Addis Ababa in June

Addis Ababa, Ethiopia on 13 June 2019

Ermias has gone to do necessary errands before we fly tomorrow to the Seychelles.  Suzy is packing and preparing herself at home.  I have had the morning and afternoon to myself.  I slept 3 hours, my head still in a different time zone.  I am taking advantage of the natural sunlight that fills the living room.  The harsh and inadequate lighting at night strains my eyes.  I am sitting in the corner of the L shaped, Longhorn burnt orange sofa which is comfortable, but torn in places with wear. The temperature is perfect.  My tea, water and the debris of last night’s card game are on the coffee table.  Terebeza, table in Amharic.  My phone also lays on the coffee table, silent without internet connection.  The bright pink and purple spotted beach towel lays across the arm of the sofa, an alternative blanket for Ermi or Suzy when they are cold at night.  “No Signal” reads on the TV screen.  I smell the parsley on my hands from cooking dinner which bubbles on the stove.  The copper colored curtains are drawn back so that I have a view of the street outside, as well as the soccer field through the thin line of trees across the street.  It is the perfect perch to watch people.  The boys walking together with their arms draped around one another; the man with the wide stride, arms out like wings as he talks on the phone; the older men greeting one another wearing almost identical clothing of brown leather jackets, dark pants, and black shoes; the life that pours out of a “taxi” van when it stops at the corner; the Muslim with his white shawl, steel blue hat and umbrella in his hand; the men of all ages who stop to pee in the weeds next to the street; the bicyclist who holds onto the window of a van for a free ride; the big bosomed women who lead with their chest and an attitude of dominance; the frail, watchful girls walking fast and with purpose; those burdened with bags carried high on their backs, the contents unknown; children balanced precariously on top of unsecured loads; the young men carrying colorful items to sell to the stopped cars.  So much humanity.  And the sounds are ceaseless:  2 quick honk blasts,  roars of a dozen motors,  whine of motorcycles, rhythmic hammering of construction,  high pitch voices of conversation,  echo of steps on tile, pots being put to use, occasional Amharic music with its pulsing beat and vibrato vocals, and predictable chants that broadcast from the mosques at holy hours.  This city of 10 million is never silent.  It blooms with activity.  I find myself intrigued with all the variety of cars, trucks and equipment bearing brand names I have never heard of in Arabic, Chinese, European, American, Japanese and others.  A red “HOWO Sinotruk” has sat at the entrance to the hotel lot since morning, empty.  Similarly, the clothing is diverse in color and origin.  A woman wears a jacket that reads “Boliva” walking with a man who wears an American letterman’s jacket with the name “Jennifer” embroidered on the lapel.  As it starts to rain, umbrellas of every color appear – sheltering one to four people under each rim.  Where are they going?  Others go nowhere.  One man lays on his back under a large lorry to repair something in the engine.  Four young men sit around watching either learning or giving unsolicited advice.   Toward the end of the street is a bar where other groups of young men sit drinking beer, chewing chat, and passing time with easy laughter.  There are no defeated faces among them.