I am back in Addis Ababa now, yo-yoing between the high-walled compounds of embassies in search of a visa for Sudan. At the Sudanese Embassy I am greeted by the head of security, wearing tight leather trousers and crocodile-leather shoes. He ushers me past a crowd of patient Muslim women and I am told I must first have an Egyptian visa and a letter from the British Embassy. At the Egyptian Embassy a pretty Ethiopian girl laughs at my photo and tells me to come back in four days. Back to the Egyptian four days later, onto the British, back to the Sudanese; it is closed on Tuesdays, to the Sudanese on Wednesday, and finally, back once more, to collect my freshly stamped passport.
I fill the hours and days between, wandering the city’s museums and markets and shanties. On Sunday the thick cloud that has overlain the city skyline since I’ve been here, recedes, leaving a deep blue sky, and I walk out past Siddist Kilo towards the fringes of the city. Goats nibble at piles of junk amongst the corrugated shacks and kids whizz past on shiny new bikes. On the corners old men sit on plastic stools drinking tea and the blind tap their way gingerly along the street, handed from helping-passer-by to helping-passer-by like a baton in a slow race. A long line of shaded stalls, selling flashing Chinese gadgets and brightly sequined dresses, runs along the main street, and on the curb a man sits naked with his head in his hands, his feet dangling in the gutter.
In the afternoon I chew chat with two young barbers, who work across the street from where I stay, and the bitter leaves make me drowsy. We play cards and drink glasses of black coffee in the shady backroom of a Piazza bar. That evening I have drinks with Florian, a German doctor who is here for a few months. His room has a balcony overlooking the hotel terrace, and from my table, I watch him lower a rucksack, dangling from shoelaces, to a ready waiter, who places a cold bottle of beer in the bag, before it is hoisted back up. I join him and soon the rucksack is ferrying two bottles upwards.
I fill the hours and days between, wandering the city’s museums and markets and shanties. On Sunday the thick cloud that has overlain the city skyline since I’ve been here, recedes, leaving a deep blue sky, and I walk out past Siddist Kilo towards the fringes of the city. Goats nibble at piles of junk amongst the corrugated shacks and kids whizz past on shiny new bikes. On the corners old men sit on plastic stools drinking tea and the blind tap their way gingerly along the street, handed from helping-passer-by to helping-passer-by like a baton in a slow race. A long line of shaded stalls, selling flashing Chinese gadgets and brightly sequined dresses, runs along the main street, and on the curb a man sits naked with his head in his hands, his feet dangling in the gutter.
In the afternoon I chew chat with two young barbers, who work across the street from where I stay, and the bitter leaves make me drowsy. We play cards and drink glasses of black coffee in the shady backroom of a Piazza bar. That evening I have drinks with Florian, a German doctor who is here for a few months. His room has a balcony overlooking the hotel terrace, and from my table, I watch him lower a rucksack, dangling from shoelaces, to a ready waiter, who places a cold bottle of beer in the bag, before it is hoisted back up. I join him and soon the rucksack is ferrying two bottles upwards.
He sits very upright, and nods a lot, and his hands adjust his tortoiseshell, pebble spectacles as he talks. The sleeves of his ironed shirt are folded at right angles, just above the elbow, and the shirt tails are tucked neatly into thick mustard corduroys. He tells me about the hospital, how many patients are wealthy Somalis, who have traveled from Mogadishu to have surgery on gunshot and car-bomb wounds. Every now and then the conversation halts as a pigeon lands on the ledge in front and Florian stops mid-sentence to hurl a peanut at the bird and mutters about missing his rifle.
We go to supper at a friend of his, Awguchew’s, whose wife gives us big bowls of pasta and glasses of honey wine, filled to the brim, and sits in silence, smiling, while we talk. Awguchew asks about my journey and as I describe the route he recalls hotels along the way: ‘Awassa, hmmm, I been there. Yes. Big hotel there: very modern, very expensive. Visa: they have... Yes, and Nairobi. I stay Hilton. You Know? Very big room, with big bed. Mini-bar: there is...’ He nods approvingly at the recollection and looks disappointed when I say I stayed elsewhere. After each sip of wine he jumps up to refill our already-full glasses and when his young son comes shyly in from playing he plucks him from the floor and gives him a huge hug.
He tells about his work for an HIV charity, about the need to distribute condoms, about truck-drivers with girlfriends in every town: ‘in ten town between here and Djibouti, every stop, different girl. No protection. Very bad.’ He says people are trying and things will improve: ‘Look Uganda. Infection: falling. Because good government. But government can be very problem too.’ He says how at a meeting with African ministers, an official from Mozambique had suggested that America introduced the virus to control the African population. ‘This is rubbish. And I say “why, to them, why we look from where the virus come?” And then I ask to them: “if a lion were to walk into the midst of our group now, what would we do? Would we stand here, still, and ask to one another, “from which direction did the lion come?” or would we kill the lion, and ask after, from which direction did it come?” They say, of course, first we must kill the lion, then ask from where it came. I say to them, it is the same with the virus. First we must end it and then we may ask from where it came.’
‘How can we expect the normal peoples to prevent illness, when the leaders, they are not trying? This is the problem. The politicians they come to discuss and spend their times in Sheraton Hotel, drinking whiskies and wines.’ He looks grave and his eyes wander to my glass and he bounces with bottle in hand to refill and starts to tell how some years ago it was heard that Colonel Gaddafi came to Addis and hired out the whole third floor of the Sheraton. He paid for exclusive use of the swimming pool and had a slide erected from his window to the water…
It is my last night in Addis Ababa and time to leave. Early next morning I ride north and the sprawl of rusted corrugated roofs and half built concrete blocks gradually recede as I climb into the forested slopes of the Entoto Hills. Rain starts to pour and I am cold as I reach the top and stare out at the band of asphalt before me, thinning, and finally disappearing between plains of grey moorland ahead. Gusts of wind sweep across the high plateau, driving pellets of cold water into my face. I ride on and find a motel at Fiche, where I spend the night.
I have ridden only five kilometres and my body is aching. The hills are gentle but my knees sting every time my foot presses on the pedal. Pain shoots from my shoulder and I stare grimly at sheets of rain merging thick clouds with the featureless ploughland all around. I stop again and again, edging slowly northwards. After eighty kilometers I reach Goha Tsion, find a bed, and go to sleep, wondering if I’ll make it up the hill I know I must climb in the morning.
A few minutes out of town the road dips and a thousand metres below the Blue Nile snakes its way through a deep canyon. The ravine walls are sheer and patches of cloud are strewn across the great valley like shreds of torn cloth. Terraces have been carved into the slopes and they descend in a shrinking green staircase to the distant thread of water below. For almost an hour I freewheel round and round the falling canyon wall, the river growing wider, and my forearms stiffer as I clamp the brakes shut. I pass waterfalls and little straw huts, camouflaged in the trees, and startled children fleeing from the road. Soon I am crossing a mighty current of rushing water and now I am climbing, the road spiraling up and around, and I slowly with it, the river shrinking and my legs tiring. For twenty-one kilometers I crawl upwards, and after nearly three hours, I reach Dejen.
We go to supper at a friend of his, Awguchew’s, whose wife gives us big bowls of pasta and glasses of honey wine, filled to the brim, and sits in silence, smiling, while we talk. Awguchew asks about my journey and as I describe the route he recalls hotels along the way: ‘Awassa, hmmm, I been there. Yes. Big hotel there: very modern, very expensive. Visa: they have... Yes, and Nairobi. I stay Hilton. You Know? Very big room, with big bed. Mini-bar: there is...’ He nods approvingly at the recollection and looks disappointed when I say I stayed elsewhere. After each sip of wine he jumps up to refill our already-full glasses and when his young son comes shyly in from playing he plucks him from the floor and gives him a huge hug.
He tells about his work for an HIV charity, about the need to distribute condoms, about truck-drivers with girlfriends in every town: ‘in ten town between here and Djibouti, every stop, different girl. No protection. Very bad.’ He says people are trying and things will improve: ‘Look Uganda. Infection: falling. Because good government. But government can be very problem too.’ He says how at a meeting with African ministers, an official from Mozambique had suggested that America introduced the virus to control the African population. ‘This is rubbish. And I say “why, to them, why we look from where the virus come?” And then I ask to them: “if a lion were to walk into the midst of our group now, what would we do? Would we stand here, still, and ask to one another, “from which direction did the lion come?” or would we kill the lion, and ask after, from which direction did it come?” They say, of course, first we must kill the lion, then ask from where it came. I say to them, it is the same with the virus. First we must end it and then we may ask from where it came.’
‘How can we expect the normal peoples to prevent illness, when the leaders, they are not trying? This is the problem. The politicians they come to discuss and spend their times in Sheraton Hotel, drinking whiskies and wines.’ He looks grave and his eyes wander to my glass and he bounces with bottle in hand to refill and starts to tell how some years ago it was heard that Colonel Gaddafi came to Addis and hired out the whole third floor of the Sheraton. He paid for exclusive use of the swimming pool and had a slide erected from his window to the water…
It is my last night in Addis Ababa and time to leave. Early next morning I ride north and the sprawl of rusted corrugated roofs and half built concrete blocks gradually recede as I climb into the forested slopes of the Entoto Hills. Rain starts to pour and I am cold as I reach the top and stare out at the band of asphalt before me, thinning, and finally disappearing between plains of grey moorland ahead. Gusts of wind sweep across the high plateau, driving pellets of cold water into my face. I ride on and find a motel at Fiche, where I spend the night.
I have ridden only five kilometres and my body is aching. The hills are gentle but my knees sting every time my foot presses on the pedal. Pain shoots from my shoulder and I stare grimly at sheets of rain merging thick clouds with the featureless ploughland all around. I stop again and again, edging slowly northwards. After eighty kilometers I reach Goha Tsion, find a bed, and go to sleep, wondering if I’ll make it up the hill I know I must climb in the morning.
A few minutes out of town the road dips and a thousand metres below the Blue Nile snakes its way through a deep canyon. The ravine walls are sheer and patches of cloud are strewn across the great valley like shreds of torn cloth. Terraces have been carved into the slopes and they descend in a shrinking green staircase to the distant thread of water below. For almost an hour I freewheel round and round the falling canyon wall, the river growing wider, and my forearms stiffer as I clamp the brakes shut. I pass waterfalls and little straw huts, camouflaged in the trees, and startled children fleeing from the road. Soon I am crossing a mighty current of rushing water and now I am climbing, the road spiraling up and around, and I slowly with it, the river shrinking and my legs tiring. For twenty-one kilometers I crawl upwards, and after nearly three hours, I reach Dejen.
No comments:
Post a Comment