and migration, termites and bright spotted turtles. It was a lively desert, though a frustrating wait. Finally a truck came with a replacement tire for the one which was irreparable, but only five minutes on the road, it blew again. When a caravan for local workers passed another hour down the line, the driver arranged us a smooth finish to our voyage towards Moyale (a town which is spilt halfway between Ethiopia and Kenya). We spent our last evening in Ethiopia saying our goodbyes to Injera and surprisingly “winning” against some black-market exchangers. Little did we know, that this back-and-forth of good and bad luck would continue for the next week as we crossed into Kenya for yet another long and tiring and dangerous truck ride, just after being the VERY FIRST tourists who paid the new half priced visa fee (a rule which the office was faxed while we were waiting for ours).

Vers le Sud, petits moments de solitude sur la route du Kenya

Nous quittons Addis Abeba après un mois de bons plaisirs. Notre route se poursuit vers le Sud en direction des villes d’Asela puis d’Arba Minch où nous sommes attendus pour visiter des centres orthopédiques de la Croix Rouge Internationale. Ces deux localités n’étant pas sur la route principale, nous avons bien conscience que le parcours risque d’être alambiqué. Rejoindre Asela située à 160 km de la capitale est notre premier objectif ; notre premier enfer. Sans aucune raison apparente le bus part quatre heures après notre arrivée à la gare. Le véhicule étant presque vide le trajet est confortable, les quelques passagers ont malgré tout du mal à se convaincre que nous ne sommes pas là par erreur. Les premières pluies de mousson surgissent sur la route et inondent les environs. Asela est l’unes de ces villes sans grand intérêt. Située loin des lacs qui font la réputation du Sud du pays, elle n’attire pas grand monde. Dans la rue principale pleine de vie, les enceintes s’affrontent à grand coup de musique pop. Le ciel d’un gris ténébreux menace la ville, pourtant il y a du monde aux terrasses. La région est majoritairement musulmane, le son des muezzins nous avait bien manqué.

Rejoindre Arba Minch est une autre affaire, une étape à Shashemene située à trois heures de route de là s’impose. Shashemene est connue pour être un haut lieu de regroupement de rastafaris. Ils sont aussi réputés pour être odieux envers les blancs « ces vilains étrangers » venus ici en quête de vibration rasta se faire prendre en photo avec de vieux bonhommes à dreadlocks. Autre mythe de voyageur, ici il n’y a pas plus de rastas qu’ailleurs, ils ont été noyés dans une population croissante, la ville étant devenue un carrefour commercial depuis quelques années. Il va sans dire que dans la région l’électricité et les connexions internet laissent plus qu’à désirer.

Réveil au son du muezzin pour le bus. Comme souvent il n’y a pas assez de place pour tout le monde, les moins rapides reviendront demain. Les vendeurs de thé et de beignets encore chauds envahissent le bus, ils laissent ensuite la place aux mendiants et aux prêtres ambulants, il est cinq heures du matin. Nous nous avançons sur une route de campagne, quelques tronçons sont en construction ou en réparation, il est difficile de faire la différence. Le lac Abaya marque la frontière invisible des tropiques. L’humidité  monte d’un cran, la végétation devient luxuriante, à présent les plantations de bananes et la jungle nous entourent. Les marabouts, ces grands oiseaux perchés au sommet des arbres veillent sur les environs. Au loin le lac brille comme une flaque d’huile entourée de montagnes et de verdure. Les vendeurs de mangues rouges et juteuses se succèdent sur le bord de la route, vendues 1 birr la pièce, ces derniers ne manquent pas de clients. Arba Minch est une ville relativement touristique, c’est la porte d’entrée de la région du Sud réputée pour ses tribus tant appréciées des touristes venus à grand renfort de 4X4. Les cours d’eaux aux alentours sont encore secs mais avec l’arrivée des pluies, ces derniers ne devraient pas tarder à gonfler.

Les enfants de la région dont la réputation est déjà bien faite sont comme on les espérait, exécrables. Par groupe ils hurlent sur notre passage, jettent des pierres et surtout nous suivent sans cesse dans un vacarme pas possible. La solution adoptée n’est peut être pas la plus sympathique mais elle demeure, je vous l’assure, la plus efficace. Semer la terreur dans le village en hurlant quelques mots d’amharique et en tapant à toutes les portes est efficace. Nous poursuivons notre route vers les montagnes en paix. En Ethiopie, la conscience collective et l’éducation des enfants parfois trop nombreux posent de sérieux problèmes. Pas un adulte ne réagira aux insultes d’un enfant de cinq ans à votre égard, on vous dira plutôt avec un  grand sourire, « c’est normal c’est un enfant ». En Egypte, au Soudan ou même au Kenya la population ne laissera jamais un bambin vous adresser la parole de la sorte. En Ethiopie, la population n’est définitivement pas facile à gérer. Il est temps pour nous de quitter le pays.

Pour rejoindre Moyale, ville poste – frontière, il faut passer par Konso, ville au bout de monde. A partir de Konso les transports publics deviennent plus de rares, il est temps de commencer à voyager dans les petits camions Suzuki qui traversent la région chargés de marchandises. Il faut attendre 8 heures à la terrasse d’un café pour trouver une place dans l’uns des rares camions, on a de la chance, le notre a prévu de se rendre directement à Moyale, en principe. A Konso les pluies d’une intensité étonnante immobilisent la ville plusieurs fois par jour, on ferme alors les échoppes, les clients s’abritent dans les cafés où l’on ferme les volets. Plus rien ne bouge. Quelques minutes plus tard le soleil revient, le sol est devenu un sable mouvant et les torrents débordent à grands flots pour la plus grande joie des enfants. Notre camion embarque 3 passagers devant aux cotés du chauffeur et quelques autres derrière entassés sur les sacs de haricots, Seamus fait parti de ces heureux élus. De pneus crevés en pannes diverses et variées le camion n’avance pas bien vite. Après une nuit passée au milieu de nulle part faute de matériel, nous nous réveillons dans la savane parcourue par de grands troupeaux de bétail et parsemée de termitières rouges qui s’élèvent vers le ciel. Au bout de la troisième crevaison nous quittons le convoi pour un bus. Le véhicule fait office de navette pour les travailleurs et les marchands venus des régions éloignées. Epuisés, couverts de poussières et affamés nous arrivons à Moyale, toujours du coté Ethiopie. Pour profiter d’un dernier injera nous traverserons la frontière demain. Nous avons de la chance, dans la nuit, le prix du visa pour le Kenya a été divisé en deux.

Our Street: instants de vie à Addis Abeba

Addis in a breaths distance

Our street has no name, is unpaved and  reddish, and is one of those newly forged but temporary curves which jet from the large Haile Selassie Avenue which splits Haya Hulet district into two. Most street names (changed after the African Nations Summit) are useless as it is in Addis Ababa, since the population prefers the utilization of landmarks as directional's (ex: a street called “the door with the nose on it” because of a door with a wood carving that looks like a nose that no longer exists but the name has stuck). To get to our street, you simply have to take a bus that is going towards Bambi's (a sheik supermarket for rich Ethiopians and foreigners), then stay on until you near Axum (a hotel in the center of Haya Hulet), then after the ice cream sign, you take a left and then a right at the DYI Gym. Our house was just across from the electric fenced compound. Voilà!

The street, much as a microcosm of the city, was a poor arrangement of clashing genres. You might have a new mansion worth millions of dollars shading twenty bricolaged shanty huts with no water, electricity, bathroom, or beds. The street itself has no end, per se, but rather falls into a ravine full of squatters, though just before you reach this finality, you will pass three large villas adorned with state of the art video surveillance systems protecting their poor imitation marble copies of Italian art and reserve tank s of water. These are the palettes which disagree throughout the capital.

Across from one such mansion of the quarters, is our darling vegetable vendor. She is a kind and honest woman who raises her five children in a one 7' X 7' room tin hut with a 7' X 10' garden for income. She is unable to count so she relies on her eldest son of about ten years to decide on a price for the four tomatoes (some days less than others, though rarely exceeding 1 birr). Another favorite vendor of ours has a small shop near the gym. Though he rarely has anything to sell (and kindly directs you around the corner to another shop and tells you how much to pay). Most days we try our luck with his limited selection merely to converse for some time with him. He is of the older Ethiopian generation who had a strong early education and so speaks with great eloquence about his country which he is so dearly proud of, though critical as well.

Each wall lining our street is covered in naive while charming murals made to describe the activities of the community. The children's school with vocabulary lessons, shops with onions and soda, and the gym with weights and sunglasses (?). The walls which are not constructed of stone are usually sheets of rusted tin painted until bricks can one day be afforded. Pushing above the walls were the fine shading palms and flower bushes which likely pre-existed the construction of the area. And though the street is generally silent, the gym offers loud aerobics in the afternoons. There are NGO's to fight poverty and offer dental care at the end of my block. And despite the guards at attention hired by each villa, the elders of the community make it a habit to sit outside their doors all hours of the day to monitor the ongoing and traffic on the street. Shops usually have a telephone clients can use to call fixed lines, as well as a basket of freshly picked eggs to which each vendor carefully inspects for chuckling residue by holding the egg up to the sunlight before placing it into your bag. “Chat” (or qat) leaves are wrapped in banana leaf bundles and sold almost everywhere (even places that don't make sense, like photocopy shops) The ground is a menacing plain, fettered with stones, bumps, pudd les, feral dogs, begging children and discarded food and shoes. Impossible as it may seem, this fact does not deter the local women from marching its lengths fearlessly in high pin-point heels on their way to the clubs in Bole.  Addis, compared to most African cities, as shockingly clean (streets are lined with bins wearing moralistic slogans such as “it's your city, keep it clean”). The superfluity of bad Ethiopian music is apparently in high demand judging by the number of counterfeit music shops in our neighborhood alone. Their popularity is usually determined by the volume (and not the quality) they can pump their music out of their windows. Usually at such shops, you will find two or three men selling sunglasses and screwdrivers who will insist on walking with you for a few blocks afterwards. Just at the edge of our area is a small village made entirely of sheet metal where one can go to purchase the widest range nearby of bulk spices and cereals, and wear the neighborhood convenes to wash their clothing in the filthy, oily stream.

From our street, you can see the edges of the city in all directions marked by the plush green mountains surrounding. As the sun sets, the warm yellows of the sky blend into the soft colors of the surrounding buildings, the blue minibuses become less frequent and the night dwellers accustom themselves to the expensive taxis and need to be bodily searched as you enter any restaurant. The city is not dangerous at all, excepting your rare robberies (nonviolent), though the inhabitants of the city speak of this place as though it was impossible to survive after midnight. All the better for those of us who like a quiet walk at 2 AM only to return to our street where, at those sulky hours, the old men and guards have been replaced by packs of barking dogs emanating from behind each fortressed wall. But watch your step, for the most dangerous element we encountered on our street was the stones and their love of stubbing toes.

Dans ma rue, dans mon quartier : instants de vie à Addis Abeba

Ma rue n’a pas vraiment de nom, elle est l’une de ces ruelles poussiéreuses qui partent de l’avenue Hailé Sélassié qui devient Jomo Kenyatta à mesure que l’on s’avance vers le centre ville. Parce qu’un supermarché pour étrangers et riches éthiopiens est planté en son centre, c’est aussi la rue Bambis, du nom de l’enseigne. De toutes façons les habitants d’Addis ne connaissent plus les noms des rues depuis que ces dernières aient été renommées (avec les noms de tous les pays africains) à l’occasion d’un sommet international. Mon quartier s’appelle Haya Hulet, il se situe au Sud - Est de la ville.

Ma rue abrite autant de belles maisons à plusieurs millions de dollars q ue de petites cahutes en tôle. Etrange mélange des genres. Alors que certaines maisonnettes peinent à tenir debout, les belles demeures exposent leurs hauts portails parsemés de décorations en simili marbre. Ces dernières disposent aussi de systèmes de protection très sophistiqués et des panneaux ornés de têtes de mort fait pour effrayer le passant ou l’éventuel bandit. D’immenses citernes dépassent des toits, à faire pâlir le  voisin ainsi que nos hôtes qui n’ont pas d’eau et payent chaque matin un enfant chargé de ramener un jerrican. Des plantes vertes dégoulinent parfois des toits, elles laissent sur le sol des fleurs jaunes et rouges et quelques beaux papillons. Pourtant ces maisons sont tristement vides, les balcons à colonnes restent déserts, il faut sûrement passer son temps au bureau pour posséder un si beau bijou. De l’autre coté de ma rue se  dressent des habitations moins élégantes.

Quelques belles résidences ont quand même réussi à se faufiler entre les cahutes. Ma vendeuse de légumes habite avec ses quatre enfants dans l’une de ces baraques. Pour signaler sa présence il suffit de taper sur un morceau de tôle, l’un des bambins se précipite alors sur le petit stand en bois posé sur le sol pour compter les tomates dans ma main, trois ou quatre belles pièces coûtent 1 birr, cela dépend des jours. Juste à coté se trouve l’un des souks du quartier, il n’y a pas grand-chose à acheter à vrai dire, le magasin est souvent vide mais le propriétaire est sympathique. L’auvent fait de toile plastifiée tenue par des poteaux de bois se décompose chaque jour un peu plus. Les murs de ma rue sont tous différents et forment une grande mosaïque. Ceux de l’école sont couverts de dessins enfantins. Les autres, quand ils ne sont pas de vraies forteresses de briques sont fait de morceaux de tôle rouillés attachés les uns aux autres. Des branches de palmiers font de l’ombre dans ma rue. Deux petits mendiants près de leur mère endormie profitent souvent de ce coin d’ombre. Ils restent assis calmement sur un morceau de tissu parsemé de pièces. Une ONG chargée de lutter contre la pauvreté est installée juste à coté, un garde veille sur la porte close. Quelques mètres plus loin se trouve un club de gym qui attire la jeunesse du quartier. Chaque fin d’après midi, la musique des leçons d’aérobic rythme ma rue.

Le sol de mon quartier est couvert de cailloux et d’imperfections qui font chuter les talons des femmes bien chic. Il y a aussi quelques gros trous, marques d’usure des canalisations défaillantes. De grandes tranchées sur les cotés servent parfois de dépotoirs, pourtant Addis est la première ville sur notre route à disposer de vraies poubelles dans les rues, elles sont même affublées du logo « keep Addis clean ». Les échoppes du quartier ont toutes un téléphone et un panier à œufs posés sur le comptoir. On trouve même du khat, la fameuse feuille euphorisante que l’on mâche à longueur de journée présentées dans de grands paniers de verdure. Les magasins de musique font florès dans mon quartier, toutes enceintes dehors, la compétition est rude. Les vendeurs de CD de contrefaçon chargés de boites colorées se promènent partout dans les rues d’Addis, ils sont souvent suivis des marchands ambulants proposant lunettes de soleil et tournevis. Le quartier voisin situé en contrebas est entièrement fait de tôle et de métal, les habitants font la lessive dans les eaux nauséabondes de la rivière qui passe par là. De l’autre coté de hauts immeubles jaunes fleurissent à l’horizon. Encore plus loin apparaissent les montagnes qui marquent les limites de la ville. Vers 17 heures, alors que les minis bus stagnent dans une circulation monstrueuse, les rues de mon quartier se remplissent à nouveau, on rentre du travail ou du marché, quelques écoliers sucent des glaces à l’eau. Quand la nuit tombe les taxis prennent la relève, pourtant mon quartier n’est pas bien dangereux.