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.

Injera or bust! / La table éthiopienne

Ethiopian tables are most often full to the brim with food and drink, but it would be a stretch to suggest that there exists great variety in their choices in dish. The basic elements of an Ethiopian meal is simply injera (Those working to fight hunger in the country often face the sad irony that a family can have a room full of food, but without injera to eat it with, they “can’t” eat anything at all). Injera is simply a large crêpe batter made of local teff flour which is let to sit and ferment for three to four days before cooking it. Injera replaces both bread and utensil in the Ethiopian home. It is simply laid across a plate, covered with the meals “complimentary elements” or wats (meaning a sauce or vegetable dish), and us used to scoop the elements up and accompany them in flavor.

The most common wat is the shiro, a thick paste made of chickpea flour and paprika and water (often cooked down with onions garlic and salt). It is rare to eat an injera without some variation of shiro.

Gomen is a collard green (or in some regions cabbage) dish simply cooked in oil.                                   

Messer is a spicy lentil dish usually also containing the primary elements of shiro and thus from time to time replaces it’s cousin at the table.          

Like many countries where historically meat is a luxurious option for families (deferred to religious holidays preceding or following the long Orthodox fasting), so vegetarians need not fear as most traditional plates are entirely safe to taste. Wats of potatoes with cumin, or pasta, beets, and even fresh salads are easy to find. Most Ethiopians still observe the weekly fasting days as well (Wednesdays and Fridays).

But if you are craving a bit meat, worry not as, particularly in these more abundant days, Tibs (raw sheep meet resembling a steak tartar), doro (chicken) wats, goat with egg, and even beef should be readily available in most towns. In the homes these delicacies are still seen as primarily celebration foods, but restaurants are always ready to serve a big plate of juicy bones.

Nearly all Ethiopian dishes are heavily powdered with berbere, the famous Ethiopian spice which we will just call paprika (since whether Ethiopians agree or not, is what it is).

The markets, too, leave a bit to be desired in terms of a wide palette to explore. Most vendors will only provide the foods people are willing to eat (which means in Ethiopian psychology, only the food that is called shiro). Sides of fruit are fairly very difficult to find once you’ve had your fill of bananas, oranges (always still green) and papaya. But the quality of the fruit is a difficult pleasure to describe justly.
It has been clearly stated already in a previous post the importance coffee, Ethiopia’s primary export, plays in the homes and pride of its citizens. It is undoubtedly the greatest coffee I have had the privilege to taste. And in its variations the long ago attempts of Italian conquest in this land still bare their stubbed dull faces out to demand a macchiato or cappuccino. Though as in Sudan, tea is drunk in incredible quantities. Tea is flavored with cinnamon, cloves or other spices, and as without meaning to generalize any experience as something particularly “African”, the glasses still come a third full of sugar before the liquid even enters their brim.

Fresh juices are the favorite refreshment (particularly during the tiles Coca Cola stops delivering to the country) of teens who have the choices of mango, guava, orange, avocado (more of a mousse than a drink, served with a spoon), or the grand cocktail where all are whipped into one gigantic hair-gel looking pile and sucked down in less than a single breath…

Tej, an ancient Ethiopian version of mead (honey wine), is one of the popular local alcohols to choose from. You could also, be you a daring soul, try the many varieties of thalla, which is a liquor distilled from teff and often spiced with grass and other assortments of greenery. There are plenty of fine selections of Ethiopian beers to try. The Ethiopian tasted “mother approved,” Saint George is always the most available and popular, though a good stout comes from the Harar brewery as do many assortments of make come from Dashen, Bati, Bedell and Castel breweries. But be warned, injera may leave you feeling full, but one tej will hit you harder than you’d have expected.

Les tables éthiopiennes sont souvent bien garnies, mais l'alimentation pas toujours variée.

L'élément fondamental d'un repas éthiopien est l'injera, une grande crêpe faite de farine de teff fermentée. L'injera sert de pain, d'assiette et de couverts, aucun éthiopien ne peut s'en passer. Différentes préparations apellées wat sont servies à coté ou sur l'injera.

La plus célèbre est le shiro, une mixture de farine de pois chiche et de piment. Le gomen, à base du chou cuit dans de l'huile et le messer, fait de lentilles.

Les végétariens n'ont donc en général pas de soucis à se faire. Aussi, les jours de jeun, le mercredi et le vendredi, on trouve partout lefasting injera avec des portions de toutes les préparations végétariennes évoquées plus haut.

Coté viande on trouve le doro wat est une préparation à base de poulet, le figel wat fait de chèvre et le bere, du bœuf. Le met réservé pour les occasions particulières (cérémonies, début et fin de jeûn) est une viande crue façon steak tartare, le tere sega.

Les plats sont évidemment toujours agrémentés de berbere, la fameuse épice éthiopienne.

Les marchés sont le reflet de la cuisine locale, ils n’offrent pas beaucoup de variété. Coté légume, l'oignon, la tomate, la pomme de terre et le chou sont rois. Coté fruits il est bien difficile de trouver autre chose que des bananes, des oranges (souvent vertes) et des papayes.

L'Ethiopie est incontestablement le pays du café. Un long rituel, véritable cérémonie e st organisée à chaque préparation. Les influences italiennes étant toujours présentes, lemacchiato et cappucino sont très consommés. Le thé, shai est aromatisé avec de la cannelle ou d'autres épices, et toujours un tiers de sucre.

Les jus de fruits frais sont appréciés, celui d'avocat plus particulièrement. Il peut être mélangé avec de la mangue ou de l'orange.

Le tej est considéré comme le vin local fait. La préparation est à base de miel et d'herbes séchées réduites en poudre. Le thalla est un alcool souvent fait maison à base de teff et d’herbes séchées

La consommation de bière est aussi importante, la mousse préférée des éthiopiens est définitivement la Saint Georges, mais on trouve aussi des brasseries Dashen, Harar, Bati, Bedele et Castel partout dans le pays.

The Ethiopian Coffee Ceremony / La cérémonie du café

Even before Starbucks' famous deal with the Ethiopian coffee bean industry, the "buna" (coffee) from Ethiopia's south west was the most renowned to aficionados world wide. It is no wonder then that within the diverse communities and tribes present in the country, there has been a long tradition of preparation, ritual, presentation and drinking which is in common throughout. In most homes in Ethiopia the entire ritual is 'performed' three times daily.

The ground surrounding the actor of the ritual is most often spread with ling freshly cut grasses. Both symbolic of prosperity as well as health, the use of the grass loosely frames the performance in the illusion of clean space and add s a sense of nativity to the event. Contemporarily the small "presentation table" (roughly a foot high and displays the cups and saucers to be used, the spoons, the sugar, and sometimes has a small shelf to hold extra coal or leftover beans) is popularly wrapped in tissue bearing the Ethiopian colors or an Amharic quotation from the Bible. Besides the presentation table, and a stool behind it where the performance will be conducted from, there is a small coal grill made of light sheet-metal, a large wooden mortar and pestle, a nearly flat iron pan, a bucket of clean water, and an earthen incense bowl. The order-of-events unfold nearly always in the following order:

Firstly, the ground surrounding the Master-of-Ceremony is brushed clean and the cut grasses are laid carefully upstage. The charcoal/wood grill is lit. Fresh green coffee beans are placed onto the flat pan, held in one hand as the other "cups" a few small handfuls of water onto them. The pan is placed over the young fire for just a minute or so to heat the water and soften the outer flesh of the beans.

After, the pan is removed from the flame and laid down where a few more handfuls of water are add for cooling, and the performer may begin to scrub the beans together with both hands washing them thoroughly. (as the water becomes dirty, they should pour out the water and replace it with fresh cool water. This continues until the water runs clearly. Every step of the ceremony is a social affair, and each action should be effortlessly viewable, in plain sight for the audience. (This assures them that they are receiving only the cleanest of beans).

When beans are ready, they are pushed to the margins of the pan and re-placed over the heat so that the excess water can quickly evaporate away. When the pan is dry, the beans are attentively rolled/scraped over the surface of the pan with a thin L-shaped prong. The rolling should be continuous, and compulsive in nature for the entire six or seven minutes it takes until each individual bean has evenly browned (not burned) and has roasted through to their centers.

The moment they are finished browning, the MC rushes to her feet holding the pan and stands in front of each will-be-drinker to offer small circular fanning motions in their direction, swooshing the warm scented smoke around their aura for "good hopes".

The pan is placed to the side for some time to cool, as a pot is placed over the grill and popcorn (sprinkled generously with sugar) is prepared for all in attendance to share over conversation while the rest of the ceremony is underway).

The browned beans are placed into the large wooden mortar to be violently pulverized into powder by either an equally large wooden pestle or else a spare iron pipe from a construction site. This may take some time, so the black clay coffee pot filled with water may begin to boil on the grill.

The ground beans are poured into the water and let stew for seven to ten minutes for a thick brown coffee. Just as the coffee is finished, a few pieces of coal are taken from the grill and place into incense bowl with incense powder (to infuse the scene with a blessing and to alert the talkative viewers that their attention can again return to the performance at hand).

The first round of coffee (the "abuul") is served with three spoons of sugar in each. While they are being drunk, she fills the coffee pot (still fill of wet bean mush) with more water to boil. There are always three rounds in an Ethiopian coffee ceremony (three cups of coffee for each participant), each round being a lighter brew than the previous. 1) the abuul, 2) the tonah, and 3) the baraka.

The coffee made in this ceremony is fresh and herb flavored emphasizing the quality of the beans. Always performed by the women of the household, it is passed in exact imitation from one generation to another. It is a way to welcome someone to your home as well as a way to digest the communal meals the families share. It is a pleasure to behold, and a fine way to be introduced to a new home, friend, or family.

  Bien avant que StarBuck ne décide d’utiliser des produits venus d’Ethiopie, le « buna », le café éthiopien était déjà considéré comme l’un des meilleurs du monde. Le café est une boisson sacrée dans le pays dont la préparation fait l’objet d’un véritable rituel connu sous le nom de « cérémonie du café ». Dans chaque famille, cette cérémonie est organisée trois fois par jour et parfois plus selon la venue de visiteurs.

L’espace consacré à la cérémonie est avant tout nettoyé et décoré d’une herbe particulière que l’on achète à de petits vendeurs de rue. Symbole de prospérité et de bonne santé ces feuillages ne vont pas sans donner une petite touche de Nativité à l’évènement. La maîtresse de cérémonie rassemble alors tout ce dont elle a besoin. Elément essentiel, la petite table en plastique appelée nekebot comprend les cuillères et les tasses pas plus grandes qu’un verre à saké. Cette dernière qui ressemble à une dinette de petite fille est souvent décorée d’un fanion « I love Ethiopia ». Un pilon et un mortier en bois, un petit réchaud à charbon, une poêle en métal, une bassine d’eau et un petit brûloir à encens sont les autres ustensiles requis.

Alors que le charbon rougit, les grains de café encore verts sont lavés à plusieurs reprises. Pour faire évaporer les dernières gouttes d’eau, on place alors quelques secondes le café sur le feu. Les graines sont ensuite mises à griller, à l’aide d’une tige en métal, elles sont sans cesse remuées pour ne pas brûler. Le café noir et grillé commence alors à dégager une délicieuse odeur. La poêle est alors posée sur l’herbe devant les invités qui peuvent ainsi profiter du spectacle et de l’odeur qui envahit la pièce.

Quand le café est placé dans le mortier pour être réduit en poudre, les pop corn sont mis sur le feu. Parsemés de sucre, ils sont servis aux convives pour patienter jusqu’à la fin de la longue préparation. La jebena, cafetière en forme de petite carafe à long bec contenant l’eau est mise à chauffer. Le café est ensuite réduit en poudre, le plus finement possible. Les mouvements plus ou moins rapides de la maitresse de cérémonie rythment l’ambiance pendant plusieurs minutes. La poudre de café est versée dans le récipient d’eau bouillonnante.

Lorsque le café est prêt, quelques morceaux de charbon encore chaud sont placés dans l’encensoir sur lequel on jette de l’encens en poudre appelé quetema. Chaque convive respire la fumée censée lui porter bonheur, le café peut alors être servi. La première tasse nommée abuul contient le breuvage le plus fort. Le second, tonah et le dernier baraka sont des cafés plus légers, de l’eau a pu être rajoutée dans la jebena entre temps. Chaque invité reçoit ainsi trois tasses servies chacune avec trois cuillères de sucre.

La cérémonie du café qui porte de nom de« buna qalla », le sacrifice du café par les Omoros est toujours organisée par l’unes des femmes de la maison. Toutes les petites filles, dès leur plus jeune âge sont initiées à la tradition qui se transmet fièrement de générations en générations en Ethiopie.

"I'll take the high road..." / Sur les routes rocailleuses du Nord de l'Ethiopie

General thoughts following the first half of Ethiopia: until the center. On the bus headed towards the border of Ethiopia, the man sitting adjacent to Eugénie was wearing multiple pairs of pants on top of each one another. Nearing the south, it was not for need of warm attire that he adorned such fashion, and I remembered a school-day of childhood when I had attempted to leave the house with every pair of both pants and sweaters that I owned, bulging from my body in excessively bundling layers (this was before my grandmother made me take them all off). My decision had been one not of need, or even fashion, but sprang to me as a solution to bypass my inability to make decisions. Just how does one cope with options in this world? An abrupt feeling of nervousness flashed, for myself as well as for the other wacko on the bus. How would life be on the side of the border which had no limits on ones choices; where vices were a famous commodity, and where both the religions and the government refuse to speak discouragingly of profit generators.

The bus pulled aside just before the bridge which exits Sudan at Gallabat. It was a painless exit procedure, especially for Sudan. There was one officer whom refused for few minutes to believe that I as not, in fact, a Chinese national, but nothing which prevented my departure. On the other side of the small metal bridge, we swiftly passed all procedurals with ease while admiring the young officers wall covered in large posters describing every beer in Ethiopia. We were officially out of Sudan, and it felt it.

Metema is hardly a town, per say, but more akin to an frontiersman outpost in some African-western. As a border town, it had that eerie truck-stop feel to it. All booze, unlit bars, and prostitutes. After only three months of traveling through well-sheltered Muslim countries (in most of Sudan alcohol is prohibited), I felt a strange sense of danger in an alien place that first night. The presence of alcohol certainly changes how one need react to others. By only 7 pm, the streets were full of stumbling bodies. No one was smiling or, as in Sudan, exceptionally friendly. That first evening was a big readjustment; a reconsideration of our relationship with our surroundings.

Ethiopians have a number of identifiers for white foreigners which, before they are adopted into a habitual routine of interactions on the street, feel aggressive upon initial encounter. The crowds of children, families, or men pointing at you, gang-style, usually at first glimpse of your flaxen hair and creamy tones, whether far down the street or just behind you, fingers sharply directed shouting for all to turn and witness, voices high crying “You! Farang! You you you…(continues with the monotonous annoyance of a morning alarm clock whose snooze is out of reach)”. A “farangi,” generally signifying foreigner, though primarily used for white person, comes from a transliteration of “French” from the presence of the French whom had colonized Djibouti and built the most famous railway in Ethiopia. Though it is not intended in any derogatory manner, it’s racial significations are strongly echoed in the populations treatment of farangi’s as non-individualized entities for entertainment and presumed source of conversation whether appreciated or not. We’re not people, we are farangi’s. The seemingly rude “you you” is again a matter of direct translation, where in Amharic (the national language of Ethiopia) the word for “you” singular is also used as a cultural equivalent of “hey”, and again the assumption is that if you have a farangi’s attention, they will want to talk to you and possibly come home as your new pet. Needless to say, the identification verbally expressed at every corner wears on one quickly.

Steles of Axum / stèles d’Axum
Almost all buses, excepting those which pass between closely neighboring towns, leave once a day at 5 am (11 pm Ethiopian time, since they count from sunrise up – 6 am is 12, 7 am is 1 am and so on). We arrive at the bus promptly at 4:30 am that first morning, headed towards Gonder, to find the bus abandoned, the street deserted but a few scattered bonfires and stray dogs. But once the people came, they came quickly and chaotically. Buses usually fill in the matter of minutes, leaving the less hostile old women huddled on the street to try again the following morning to get a place on the same bus.

The roads in Ethiopia are dangerous. Mostly weaving sandy paths along cliff sides of it’s vast mountains through dust clouds and dodging tumbling rocks from roadsides above them. We often pass piles of burnt buses piled on top of one another which flipped from the same cliffs as we. Sometimes we even find soda delivery trucks hanging tentatively from the cliffs, and the drivers sitting at the side of the road awaiting assistance. Caused by the road conditions, even relatively short distances can sometimes take 12 hours or more in unfettered heat. Ethiopians will pass the entire trip without a single sip of water.

The minimal palettes of Sudan’s long deserts no longer apply in this vast green, this diverse pastoral scenery. Baboons and macaques run alongside the buses with their kin hanging tightly to their backs. With such elevation brings the thousands of osprey to eye level, and the magnanimity of Caspar David Friedrich’s divine landscapes manifest themselves into your material surroundings. It is no wonder that the Orthodox Christians have made the high cliffs and caves of northern Ethiopia’s mountains their spiritual holy land since Ethiopia’s official conversion in the 4th century AD.

Often called the “heart” of Ethiopia’s historical self and culture, home to the monasteries and castles of Gonder and Bahir Dar, the steles of Axum, the impossible churches of Lalibela and the harsh asceticism of the both priests and lay-peoples, this capital of the old Axumite kingdom continues to defy it’s harsh landscape.

Gonder is an El Greco-esque city twisted around jagged daring claws of rock collecting enough rain each year in it’s goblet valleys to supply the whole region year-round with clean water. The deep faith in holy water in Ethiopia is deeply attune with the miraculous conditions of it’s environment. Ethiopia’s motto is “13 months of sunshine” regarding it’s incredible growing seasons due to the altitude of the country, where crops grow higher than clouds can cover, but provide cool air ideal for grains (particularly teff and wheat). One of the reasons Ethiopia was never successfully colonized was due to the defensive nature of it’s impassable peaks, which acted also to protect the church from large scale historical conversions.

Tigray (language=Tigranya) which is the most northern region bordering Ethiopia’s ex-patriot Eritrea, still bares the tense markers of the war, with it’s roadside abandoned tanks, it’s active minefields, it’s military checkpoints littered about, and it’s extreme poverty (and general lack of basic development such as clean water or electricity in many towns). The affects of the unemployment and socio-economic struggles have left the region with the countries highest HIV, prostitution, orphaned children, severely-malnourished persons, and illiterate statistics. We spent an enlightening week with a community working on progressive and future-focused solutions to Tigray (in Wukro) which helped greatly in providing the necessary background to organize our experiences into a clear political context as we continued our travels. Unfortunately, that is all I can say on this, as the work being done on our time in this community is still underway.

 
”If you are going to San Francisco Bahir Dar, be sure to wear a flower in your hair book yourself a fancy hotel if you want to actually see the lake!” In the last few years, the entire surrounding view of good’ol Lake Tana has been ‘re-appropriated’ by the regional government and given for the use of entirely private corporations. It is another sad example (as was Ismailia in Egypt) of a beautiful place taken away from those who actually inhabit it, and given to the passer-bys of commercial tourism. We spent a week with a family in Bahir Dar whose own property has been halved by the government who decided that they had twice as much space as was necessary for the sixteen residents of the home (father, 2 sons, three daughters, cousin, friend, two families in need, and two other renters). No one in Ethiopia actually owns their residential land, but rather leases it from the government. This makes it increasingly problematic to file legal complaints if there is a public sanitation concern affecting your residency, because officially, it isn’t your property to concern yourself with.

Our experience in the north affirms a sense that all the genetic work ethic is passed between female chromosomes to their daughters, but nearly entirely skips the other gender(s). Women with 15-20 liter yellow plastic containers filled with water climb from mountain to mountain everyday to bring water back to their homes in order to cook for their families. Women do most of the farming, the construction work, the brick setting, the business generating, the housework and errands, as well as caring for the unaided children of each community. This often gets done while men watch Ethiopian music videos, demand their wives, sisters, daughters, neighbors to make them food, to bring them water, to clean, and to handle the income. I have had difficulty in my restraints from time to time. But as the great third world nutrition guru and entrepreneur Ato Belete Beyene explained to us when we interviewed him in Addis Ababa in early March, that the systematic depression of Ethiopians has led to a general “pacifism to work”. I would also suggest that Ato Beyene’s success is not necessarily the direct result of his extreme work ethic, but more importantly because of his rare ability to problem solve. Analytical thought is completely absent from all institutional education one can receive in Ethiopia (and for good reasons, since it has been students whom have most publicly spoken out against the policies of it’s government – a recent law made any negative remarks by Ethiopians to foreign press the equivalent to “foreign acts against the state” and has been used to dispel a number of prominent aid groups from the capital since the law went into effect in January).

Addis Ababa, “the new flower,” sits often disconnected from the lives of Ethiopians living in the vast regions of the country. Even here, the poverty of the country is visible from every corner, though the infrastructure to deal with the problems has more power to affect the local community than administrations in more remote regions. Water, electricity, medical care and addiction are still problems. Amharic is still difficult. The elevation is still high. I am still a farangi, and the community is still busy forming my impressions.

Un voisin de mini bus porte deux pantalons l’un sur l’autre, même si le véhicule s'apprête à rentrer en Ethiopie, pays certes montagneux, la tenue est définitivement inadéquate. La chaleur est dans le Sud du pays tout aussi intense. Nous quittons le Soudan à Gallabat, dernière ville avant la frontière. Jusqu'au bout les autorités soudanaises nous poursuivent. La rue principale est occupée par les bureaux de contrôle des passeports, des douanes et d'immigration qui nous accueillent successivement.

Juste derrière la barrière voici Metema, première ville d'Ethiopie. Nous nous sentons à présent vraiment plus libres, libre de circuler et de ne pas   “se déclarer” tous les jours. Cette ville frontalière n'a pas grand intérêt. On y trouve essentiellement des bars, des clubs et leurs flots de prostituées ainsi qu’une station de bus. Après de longues semaines en terre musulmane où la consommation d'alcool est interdite, nous voici à présent dans la ville de tous les excès. A 19 heures des adolescents et des vieillards circulent le regard vide en titubant dans les ruelles. Un sentiment d'insécurité de dégage rapidement, ces gens sont peu souriants et vraiment moins accueillants, ils sont avant tout saouls, dans une ville frontalière sordide coincée entre le Soudan et l'Ethiopie.

Nous découvrons rapidement la mauvaise manie des éthiopiens de se retourner sur chaque étranger en criant “you, you, you”. Cela va probablement durer jusqu'à notre prochain passage de frontière... au Kenya.

Le bus pour Gonder devrait potentiellement partir vers 5h du matin selon les quelques informations que nous avons réussies à soutirer dans le quartier. Une chose est sûre, le lendemain, à 4h30 la rue est vide. Quelques brasiers ont été allumés à coté des bus, seul moyen de trouver sa route. La plupart du temps un seul bus rallie quotidiennement chaque grande ville. Autrement dit, l’arrivée des passagers dans le véhicule tourne vite à l'émeute. Celui qui ne trouve pas de place a gagné le droit de revenir demain, un peu plus tôt cette fois. La route est chaotique, tout simplement. Nous avançons sur une piste parsemée de cailloux et de trous. Les éthiopiens n'ouvrent les fenêtres sous aucun prétexte, oh non, ils n’aiment pas le vent ! Quel plaisir collectif que celui de macérer au soleil, dans la chaleur pendant 10 h. Le désert soudanais est désormais un lointain souvenir, s'offrent à présent à nous les hautes montagnes vertes et rocailleuses du Nord du pays traversées par des routes dangereuses. Dans le parc national de Siemens, des carcasses de véhicules se balancent dans le vide. Un camion chargé de bouteilles consignées vient de manquer le virage, la cabine du véhicule flirte avec la falaise.

Frescos of Gonder / fresques d'un monastère de Gonder

Le Nord du pays est considéré comme le cœur historique de l'Ethiopie. Les premiers chrétiens sont venus s’y installer au IV siècle après JC. La région est truffée d'églises et monastères perchés dans les montagnes. Les villes d'Axum et de Lalibela sont internationalement connues pour abriter quelques uns de ces trésors historiques. Axum vient de récupérer l'un de ses obélisques, symbole du puissant royaume axumite volé par Mussolini en 1935. Malgré un retour en fanfare salué par la communauté internationale, le monument est retenu par les câbles métalliques, en attendant d'être fixé … La ville est clairement touristique mais il y a très peu de touristes. Les sites sont remplis de sportifs éthiopiens venus pour une rencontre sportive, ce qui a définitivement plus de charme que le touriste grassouillet en short et chaussettes-sandales.

A l'extrême Nord du pays se trouve la région du Tigré qui jouxte la frontière érythréenne. Sur la route la tension monte d'un cran, les contrôles de police sont plus fréquents et quelques carcasses de chars soviétiques rouillent sur le bord de la route. Un camp de réfugiés a été installé tout près d’ici. La région ne s'est pas encore remise d'une longue guerre terminée il y à peine quelques années, en 2000. Aujourd’hui à part un sérieux problème de mines, il n'y a plus vraiment de danger dans la région. Les difficultés actuelles sont liées à une situation socio-économique catastrophique, des taux de pauvreté et de chômage très élevés. Les familles ont été détruites par le conflit, les migrations et les méfaits qui s'en suivent (prostitution, VIH) n’ont fait qu’aggraver la situation. Nous sommes attendus à Wukro, au sein d'une communauté de Pères Blancs pour en savoir plus sur la région et le travail des ces missionnaires d’Afrique du XXIe siècle.

Notre prochaine étape est la ville de Bahir Dar, au bord du lac Tana. Voilà encore un triste exemple de lieu dont les mérites ont peut être été vantés à tord. En l’espace de cinq ans, l'intégralité des rives du lac ont été achetées par des entrepreneurs privés. Les lodges et bungalows poussent partout. Les cafés diffusant de la musique pop ont aussi investi les lieux. Il ne reste donc que ce petit parc difficilement trouvable et pas vraiment entretenu pour profiter du lac et surtout de ses adolescents qui font leur lessive tout en se baignant. La ville est parsemée de cafés internet, de bars et de salle de billard. L’ambiance reste vivante. La famille de notre amie nous offre heureusement tout le divertissement qu'il faut. Nous découvrons les plaisirs du machisme et de l'inefficacité des hommes. Cette manière méprisante de justifier “cette tradition” à l’aide d’un porte monnaie bien garni. Le frère dort, mange, et boit entre 8 et 10 bières par jours, heureusement, il n'est ici qu'en vacances. Les sœurs, travailleuses et dévouées se chargent de la maison, de leur vieux père, et de ce frère. La famille est aisée mais reste classique, dans le salon se trouve un réfrigérateur et une télévision couleur. Les deux chambres sont partagées entre les 9 membres de la famille. La cour, le robinet et les sanitaires avec le voisinage. Pour la douche il faut se rendre plus loin dans le quartier, à la “shower house”.

La route d’Addis Abeba est nettement plus agréable, le Japon a financé l’ouvrage du début jusqu’à la fin. Malgré tout, le trajet dure dix heures. Des drapeaux japonais fleurissent de temps en temps. Le paysage est balayé par les vents, les champs tout juste récoltés sont labourés par de beaux buffles. Les rivières sont toujours aussi sèches et les femmes, bidons d’eau sur le dos, encore plus nombreuses à s’enfoncer dans la montagne. Addis Abeba, “la nouvelle fleur” en amharique apparait alors dans le creux d’une montagne, elle se tient là, calme et rayonnante, éclairée par les derniers rayons du soleil.