ethiopia.
i’m on my way out…
i am departing for africa. part of me will not be returning. a chunk of me will remain with the Mother. or perhaps you could say: i’ll be restoring a lost portion of my soul. but in some ways i feel like i’m also saying goodbye. to something….only to re-emerge from Her womb with some kind of crazy newness. with a renewed sense of being and life.
notes from my travel companions…
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
so excited to kick it with my old school crew. like the old days as we chilled in montana (montucky/the zoo), sharin’ food and vibez and life. only this time, it’s africa style. souls travelin’. time. space. new dimensions. glory…
these are the characters:
**HOPPER has this way of never utilizing the usual grammatical or sentence structures when he writes- or talks for that matter. periods, commas and the like are non-existant. quite endearing if you ask me. (reminds me of one of my heros: kerouac.) his eyes blaze through you. his smile: uber contagious. his heart: pure gold. master vegan/hempen chef. never a shortage of grande ideas. mean skankin’ vibez this one.
“the habasha way is one to get to know the people are polite and will feed you with there own hand its wonderful almost too wonerful mi and aha went to see family when we first got here and when you say your done they keep bringin food we were so done and they insist its funny but theres lots of time ahead where we will be cold chill and I have be letting Ites know that we got habish styles to no expectation you know just come experiance ites I an I am waiting I love you so much Its friday you aint got job you aint got nuttin to do I’m gonna get you high ha ha ha I love you”
**AHMED has been in nice contact and has let me know that travel is irie i. they are there kickin’ it in style already. so no worries. we will kick it like oldschool and rage it well. this crew knows how to do it. this bredren also knows how to keep it cool and calm and lead in his sweetness. we are in good hands. he knows his way around the country like no other. he enjoys speaking slowly and collectively, thoughfully and charismatically. he is well versed in using periods, commas and the like and his tonal inflection adds a bit o’ charm when he speaks. he can get his skank on well. and does so with marleyesque style.
“Selam Sistren!
Hope that everything is real nice for you. Currently Im in Addis Ababa, I just got back from Shashemane visiting with Brothers and family. Hopper and I had a real good time, he chewed some chat for the first time and we got so high together, real funny positive times. Chat is this leaf that many people here chew similiar to coca.
Ive also been spending time helping out with the family cafe drinking alot of good coffee and eating alot of good food aswell. Things are getting well setup for the crew. Tomorrow Carl (a.k.a CountryOne)
comes to Addis.
I found out about Luciano,Sizzla,Warrior King and, Turbulance playing in the capital square on Sept 22,and 23. I know that Midnight along with some other musicians are coming to Addis and Shashemane but when exactly is not being announced. However I have some people in Shashemane that are keeping me posted for the events. Family Vibez. So we will begin our road trip on the 13th heading to Bahr Dar, the headwaters of the Nile. Untill then you shall get well situated
with Addis and Habesha (Ethiopian) ways. I look forward to seeing early at 3:00am on Friday Sept,7
Egypt Air.
Make sure that you have a rain coat and some warm clothes since some of the places we will go are mountainouse and in Addis it is the end of the rainy season sometimes chilly at night. MUCH LOVE SARAH looking forward to connecting real soon in ZioN. BlessUp!!”
**MIRANDA K. (aka missy misdemeanor- but keep that on the DL) has been texting me and voicemailing as per usual. though, recently, with a bit more fervor, excitement and nervous energy. (three texts alone last night just while i was takin’ mi fresh!!) we are jovial together. the two wombyn of the exodus. my kindred sistren from way back (gems bind us at the heart. swear.) the whities go to africa. the blonde. the redhead. we will try to “blend in.” ha. i am so grateful for this ghal and for the mere fact we will be on this journey together. yay! her southern belle charm, good looks and enormous heart have gotten her far. her stylie ways and unbeatable brilliance are a rare find. she’s a jewel!
the texts:
“dude, we’re going to africa.”
“golashes and rain coat?”
“passport AND birth certi?”
“you make me laugh!”
At IAH:
A man on the tram smiles at me and asks: “are you always this happy?”
“I try to be,” I reply.
The journey has started. This is full on B.C. ya’ll (bliss consciousness.) Now! In the present. The universe is erupting inside of me. All I feel is joy.
From the tram, I have just enough time to grab a tea and some water, then make it to gate C40. By this point, my green tea will be properly brewed with the perfect balance of sweet and bitter. Time can be counted by tea strength. Tea strength can be counted with time. I will then have 12 minutes to write, people watch and breathe deeply prior to boarding. I call this perfection.
souls travelin’
My feet are my shoes.
I walk the earth one step at a time.
With my soles. With my souls.
one of those moments.
Sitting in JFK at the Egypt Air gate, eating my sesame chicken and rice with chopsticks, listening to my Judeo/Christian/Rasta/Rebel sounds on my Ipod, the reality of globalization hits me. The Hasidic Jews walking by in their black and curls, the Egyptian big-eyed beauties, the sari wearing Indians, the West coast whitie reading Dan Brown across from me, the fair-skinned Northern European males sitting next to me. Their Euro style: the short soccer shorts, flat little runners, one wears a fanny pack, the Ace of Base remix streaming from their laptop (Wait! did I just hear Rod Stuart? Crazyness) eating their Lays potato chips from their Nike bag. It dawns on me: not only am I in an international airport, but, hey, this is a very small world. A smaller dimensional reality than we think. The Airo Mexico plane taxies past the window…Where is that intense cologne coming from?!….The “Western” looking Middle Eastern men, it seems, like to exude strong scents…..Languages I can’t decipher coming from the seats behind me….. I can’t get enough…..And yes!! There’s even wi-fi here….right, you just have to pay for it.
en route to Cairo.
On Egypt Air:
“What kind of pills are you taking?” The grinning man asks. He has seen me take 3-4 pills and put precision drops of grapefruit seed extract into my bottle of water. Our conversation starts from there….A rowdy verbal convergence of consciousness with my row partner Mohammad. He: a Hebatologist (something to do with livers) from Cairo on the way back from a conference at UCLA. Obviously, a leader in his field and a leader in thought. We spoke in terms of universal truths, higher thought and Allah’s love for all. Call it Allah, Jesus, Jahovia, Nature- no difference. It is all one. Ko’ran says this clearly. We recognized the Time as a scientific age where spirituality must not be forgotten and how these two must be fused as one truth. We discussed quantum physics. He gleefully admitted that I had made him change his mind in less than three seconds. “Yes, the positive shall prevail! It is truth!” I am inspired and am reminded that Nature always provides me with beautiful reflections. Reminders. Tokens. Humanity is sacred and omnipotent. Together- we area a unified existence. I am now plugged into the onboard headset. The sacred and humbling sounds of the Ko’ran poetically spilling into my ears. I feel like I’m hearing the comforting sounds of Sanskrit and Nature’s song. Wishing I could take Mohammad up on his offer to meet his wife and children during my long lay over in Cairo….
My mind is now sufficiently re-paired after my luggage debacle. I am confident my suitcase will end up in Addis- eventually. At that rate, I will be wearing my Lulu’s for a week possibly. Or perhaps I’ll find myself dressing like Aha and Hopper if they take pity on me! Egypt Air, however, has been more than kind. From my luggage fiasco, to my embarrasingly frantic boarding, to the stewards on board, I’ve been impressed. The stewards have been exceedingly gracious and have gifted me with a LARGE bottle of water and filled my teacup more than once. Love yuh Egypt Air…..minus this turbulence over the mid-Atlantic and Mediterranean Sea…..
Oh that’s not all, though. Now i’m waiting in the Cairo airport. smoke billowing out of half the lungs in the joint. i have returned from the Le Passe Hotel where I was given lunch, dinner and a room for 5 hours. Everyone seemed concerned that I was checking out early. But the reality of giving up my passport (breathe ya’ll) hit me when I returned to consciousness somwhere at about 18:00 hours. Upon arrival to Cairo, we were approached by an Egypt Air rep. who basically told us we had to spend our layover in a boujie hotel on Egypt Air’s bill- though, they asked for our passports and our itinerary. Very sketch. But everyone has been reassuring. so far anyway.
Several new realities: lines don’t exist here. push your way to the front. everything takes atleast double the amount of time you would think. prepare for the unexpected. all are uber friendly and sincere. men stare no matter what. i’m in Egypt.
I did spend some quality time with four other Ethiopian travelers. all were headed home. what struck me first was the “Ethiopian Millenium” sticker on one of their bags. Solomon and Daniel avec Sarah make a perfectly rounded Christian group. We had to laugh. or atleast I did. We added Dawit and his mother Marcia at some point en route to Le Passe and had a meal together. I was schooled in Ahmeric tidbits and found out that Dawit was a worthy mention in my Ethiopian guidebook. already running into the right folks. jah bless it!
so the debacle(s) continue. not the least of which is the reality that Ahmed has the wrong day of my arrival. somewhere at 13:00 hrs, i looked at my itinerary and realized there was a +1 day TWICE on my ticket. ok. no worries. the bwois are smart. hopefully they’ve already realized i didn’t come today, the 7th, at 3 am……maybe they’ll keep trying…..
a writing machine.
Friday, September 7, 2007
i can’t stop yo’s… i could have written three novels by now. just from what i’ve witnessed today alone. i have no clue what time it is. ok it’s 21:00ish. but my body has no clue. after two hours of standing, sitting, harassing, waiting, questioning, waiting, and more waiting, the stack of passports and boarding passes finally arrived at the deserted ticket counter. yes, the deserted ticket counter. while mobs formed. wombyn were yelling and ranting. men pushed and shoved. a total free for all. the agent who finally arrived, was swarmed by HOARDES of crazy travelers in 2.5….i’ve never seen anything quite like this cairo airport bazaar. men in long, polished cotton shirt dresses, wombyn in their headscarves (matching all articles of clothing to a tee), strange foreigners i can’t place, the boujiest of boujie, the distint Africans, the business men, the stunning Egyptian chizzled feautures. then there are the lines, or lack of. even for security. everyone throws their bags on the conveyor belt in a frenzy. a total free for all. one person at a time sort of going throught the metal detector. mos def. a few slips….the word of the day is: FRENZY….
gate 9 is getting crowded. bouts ta board for Addis. not sure if i’ll continue to be such a writing machine once in the home land or not…..get it while you can.
interesting sidenote: two separate people greeted me at the hotel today with “so good to see you again. how are you?” i asked one if i looked familiar. had she seen me? and she smiled and said “yes. welcome back.” deja vu?? or seeing double?
arrived
Sunday, September 9, 2007
A long sleep later…… Sometime in the late evening, 2:15 Ethiopian time
(don’t wrap your brain around that yet. E time is counted way
different than any other place in the world) I awoke in my dark room,
hearing Ahmed and the faint voice of Hopper discussing something about
momma.
Words can not express my joy. Literally. The joy right now at this
moment, the sequential moments leading to this one and the joy
surrounding this reality, are super brilliant. where I am and what
we’re doing here is so immense. We have big plans. For the future. For
Ethiopia.
Seeing Ahmed as I walked out of Bole International yesterday (calm,
dead, dark, wee hours of the morn) was amazing. A convergence of
immense proportion. Mi rasta breddren meeting and greeting. The
Embrace. The recognition. The…. Country One (aka Carl) accompanying
him on the mish to gather me and my belongings.
Already I feel at home. Home has been felt on so many levels. My
current environment, the culture, my kindred, the house we are vibin’
in right now, the high-grade level of this reality, the meeting with
Ahmed’s momma, his Ethiopian reality…..and the rest to come. I have
come home. And it’s intense. Words can’t explain. But I feel I could
be here for any amount of time and be fine. At peace. At home. In
love. Tha works….The same familiarity I have with JA, is present here.
INTENSE! Though it is a more peaceful and comforting familiarity.
Cool. Calm. Blessed. Even the archaic method of time makes sense to
me. The language feels like I know it somehow. The Addis scene is
ancient. It smells. Like diesel, dirt, stench, schitty, old-school new
world. Developing nation style. It is here. In full on force.
Aha/Ahmed/Ami brings me right home from Bole International. A house he
secured through his manifesting powers. It is amazing. Furnished and
lovely. We are fully styled out.
There will be a mourning process when I leave….just like with JA.
Roots are hard to uproot.
The chill vibes have officially set in. It is the “vacation” mind
space. The slower pace. The way things run in developing nations (a
term I use loosely) is the current headspace. Yes. The mind space….
The bwois conversing about controversial subject- a never ending
thing with these two. Massive reasoning. I think Aha and Hopper like
to get verbally rowdy. Just cuz. It’s endearing. I am at the point in
my being when I will just listen to others’ thoughts and beliefs. I
have mine clearly. we all do. So I just learn from listening.
Note to my mom:
still rockin’ the lulu’s. day three. or is it day four now? i don’t
even know….still waiting on my bag. i went the airport again today
to check. nothing. more hassles. wearing aha’s shirt. and hoping for
my stuff eventually. i am high on life. i am in love in so many ways.
well taken care of. blissed out!! aha and his family are amazing.
wow!! soooo many stories already. all is well and peaceful. i feel
very safe and totally taken care of. our house is super posh by
ethiopian standards. the food is amazing. momma has been cooking
beautiful meals for us. the café is hooking it up. chai
latte/machiatoes in little tea cups. flat bread, foul (foool), hummus
goodness that we eat with our hands. the air is crisp and fresh (when
you aren’t driving.) I look forward to our travels starting on the
13th…..stay tuned.
all love
sj*
morning
comes onto the front porch nicely and intensely. there are flowers
growing and a nice amount of greenage about the yard. there is a stone
driveway leading up to the house. a large, brick fence surrounds the
property and is protected by a large double-doored gate. we drive to
the gate, honk and honk and give a few more honks and then our “guard”
comes to open it for us. this, of course, is not uncommon in Ethiopia.
for those who are fairly well off, many common jobs are done by
various employed people.
we have several others living in the back of the yard. there is a man
who is the “guard” and gate keeper. he lives in the small, green shack
up front. he is an amazing gardener and is responsible for all that is
growing along the edges of the property- as well as his wall of potted
plants to the side of the house. truly gorgeous. there is a wombyn who
does laundry and helps in the kitchen. they both watch over things.
there is a young bwoi who is sweet and wide-eyed. there are a few cats
at the least. one or both consistently howl. actually it’s more like a
yowl. literally. there is a sweet and shaggy multi-colored dog and a
rooster tied to a bucket in the open-air kitchen out back.
the wombyn helped me with the funky lil’ stove this morning when it
wouldn’t start. she hauled in her propane tank and a two burner stove.
her pleasant smile, sweet demeanor and kindness are apparent. sean
commented on her stylie shoes this morning as we looked out the
kitchen window. purple and neon orange sneakers. stylie. we originally
met through the window. sharing glances and smiling at eachother.
giving polite nods of recognition. now that we’ve spoken and she’s
helped me hang my laundry on the line, I’d venture to guess we’re
practically friends.
I needed this morning. I awoke and meditated. the house still silent
except for the family out back (already dealing with the day to day.)
I then started the tea. cut a pineapple. ate some trailmix. looked at
the amheric dictionary a bit. came to my room for some yoga. I then
head to my bathroom, singing my morning songs, enjoying the acoustics
and sound of a tiled room. a cooling fresh later, I attempt to grab my
things from the line out back. as I approach the kitchen, headed for
the back door, I see the family gathered around the sink out back. the
man, holding a bloody knife, the wombyn holding a rooster head. I see
rusty colored feathers. the rooster. has passed. they are all eagerly
watching this occasion. ceremonial in it’s own right. though it
shocked me with fervor as I witnessed it’s brutality. the radio then
starts playing. I hear the wombyn start to sing. this is their yagya
and celebration for the rooster. his life and their lives. food.
essential for life and living.
I did just check my laundry after all. it is almost dry!! I am
overjoyed to think that I’ll be wearing clean clothes today. finally.
….the rooster is cooking. the smells are admittedly enticing.
we had hoped to head to shashamane today. once ahmed returned from the
café and picked up our range rover and driver. (shashe is more roots
vibes for the millennium celebrations.) however, once uncle rashad
confirmed that the main roads to addis will be closed to all, we
thought it better to stay in the city. the boujie plans were held at
the sheratin here in addis (the likes of beyonce and black-eyed peas
appear on the line up.) there is more to say about that since the
millennium has become a controversial subject here in Ethiopia. many
events are being funding by Allamude, an extremely wealthy Ethiopian
man (in fact, one of the wealthiest men in the world) who’s made his
money in Saudi oil and consistently monopolizes many runnings around
here. he seems to have a senseless take on wealth, abundance, and what
one does in poverty torn regions when one has so much money. one of
these blunders is the giant millennium building which is going up on
bole near the airport. big concerts will take place there and then the
building will be taken down. right next to this atrocity are shanty
towns, street beggers and the like. incongruous. thoughtless.
we did not participate in that. we headed out to a traditional
Ethiopian dinner after and afternoon on Toto mountain visiting king
Menelek II’s palace and a Coptic orthodox church. the restaurant was
tantalizing in flavor, aroma, sight and sound. the frankincense was
burning. fresh cut grass laying covering the floor. traditional basket
table and stools. small cups with buna (coffee.) four musicians.
multiple dancers. the vibes were high. fatoom and tamaskin (ahmed’s
right hand bwois and crucial connections) met us there and brought a
bwoi from Manchester that they’d met on the street. jahvin’s dad lives
in shashemane and just happen to be the Teddy Dan! we were all a
little blown away by that……
we trekked over to Meskal Square for the free millennium celebration
at the stadium. we knew Teddy Afro was supposed to play at somepoint.
Teddy Afro is loved by all. he speaks for the common Ethiopian. turned
down several million dollars, offered to him by Allamude, to play at
the Sheratin. (instead, playing a free show at the stadium for all
people.) sings in traditional Amhrnga and represents the Abisha vibes.
chants down the current government (thereby getting banned from
playing in Addis and other places.) he is big stuff…..
we frinng (foreigners/whities) walked into the heavily guarded stadium
like we owned the place. it was ridiculous, but got worse. we went to
two entrances and got turned away. it was full. the third entrance,
however appeared to be a back door entrance. we knocked. the guards
saw five frinng. though we had ahmed and fatoom as well. we pushed
through, selectively placing ahmed and fatoom in between the whities.
no problem. we pushed our way to the front of another gate. through
two more. the third section brought cheering, shouting and hollering.
the entire stadium caught it. they were chanting for us. the bwois ate
it up. I didn’t know how to handle it. it was so intense. hundreds of
people staring at you. at the ferinnge. yelling. watching. the reality
surrounding this event, the prejudice that I have experienced first
hand, the behavior of Ethiopians towards ferinnge, and ferinnge status, is
overwhelming to me. I need to piece it together…..
teddy, the crowd, the dancing, the dance lessons from fatoom, the
vibes, all amazing. beyond the beyond…..
clean clothes
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
my bodyguard/driver. he took me to the airport, where my bag was
waiting. the joy was overwhelming. I am wearing clean clothes.
blessings.
now we are sitting at the sheratin, sending my emails. (he is talking
loudly on the phone to the “boss”- ahmed.) Miranda comes tonight. I am
very grateful. five days with the bwois has been a bit much at times.
yesterday was a bit of a breaking point for me. I have heard a lot.
just by osmosis. when do bwois become men? do they ever? are some
bwois always bwois? do they ever become men? or are men just men? ok,
well, it appears I’m traveling with bwois.
on the road
on the road
driving. land cruiser style. packs and camping gear roped down to the
roof. African exodus. eight people riding inside. our captain, Gash Umar, drives
us up the mountains, around fierce bends, down the sides of the sharp
mountains, narrowly missing potholes and crazy suspension catastrophies.
feels the freedom and is thankful. we are headed toward Lake Tana- the
headwaters of the River Nile then the Semien Mountains after that. sacred
ground, water and breath awaits us. the feeding ground and womb of
Mother Africa and beyond…..
lam. lam. greens. browns. hills, mountains, the first sighting of the
Nile river. open air and stillness. country vibes. lone trees in the
middle of pastures. groups of cows, sheep and goats. expansion as far
as the eye can see. deep and dense bush interspersed with stark
grassland. the country folk own and care for the land. sheperds.
farmers. the dress is an obvious difference from the city. bright,
traditional apparel. head dresses like crowns. long staffs. blanket
outfits that wrap with simple originality. similar green, pleated
dresses among the girls. crosses and coins around the necks. woven
prints in bright colors wrapped around the head or the waist-
sometimes holding a child to it’s mother. crowded spots of people and
animals cluster the roads. herds of cattle or goats travel in large
packs with their owners. our driver honks and plows on through the
crowds- sometimes making a harsh break when a cow fails to realize its
present reality. we stare from the car windows with anticipation and
fervor. there are waves and smiles from both sides. acknowledgement
and thankfulness from most. though there are some who are less than
pleased to see feringe driving through their lands. it is a mixed and
blatant bag.
I sink into these moments. it is so fresh and alive in this land.
human work. human life. humans being. this is truly awesome. it is
simple and divine. it is intense and moving. it stirs my soul.
existence in it’s many flavors and displays. wow.
the colors and textures that we continue to interact with become
stronger. we approach more and more towns as we head north to Bhar
Dar. as it gets dark and the rains start, we enter the city.
Ghion Hotel is the spot. just what I’d imagine a hotel in Africa to be
like. lucky if you get hot water. open air seating for the restaurant.
a lobby with a few chairs, cement floors and waiters in suits that fit
oddly. bright flowers and plantings in the gardens. mosquito netting
over the beds. questionable cleanliness and plumbing. it’s definitely
ligit. a certain charm exudes. we look out on lake Tana. my sleep has
never been better. there is a cleansing effect that occurs from this
place. it is subtle but brilliant.
a boat. the islands.
the little coca cola boat is ours. a baby blue boat with a young
captain that loves to say “gracias” and then laugh at himself. ahmed
scored a nice arrangement for our cruise to the islands. he is very
good about getting connected with just the right “guides.” the ones
that seem to know a thing or two, aren’t too greedy and of course need
the money. he knows how to pick ‘em. we head out on the waters after a
proper British breakfast (chai latte, eggs and toast.) he lets us take
turns steering the engine. he calls to me and I take to the rutter. I
am the first female to drive this boat it seems. I decide at this
moment that Bhar Dar is the place for me. I shall return, buy a boat
and be a captain myself.
we plan to visit three or four islands and several churches. these
churches have been around for a very long time. they all house
replicas of the Arc of the Covenant which are under strict lock and
key. the stories of these living, spiritual sites are vast and varied.
but they all had a similar origin and purpose. the stories revolve
around Christian old testament history. the history is so mixed and
folkloric that at times it is hard to understand it all. historians
like to try to pinpoint dates and facts but the stories being told
don’t always allow for that. each of the twenty five islands has at
least one church. some have several. the largest island is the home of
two churches and 10,000 people. it is said that the Arc of the
Covenant was housed here for 10 centuries. this is Zege Bitamariam
Betagrogez. we stop here first.
a crowd of people is waiting like vulchers on the volcanic rocks where
we dock. the guides are waiting eagerly to be selected by the
visitors. the ones peddling their wares are eager to pursue as well.
it is a free for all. we push our way through, ahmed picks the best
guide and we’re off.
what we see: lush, jungly greenery. a sloppy, mud path dotted with
large volcanic rocks. the ever present aroma of animal or human waste.
alas, a round structure with a thatched roof. an ornate cross fixed to
the highest point of the roof. the kalash. stone steps. an outer
prayer area. the floor made of bamboo, lassoed together with sinew. we
are informed that over 700 cattle were killed for its making.
ahamdalah! the walls surrounding the secretive, inner chamber are
painted with the story of Christ, Mother Mary and Joseph. the faces
and depictions are simple, colorful and expressive. they make me
happy. it seems familiar. wood, straw, mud, sticks, clay and grasses
have been utilized for the structure. there is a stillness here. the
man at the door holds a long rifle. he is serious with twinkling eyes.
the next church on the island is similar. but more silent. there are
several children playing outside and a few trees bursting with lemons.
it too is a circle, thatched roof, simplistic- ornate cross kalash
anchord to the top of the roof. I choose to sit in the prayer area and
meditate on a piece of wood while the rest of the group hears the
guide discuss the details of the church. the little, armed guard
dressed in green is determined to watch me and ensure that I am not up
to buda (magic) no doubt. I am transcending deeply and experience this
place as it radiates out to the universe. I am brought to tears by the
majesty of it all. I open my eyes, the guard is standing at the door
watching me. he smiles. he knows. I put my shoes on and run after the
group. they are getting swarmed by artifact sellers. pieces of
parchment and hide with paintings on them. pages from holy books with
Ge’ez written on them. crosses and coins. pieces of painted wood. we
select our finds and get back in the boat. our lil’ captain takes us
to the next island.
two more islands. Intorsee Yeseus and then Debra Mariam. Debra Mariam
was especially fulfilling. Mother Mary supposedly stayed on this
island with Jesus for nine days. we walked into the church and it
smelled of roses. her presence here was obvious. the monk watching
over the church was extremely humble, jovial and had a special twinkle
in his eyes. both Miranda and I were blessed by him. he would not
forget our names. and when we prayed, he would help us. it was sweet
and satisfying. so much silence and comfort. faith.
we learn from a guide we picked up at one of the islands that ancient
Ge’ez writings were done with a special ink that utilizes roasted
coffee beans. the monks would then mash them and mix it with dirt and
then a lemon like plant that would set it. the red writing on some of
the pages is red. this is from a black clay that is burned/fired and
then turns red.
Ge’ez is the ancient language that pre-dates Amaringia. it’s roots are
in Sabai- Sheba’s language and supposedly comes from her empire. it
was brought to the country by monk Yadid in the 6th century. He
organized Ge’ez into a language and put it into bible format. it has
been used ever since and is taken very seriously. the monks read and
recite in Ge’ez.
Bahr Dar. Sights and Sounds.
Churches and Mosques chanting in the early morning hours. darkness
fades as the light of dawn emerges. the chants and prayers are
broadcast for the whole town to hear. they bless the head waters of
the Nile. I meditate under the mosquito netting- with the priests and
monks. the vibezz.
quite possibly the best sleep of my life. deep and full. daybreak
brings blessings and clarity. brown, golden water as far as the eye
can see. small islands dot the horizon and my vision. motorboats take
the feringe and locals to the islands for spritual connections.
Heading North.
The grass is turning electric green. the horizon is taking dimension
and shape now as we head north toward the mountains. texturized
terrain. beautiful blankets and dresses. healthier cows and rapidly
flowing streams where people bathe and wash. clean laundry scattered
in the sun. little bwois with curly tufts of hair on top of their
shaved heads.
road block. we pass a bus accident that holds up traffic. groups of
people line the side of the road with their goods.
a blanket of purple flowers. long, yellow flowers pointing towards the
sun. large bundles atop heads. burdens tied to backs. donkey slaves.
human slaves. the loads are heavy. the road is long.
passing through Addis Zemen now. We begin the climb. rocky terrain. an
enormous boulder directs attention towards the heavens. curving roads.
steep ascent upwards. large, deep potholes. co-pilot (redalt) swati
jr. keeping Gash Umar company in the front of the cruiser. some needed
solitude from the crew.
cruising through Azezu. bright hollyhocks, turquoise houses. grass
growing out of the rain gutters. urban Aids/HIV clinic.
urban sprawl starts as we enter Gondar. a notoriously rough town.
gangs and the like. Ahmed tells us his story of the time he and Fati
were on the way to the Simien Mountains and they stayed the night in
Gondar. a large, gang of kids followed them to their pension, ripping
Fati’s bag and threatening them. after realizing that the workers at
the pension were in cahoots with the gang, Fati and Aha and their
scout quickly went to a new pension, escorted by some police.
Counting Lessons.
a stop for lunch in Gondar. Italian restaurant. (the Italian invasion
left an epecurian impact on the country. macciato, pasta, breads,
pizza etc.) I step outside for some leg stretching and air. a new
friend approaches. a little girl selling “softs” (tissue) and gum. I
opt not to buy anything and instead create a conversation with her. we
start counting. we count from one to ten in Amharic. we count again.
and again. I ask her where she lives. she lives with her uncle. her
mother and father passed last year. she is six or seven. goes to
school. has one brother. I tell her to stay in school. I ask her
friend to tell her to stay in school. when Ahmed returns, I tell him
to tell her to stay in school. she gets it. we go across the street to
the stationary (general store.) I buy her two notebooks. she wants
five. I say two is enough. we take some photos. I give her three burr.
I load back into the cruiser and we head out. I stick my head out the
window and see her pass, counting a stack of burr. she waves at me,
winks and then blows me a kiss. I send her one back. later, the crew
laughs at me. in miranda’s guide book, it warns of the scams in
Gondar. one of them is buying notebooks for kids who just return them
to the stationary for money. no wonder she wanted five! no worries.
all is perfect. in Sha’Allah.
up the mountain
up the mountain.
changing tracks. narrowly missing a child who suddenly runs out into
the road. a screeching halt. Gash Umar saves the day once again. I see
the scene play out as it occurs. inches. moments. blessings. Allah is
watching Gash announces. all is fine. the mother grabs the child in
fearful anger. parting words….
three are fasting in the crew. Ramadan. tempers are short during the
day. hungry bellies. I am refusing to be involved.
a struggle.
it is Ramadan Ahmed reminds us. when he breaks fast, he expects a
feast. that feast must include meat. these are the ways. the rest of
the bwois declare this is their way as well. so they decide on
slaughtering a sheep tonight. our scout/guard: a man named Nagoosey
Adanen- which means “to heal.” he carries a large rifle that hasn’t
been used in thirty years, wears a little green beret perched on his
head, is humble, kind and sweet and loves to be a part of photographs.
he suggests talking to the next shepherd we see. so we stop. the bwois
all trek out to the field to talk to the shepherd. with video camera.
I see Ahmed grab a reddish colored sheep. force it to the ground and
check it over. the shepherd is delighted. they pay him. then a big
to-do occurs. where will the sheep go for the rest of the ride? Umar
insists that it can’t be tied to the roof. the shepherd can’t bring it
to the campsite. so the bwois stuff it in the back with them. then
joke about it peeing or pooping on them. I hear the sheep let out a
whimper. it knows it’s fate. I am distraught at this point and can’t
help but feel saddness. little to no attention has been put on making
this a sacred act. I could do with out the jokes about how to
slaughter it. it seems childish and barbaric to say the least. the
joking and lightness further discourage me from seeing this as a
Ramadan “necessity.” when we arrive at the campsite, all unload. I
hear the bwois yelling about getting the blades and preparing to slit
its throat. they want the slaughter on video. I prepare to take a
solitary hike for meditation. I look behind me and see a sweet and
humble being, legs tied together, laying in the grass, waiting for its
death. it knows all. it is clear. it’s dharma is a reality and is
coming to an end. in moments. I can’t help but cry. I cry for all the
animals. all the slaughters. all the beings who are in the cycle. of
birth. death. slavery. torture. all beings. all. there is perfection
somewhere in all of this. it is a miserable perfection.
Simien style.
giant carpets of wildflowers and herbs. everytime I take a step,
beautiful aromas engulf me. thyme, flowered scents, delicious colors,
scenery and landscape. this is pure joy and perfection. sitting atop
the peaks. with the clouds rolling past. the sun then takes over. then
clouds roll in again. a daily cycle. I sit on the edge of a cliff.
rocks cradle me and give me a meditation seat. I open my eyes suddenly
as a hawk glides past. my eyes close. light and purity in my sight.
Simien peaks. rocks. san cablo is our spot. with an irie circle
kitchen with a thatched roof. the sheep massacre earlier in the day
saddens me and leaves me needing solitude. I trek to a peaceful spot
alone. at the edge of a mountain, I take my seat. yellow flowered
carpets surround me. I sit at the edge of the universe. a perfect spot
for r and r (relaxin’ and reflectin’.) all returns to sacredness and
is overstood. when the eyes open, another hawk sighting. rainbow’s and
waterfalls. mountains and texture as far as the eye can see. depth.
huts magically appear on the visual canvas. I recline on my bed of
rocks. gratitude and joy return. I return to light. by the time I
arrive back to the campsite, normalization occurs.
geladas and more.
after two nights in the Simiens at two different campsites, we pack it
up. rolling out early in the morn. watered dews. thyme and grass
spritzers. sleepy-eyed wildflowers. sun’s intensity begins. Hopper’s
egg delight and black coffee. a PB&J for the road. tent is folded. we
load and roll. more gelada sightings (a type of monkey/baboon.) gelada
life is eventful and full or surprises. snapshots and amazing footage.
lucky spectacles and scenes. close contacts. the community is playing
out its daily life. mothers nurse their babes. teen males fight for
their authority. we witness some sexual dramas that are quite
intriguing. a large, older male forces himself on a younger male. then
demands to be groomed by him. this scene plays out a few times until
finally the older male prefers to “play with himself.” both are
“excited.” males force themselves on females. loud gelada voices fill
the air. if you get too close, they bare their teeth.
we load back into the cruiser. a lucky encounter to say the least. we
pass travelers on foot. scout tells us that they are headed to Debark-
a full day’s walk on foot if you start in the wee hours of the morn.
he is co-captain currently and has lively dialogue with Gash Umar in
the front.
sun on the skin. heat is rising. rose water and tea tree cools my
face. scents and sights. passing the new eco-lodge that has been built
on a high mountain. is has all the amenities and boasts eco-compassion
and a positive community agenda. I like it.
a large flock of birds lifts off and fly above my head. the sound of a
thousand wings flapping through the sky. gliding just above me. it
feels like I could take of with them. Ahamdala!
Al Qaeda passes. these are the crazy isuzu trucks. always overburdened
with goods, people hanging off the sides. they take hair pin turns
with audacity and fearlessness. the passengers don’t even flinch.
often they are transporting massive chat. (a leaf that is similar to
coco and is chewed in quantity here.) the drivers are chatted out as
well. half of the accidents you see on the side of the road are al
qaeda. they are crazy! crammed with bodies, animals and plastic jugs
and goods. driving wrecklessly around the curves. danger. but they
don’t seem to mind.
dropping scout off in Debark. his precious, curly haired daughter
meets him and takes his goods: the sheep pelt, some plastic bottles.
we tip him well for being such a brilliant member of the crew for the
last couple of days. we all will miss Nagoosey terribly. Ahmed tells
his boss at the rangers station that he deserves an advancement. we
promise to send pictures and stay in touch.
we head south where we will catch our road to Lalibela……
a stop to see the Falasha Jews. clay lions. baskets. smiles.
thirteen months of sunshine
Sunday, September 30, 2007
thirteen months of sunshine.
Lalibela.
Morning. churches. stone and carvings. churches carved out of the
mountains. solid stone. 24 years to make all of the churches,
including the biggest one. eleven churches total. built by king
lalibela during his reign. St. George, the church carved in the shape
of a cross. immense. set inside the earth. the depth. the angels
helped, of course. jesus gave king lalibela a golden cross that was
able to heal people. it was stolen but was found being sold in Belgium
for $2500. the stories are endless and many. we have been told
repeatedly, use your own brain to decide what facts are truth.
st. george. a monk and a nun mummified for 300 years. in the depth of
the walls. the stone walls in rich earth tones. bright oranges and
rusts. mosses and lichen cover the walls in yellows and bright greens.
intriguing network of underground tunnels and passageways. carved from
the stone. steep steps and stairwells. designer windows. intricate
shapes and patterns. chants and prayers. monks dressed in robes and
traditional hats. they carry their wooden hand crosses. a constant
reminder. when we take pictures, they wear sunglasses and hold tall
staffs with large crosses on the ends. an incongruous sight. the fleas
latch on to my pants. two days to rid myself of the flea invasion. we
return to st. george for sunset photos. I attempt a sirsasana. it is
not taken well. I give up on yoga next to the church. when in
lalibela…..
the red, bumby face rash seems to be diminishing. thanks to a lovely
cocktail blend of sun, malerone, pitta aggravating foods, travel and
sensitive whitie skin. the effects are lethal. on top of this blessed
mitigation, it should be announced that a very important transit has
occurred. today is a new day of days. I have now entered Buddha Guru
Guru (Mercury Jupiter Jupiter Dasha in Jyotish terms.) it is official.
according to the Vedic pundits. I can feel the change. though it might
now be complete and official for two weeks or so if we are using
Parashara’s system…..but the change is in the air.
crazy breakfast guests. Country to my left spouting off some
gibberish. Sean talking lovely smack as per usual. then jettin’ with
toast still in his mouth. ahh. the bwois.
the sounds of chanting monks filling the air. the holy breezes of
Lalibela. cleanish clothes. some good rest, meditation, yoga and food
under my belt. a must. feeling fine. feeling good. passing through
town on our way out. monks passing by. a long, bumby road ahead. and
hilly climbs on our way to Desai. Umars’ home turf. textiles await.
back on the road.
land cruiser conversations. I tune out. too much time together. not
enough alone, inward time. some solitude is in order. it becomes
obvious now that we’re back in the confines of the auto.
no solitude till Brooklyn….
more villages passing. grassy thatched roofs. wombyn carrying large
burdens on their backs. young, little shepards. animals run
archaically across the roads. captain swerves to miss them. we all
shout “gobez, captain!!” (good work, captain!) as he narrowly misses a
goat.
another day in paradise.
driving through Marsa. captain pulls to the side abruptly. “five
minutes.” he says. we see him greeting and hugging a man in joyful
reunion. apparently an old friend from twenty years ago. a sudden
meeting on the side of the road.
we are in muslim territory. more mosques than churches. more round
hats and hajib. tall camels carry burdenous loads. tropical plants.
sugar cane, papaya, guava, banana….we stop to fill the air in a tire.
a group of bwois gather at the car. Ahmed says something about Ramadan
to the bwois. one of whom is eating a guava. he asks why he’s not
fasting. one of the bwois responds for him and says the boy in on his
medicine. “for what?” asks Ahmed. “HIV.” he says. Ahmed tells him
that’s not a joking matter. “it’s not a joke.” the boy says. “here in
Marsa, having HIV is like having malaria.” the tire is full. captain
slams the door. yells “zorbat!!” to the boys (scram!) and we speed of
eagerly toward Desai.
often the level of conversation on this journey leaves something to be
desired. egos get old really fast. the egos in this car could light up
the night sky at times! someone liberate us. fast.
gash umar is joyful to spend the night with his family and kindred. we
enjoy a nice dinner and celebrate at the hotel. another late night.
chalk it up to Ramadan.
towards addis.
on the way home…back to addis…leaving Desai. immaculate, muslim men in
long shirt dresses and headwear. little, sparkly hats. wombyn with
full head wraps. camels packed with big loads. a rope tied around
their heads and in their mouths for leading. happy faces carrying
bright umbrellas. sun protection. dust. more bumby roads. hotter sun.
blessed breezes.
breath.
breathing. sometimes a chore. especially when in addis or other
cities. exhaust, diesel, dust, fumes, smoke and heat. a difficult
combination. sometimes breath is impossible. often restricted. I put
my shirt over my nose. inhale. exhale. the air is visibly dark and
grey. hazy. no one else seems to notice.
Gerrard to Country: “do you have any pop o tin, country?” the gum of
choice. from Taiwan. apple flavor? country has been getting charged
ferrenge prices for gum. more humor to add to the pile.
the parties.
in some way, it’s been one, long party since I arrived. greeted with
huge spliffs, hugs and beats. late nights and chat fests. eight people
raging it from addis to lalibela and back. shashe to wendo genets and
beyond. when we are home, in addis, the parties increase. when we’re
on the road, nights become a celebration as well. overjoyed for being
out of the car, breaking fast for Ramadan and happy to be alive. so
the chat and ganja sessions continue to manifest themselves. dusk
brings breaking fast and a mood of celebration for the whole group.
back in addis, two reggae shows at meskal square. late night skanking.
music. one drops and beats. happy crowds and laughter. and afterwards,
the after parties. we trek home. with a motley crew of ferrenge and a
couple abisha. we take over the street. two bwois from Israel. another
from Norway. Miranda and hopper. josh and gerrard. country and aha.
timezkin decorated brightly in his red, gold and green attire. fatoom.
jahvin from the UK. me.
we bust through the front doors. kick off our shoes. I take to the
controls. “blaze it up salectah!!” they shout. “pull up! pull up!
rewind. big ups!!” jah cure streams out of the speakers. the riddumz
come loud and strong. the spliffs are big and plentiful. the room is
smokey and full of intense energy. the night goes on. the dance floor
is energized. I keep the riddumz coming.
these are the timez.
ferrenge prices.
it’s known. we’re ferrenge. whities. foreigners. so we’re expected to
pay more. we have more. it’s known. If it weren’t for Ahmed, fighting
for fair pricing for his group of ferrengies, we’d all be paying 60
burr for a papaya. one must be quite savvy. argue your way to a
reasonable pricing agreement. from hotel rooms, to pop o tin, to softs
from the street kids. ferrenge pricing is taxed. it helps to speak
amaringha and to prove you are more acclimated to abisha ways. but try
as you might, you’re still white.
southbound.
heading towards shashamane. hotter weather. not so rocky. flower farms
and huge greenhouses. roadside markets brimming with hubhub
(watermelon) and tomatoes. beautiful wombyn with super curly hair.
tight ringlets. short bangs. bobs. distinct in face, hair and dress.
Oromo country.
huge termite mounds dot the landscape. tall, skinny trees with flat
ubrella tops. short, bushy trees. fields. crops. foods. cacti. bush
land…
no words.
speaking without words. the exchange of glances. the nods. with eyes.
mouth and smiles. the wink. the way the body moves. the body response.
all is based on intuition. intuition is lively here. I cultivate
stronger senses. I am finally able to use my skills to their
worthiness. and converse without speaking….my first chai latte was
ordered through telepathy. uncle ahmed knew I wanted one. he looked up
at the barrista. pointed to his cup, pointed to me. held up one
finger. then gave a nod. my chai latte came perfectly seven minutes
later. I’ve been in love with them ever since. no words necessary.
here, we use vibezz. I am becoming trained in the art of not talking.
flat tires.
flat tire number four. on the way to shashe. ok, three flats. one
blowout. all seem to time themselves well and fortunately. the blowout
occurred as we stopped to look at wool rugs somewhere on the way to
lalibela. I was standing next to the car as the tire blew. I thought a
grenade had been thrown. my left ear rang for twenty three hours. a
crowd gathered around me as I teared up and crouched on the ground.
blessings from God. God will protect me. they say. we change the tire
and get back to the potholes.
today, it was a loud pop and sizzle. we stop. a crowd gathers.
curiosity. ever-present. the tire garage just happened to be right
there next to us. we give thanks to the coyote trickster once again.
tire is fixed. we drive on. south.
shashe way.
we might as well be in JA. the lam lam (greenery) is so intense and
thick. fruit trees and lushness. rolling mountains covered in green.
day hikes up in the hills to visit fresh springs. raging waters. warm
pools. small waterfalls streaming from the mountains. vines to swing
from. sun bathing and cleansing. fresh. refreshed.
we arrive. early. our connections are not in sight. Dahvia signing up
for school. Ras Paul en route from addis. we wait. spice tea warms us
at the shop in front of Dahvia’s house. we sit in a dark, mud shack
with metal roof. long, narrow, wooden benches to sit upon. a young
girl hacks sugar cane with a blunt blade. Dahvia returns. wearing
criss attire. white runners, red pants, a polo shirt and golden tam. a
beautiful rasta youth mon. his mother: pure abisha. his father: a
repatriated JA rasta and head of the twelve tribes of Israel here in
shashe. HQ is down the road. (rasta head quarters. where humble vibez
aren’t notorious apparently. ahmed and hopper depict a strict and
unwelcoming vibe.)
Dahvia, though, is pure refreshment. his humble
spirit and constant reflection are inspirational. his skin shines. his
white teeth gleem. his locks are perky and full of life. he speaks
with his eyes which exude his heart’s mind. he has the ability to
revitalize and uplift his rasta roots. we are upful.
late night chats and spliffs and reggae on vinyl with Ras Paul.
Kickin’ it in his yard. a UK/JA repatriated rasta and his young daughter Tsion. the air is thick and the conversations intellectually
spiritual. his home: the best yet. red, gold and green are utilized
throughout as accent color. nearby craftsman created his large dining
table and bamboo couch (inlaid with star of Judah weaving.) it is
neat. tidy. well made. brick and concrete. metal windows and shutters.
an outdoor oven. open kitchen. he tells us two and a half years to
build and 9,000 burr….we set up our tents in his yard. a cactus tree
of huge, ample stature. tall grasses. hibiscus bushes. tiny, bright
birds. parrots. pure niceness.
ferrenge status.
rolling through another “checkpoint.” whitie in the front seat. waved
through by the military police in blue uniforms. again. we’ve only
been stopped by one checkpoint in all of Ethiopia. on the way back
into Addis from the north. even then, they barely hassled us. such an
oxymoron. we’re charged more for everything. we’re expected to pay.
because we can afford it. actual ferrenge prices are utilized at
hotels, restaurants and such. abisha prices are also in place. we’re
easy to spot anywhere. we get hassled and heckled and attract immense
and persistant crowds. we also walk through armed guards and gates and
make our way to the best parts of the stadium for concerts during
millennium celebrations. we drive through checkpoints. people want to
carry our bags for us. they do things that anyone else would never
normally do. even if paid. colonialization has left it’s mark. in
fact, the marks are vivid and still quite alive and well. this is a
strange sort of status.
duppy bidness
I actually expected it at some point. some way. some how. try as I
might and as careful as I’ve been, duppy found his way with me. the
night after our day at the springs, I was taken swiftly by the belly
aches and nausea. food poisoning. some fear rose in me. we had all
eaten from the same platter. all cooked foods. no one else had the
slightest of reactions. the bwois all swam in the same waters that
day. no one felt a thing. I recalled the rack of bright yellow bananas
that ahmed bought as we left the pools. we all voraciously ate a few.
I had a very ripe one. but so did the rest of the crew. so we’ll never
know what took over my belly and kept me weak for days after. still,
four days later, I can’t look at shiro or injera. it is sad to think.
but sait la vie. thankfully, now I am out of bed and even survived
the long, strenuous ride home from shashe as an invalid. (literally
barely holding it together in the front seat with Gash Umar as we
lurch, pop, stop and accelerate, the beats ever loud and streaming.)
the house was an oasis. my bed: a dream come true. I stayed there,
curled up in fetal position, not moving for what seemed like a day or
two. the loving and tender care of Miranda was a god send. Hopper and
Ahmed checking on me diligently. heading back to addis a day early,
just in case a doctor was needed for me. the café was a buzz with
concern and questions. the love is blatant here.
I was given mint tea and banana cake to revive my self. the window and
curtains flung open to let in air and light. a welcome visit from the
two sisters at the back of the house. they point to my stomach. their
eyes ask the questions. I express all is “turruno” now. (it is good.)
smiles and acknowledgements are exchanged. they bring in the rest of
the laundry from the line. the house is quiet. all are out and about
addis. the silence is welcomed.
towards the end….
Saturday, October 6, 2007
fitsum on his wife: “she will come from the sky like a queen and have true love for me.”
cell phones.
besides the government and corporate monopoly on cell phone service in the country (there’s only one provider), there are other more pressing issues. like, does your cell phone even work. half of the time, no it won’t. you will hear “no service at this time.” the lines are down. texting is obsolete (though for the millennium, the country was promised texting service again. and it did come back. for a day.) people accept this without a fight. it is accepted quite complacently in fact. when the cellies do work, all over the streets and shops you will hear “hello, hello, hello.” atleast three “hellos” usually acknowledges some sort of connection has been made. some will hang up if they don’t hear atleast three of the hellos- thinking that the service cut out for some reason. the practicality of this is hearing if the phone connection is actually working. it is humorous and has made a few jokes amongst us ferrenge. especially when fatoom answers his phone at the dinner table. (we of course let him know that answering your celli at the dinner table, is like singing at the dinner table for abisha. a no, no.) the oldschool cell phones in this country are also funny. and hard to use. but, Ethiopia, as we’ve suggested, is a bit 80’s style. welcome to the past….
fitsum and temeskin.
it is common. there are many street kids. some get luckier than others. some have more potential and drive than others. it’s an age old tale. back when Ahmed was living in Addis, two, young neighborhood boys hung out around the café. temeskin’s mother has eight children to deal with. her husband has died. fitsum has a mother and father and several sisters and brothers as well. the bwois needed direction and a bit of guidance. ahmed noticed and aimed to set them up right. he helped them get some clothes, paid for school fees and had them start helping out at the café. now they are both bonafied husslahs. fitsum likes to play the part more than temeskin and does it so well it is fully believable. fitsum’s celli is always ringing. he’s always on call. his top three buttons of his shirt, always unbuttoned. a chain shows around his neck. when he stands in place, he usually incorporates a little swaggery dance to it. “what does he hussle?” Miranda asks ahmed. “people.” ahmed responds. he takes things to people. carry’s things, carry’s people. shuffles things around. ahmed might call him to pick me up at the Sheratin and bring me home. or uncle Rashad will call him to fulfill a task somewhere in Addis. he works for multiple people. multiple sources. he knows the streets. well. everywhere we go, fitsum is greeting someone he knows and saying hello. he likes to play the part. he’s sauve. his character is large. they call him “the Investor” in his hood. he’s sixteen. with a huge heart and a knack for languages and speaking. his counterpart, temeskin is quite the opposite. soft and gentle. few words. tight curly head of hair. his heart speaks before he does. you can’t help but hug him. he defines the word adorable. his style of jeans is uniquely temeskin and reminds me of 70’s style. these two are obvious soul brothers. they speak the same language. a language they only know. their job is a big responsibility and I have often felt the pressure on them. they are good at what they do. and do what they are good at.
mi’tu and sarah.
sometimes you run across little souls that inspire and bring the awe back. the day I met Mi’tu and Sarah, I was reminded. Mi’tu: a petite and clear-eyed child with a perfect smile and eyes that read your thoughts. her closest comrade, sistren and protector is Sarah. a bit older than Mi’tu and a foot taller. she resembles Mi’tu. is full of hugs. invites you in with her heart and won’t let you go. her smile is brilliant and her eyes sparkle. we dance together on the street. they teach me songs. we know what move is coming next just by looking into each others eyes and reading body language. we read minds. such a rare connection. we admire each other with long looks. hug each other tenderly as though we were long lost family. they have so much love to give. uncle Ahmeds tells us horror stories outside the café one day. street kids are at immeasurable risk in multiple ways. they often have no family to speak of. they’re on their own trying to live. eat. sleep. hussle. families and businesses often offer some relief to the lucky ones. either with some food, a little work, maybe some clothes or school tuition. at night, they find a spot of street to sleep on. no protection from sexual forcefullness, the cops or the weather. uncle Ahmed explains that many of the female beggars with a child strapped to their back, have been raped. they most likely did not choose to have a child. but because you can get more money this way, it often works in their favor. (though some just rent a child from someone else in order to get a few extra burr.) Mit’tu and Sarah both sleep on Temeskin’s stoop for a burr or so a night. I can’t bear the thought of either one of them being raped continuously through out their lives. especially through out their entire childhood. uncle Ahmed breaks down the reality. “they don’t know any difference.” he explains. no one has ever schooled them that this isn’t normal or ok. consequently, they never discuss it with anyone or try to prevent it. these thoughts are unusual to me. but make sense. Mi’tu and Sarah are golden children. they have the spark. and they will be brilliant in any capacity. but they are from the street. and it will take huge shifts for this to be otherwise. though they’ve been taken in and brought to the family home, the girls eventually run off. back to the streets. their home.
the last night.
it started off strange I suppose. considering I missed hopper and ahmed while I was out making last minute calls and buying my 3 kilos of buna before departure. they obviously we’re anxious to break fast. it was after 6:30 (12:30 abisha time.) by the time I got back to the house, the car and the bwois were gone to the café. only a note and a celli were left for me. I called ahmed and in between bites, he let me know that he’d send temeskin for me and no worries we’d catch mini bus and see you soon. my packing was going well. all the Ethiopian goods made it into the red suitcase. Temeskin arrived and we walked to the hustle and bustle of Bole where we hopped on the mini bus with the man hanging out the sliding door yelling “mexico!!” fool, bread and veg made especially by the kitchen for me. last meal at the café. I give long thanks and praises before I depart…..we drive home. Abraham, Fitsum, temeskin and hopper in the back. it doesn’t look like I’ll get sleep before I have to be at the airport at two a.m. so we start a lil’ rager. Abraham is hittin’ the chat hard. but no one notices. (we’ve been hangin’ with Gash Umar after all.) sittin’ around the round table, reggae vibez loud, rollin’ massive spliff action and conversing. as per usual. only tonight, minus the large group of people. at some point Abraham starts his freak out episode. I enter the scene after he runs to the porch and repeatedly washes himself with water then sits in a chair clutching the Ko’ran muttering chapters to ward off satan. his heart is beating fast and his breath is tight. he eases up, then becomes vicious suddenly. he tears off down the drive yelling and screaming and climbing up the front gate. the bwois run after him in a panic. it takes all four of them to hold him down and pull him off the gate. he doesn’t let up. his yelling intensifies. the neighborhood wakes up. lights turn on all the way down our street. a wombyn from her fourth floor apartment sticks her head out the window and hollers to quiet down. a pack of dogs is speaking and adding to the commotion. the cops arrive. ahmed runs into the house in sheer panic. “get rid of the ganja!!!” he yells to me. we frantically eradicate all the greenage in the house. stashing it. throwing it. hiding it. my heart is beating fast. Abraham is still in destruction mode. the boys are still trying to hold him down. they try to calm him. but in his craze, he bites ahmed through the shirt, drawing blood and leaving huge teeth marks. by now, the guard and the lady in the back and her sister have arrived on the scene to see what the issue is. “should they bring holy water?” they ask. the cops seem to have disappeared, but the tension is still thick and fierce. the house dog is standing near. we watch. we wait. we mutter prayers and positive thoughts. his breathing calms. his mind seems to have let up. the boys lift him and carry him to the house. seeing him in the light, he is noticeably pale. I take his pulse and place my other hand on his heart. I start to breathe deeply and put my intention on prana. his breathing lengthens and becomes shallow. he starts to snore softly, his eyes closed. we prop his head up with another pillow and try to remove any remaining chat from his mouth. hopper stays near and keeps vigil. I light a candle to entice the angels. we gather in ahmeds room to rehash and discuss the events. temeskin and fatoom have seen this before. they are convinced it is spirit work. work of satan. it is common in Ethiopia. very common. they say. holy water and sometimes exorcism is the only answer. ahmed and I exchange glances. “it wouldn’t hurt.” I say. we realize the time. I have to be at the airport in 35 minutes. I gather my belongings. I give my hugs, my blessings and best wishes. I tear up as I hug and kiss temeskin and fatoom goodbye. “two years time.” fitsum says putting on his macho attitude and trying to be brave for my departure. temeskin looks at me and gives a nod. “in sha’Allah.” I say. Ahmed and I drive off. down the dark, bumpy alleyway to Bole.
broken. but in tact.
mild issues I carry home with me. souvenirs. my stomach is still talking back. I believe there to be some small critters in habitation of my gut. my skin is broken out, peeling, itchy and is in desperate need of a facial. I have remnants of bites and bugs all over my body. do I still have fleas? several hours in cairo left me dry and in need of hydration. yet, my spirits are high. I am filled with joy and new overstandings. the African reality has left a lasting impression. a sense of groundedness has seeped into my being now. I am infused with the rich roots of the African continent. the low chi. the spiritual force. the natural essences of life. I’m feelin’ the vibezz.
note to self:
in need of demitasse set and silver tray. macciatos are a must!
