I’m on the road at last, after six Europe-bound months. This time my adventures take me to Ethiopia. I arrived in Addis Ababa reclining luxuriously like the Queen of Sheba on an almost empty plane. A minor embarassment ensued at immigration, during which the the officer queried the whereabouts of my accommodation. I felt uneasy at pronouncing the full name, ‘Mr Martin’s Cozy Place’, particularly because the passenger in the queue behind me was holding a diplomatic passport and looked rather more chic than me. I quietly slid a printout of the address under the screen rather than announcing the name of my intimate lodgings to the world. From then on it became easier, as it seems to be known locally as Cozy Martin. (Said Cozy Martin later turned out to be a tall Bavarian called Danny.)
As I stepped out of the airport my nose immediately told me that I was somewhere special. I could sense a earthy, warming spice in the air, which only increased upon my arrival in town. It was, I realised, the homely smell of woodsmoke and something else, something perfumed, that I had smelled on the clothes of one of the Ethiopian PhD students at work during a large warm hug. I had arrived into Africa and it smelled like home.
The first port of call after checking in, of course, was a cold beer. I found a cheery little cafe just next door showing the Chelsea-Arsenal match, interspersed every few minutes with a pop-up stating that timely payment had not been received and that service may be terminated shortly. Happily we all arrived at the end of the match without any broadcasting withdrawals. It wasn’t long after that I was joined by a local offering his number and that of his fellow tour guides. I declined politely with the reasonable explanation that I had no plans to call him whether I had the means to do so or not.
In the morning, fortified by two stiff coffees, I headed museumwards. First was the National Museum which houses Lucy (locally known as Dinknesh), our ancestor from 3.2 million years ago. Lucy’s floor was the only one which provided lighting; I peered at the other dusty exhibits through the murky gloom of a heavily curtained room. Next was the Ethnological Museum; this time I was forewarned. “No lights,” I was told by several people as I bought my ticket. It added an element of discovery to an already interesting museum; housed within Emperor Haile Selassie’s former palace - a building much more fascinating on the inside than the outside - I nosed my way into various ornate rooms with high ceilings and obscure portraits, and once was accosted by a large stuffed lion. One of the most interesting exhibits, an exquisitely wrought silver cup, had (I read) been loaned to the Victoria and Albert museum back home. There were a lot of empty vitrines.
On the first floor among the detailed explanations and cultural artefacts of the Ethiopian tribes, I found several local stories, most of which went something like this:
Evelyn Waugh wrote of Addis during his trip to Haile Selassie’s coronation in 1930, "Addis Ababa is a new town; so new, indeed, that not a single piece of it appears to be finished… It was not that here and there one observed traces of imperfect completion, occasional scaffolding, or patches of unset concrete; the whole town seemed still in a rudimentary stage of construction. At every corner were half-finished buildings, some had been already abandoned.” From what I seen thus far, not much has changed in ninety years. There seems to be a lot of construction, but it is hard to tell whether buildings are going up or down, or whether they are simply destined to be preserved in a skeletal state of raw twisted metal and crumbling brick as a memorial to the missing construction workers. One thing is clear: scaffolding must be a lucrative business here. Dangling from leaning beams are occasional advertising gems: “Semen Hotel” (named incorrectly after Semien Province, my dirty-minded reader), the “Bible Army International Group”, and “Bambi’s Shopping Mall” (not a place in which to lose your mother.)
In the afternoon, after firmly shaking off two overly friendly men who had decided, unasked, to incorporate my entire itinerary into their Sunday walk, I wandered, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. I had yet to find the heart and soul of the city; wherever I walked I felt as if I was still within the banlieues. I was “accompanied” a few times, but the number of people greeting me in a friendly manner and kindly warning me against hasslers outweighed the hasslers themselves.
Nearing the end of my first day here, I am not quite sure what to make of it all. It is tempting to abandon ship and fly tomorrow to Lalibela and then Gonder, and spend as little time here as possible. And yet… and yet… I have felt all day that the soul of Addis is just around the corner. Perhaps it simply isn’t finished yet.
______
______
As I stepped out of the airport my nose immediately told me that I was somewhere special. I could sense a earthy, warming spice in the air, which only increased upon my arrival in town. It was, I realised, the homely smell of woodsmoke and something else, something perfumed, that I had smelled on the clothes of one of the Ethiopian PhD students at work during a large warm hug. I had arrived into Africa and it smelled like home.
The first port of call after checking in, of course, was a cold beer. I found a cheery little cafe just next door showing the Chelsea-Arsenal match, interspersed every few minutes with a pop-up stating that timely payment had not been received and that service may be terminated shortly. Happily we all arrived at the end of the match without any broadcasting withdrawals. It wasn’t long after that I was joined by a local offering his number and that of his fellow tour guides. I declined politely with the reasonable explanation that I had no plans to call him whether I had the means to do so or not.
In the morning, fortified by two stiff coffees, I headed museumwards. First was the National Museum which houses Lucy (locally known as Dinknesh), our ancestor from 3.2 million years ago. Lucy’s floor was the only one which provided lighting; I peered at the other dusty exhibits through the murky gloom of a heavily curtained room. Next was the Ethnological Museum; this time I was forewarned. “No lights,” I was told by several people as I bought my ticket. It added an element of discovery to an already interesting museum; housed within Emperor Haile Selassie’s former palace - a building much more fascinating on the inside than the outside - I nosed my way into various ornate rooms with high ceilings and obscure portraits, and once was accosted by a large stuffed lion. One of the most interesting exhibits, an exquisitely wrought silver cup, had (I read) been loaned to the Victoria and Albert museum back home. There were a lot of empty vitrines.
On the first floor among the detailed explanations and cultural artefacts of the Ethiopian tribes, I found several local stories, most of which went something like this:
There was a lion, and donkey and a shrew. The donkey was hardworking, and the shrew was lazy. “Why don’t you get out of bed earlier”, asked the lion to the shrew. The shrew fell down dead. The donkey carried the shrew to the field. The shrew awoke and yawned. “Why did the shrew fall down dead when I spoke to it, but went back to being alive when you spoke?” asked the lion of the donkey. The donkey replied, “Because I work hard, and you are a lion". The shrew left the meeting. The moral of this tale is that if you don’t work hard you may suddenly die, and also the irrelevance of the lion.On the top floor were religious pieces of art, including some intricately painted sixteenth century diptychs and triptychs. The captions, however, far outshone the detail. Painted by the “Master of Eyebrows”, read one (the eyebrows of his Lord Jesus had been minimalist at best). “Master of Elongated Beards,” read another. These spectacular descriptions had been echoed on the ethnological floor, where I found a wooden carving of seven figures and a snake-like leopard. “Man killed by the hero.” was the first figure, then: “second wife”, “main hero”, "first wife”, hero killed by the main hero”, “wife of hero killed by the main hero”, and finally, “leopard killed by the main hero”. A sorry tale, but at least following the tragedy family gatherings should be less argumentative.
Evelyn Waugh wrote of Addis during his trip to Haile Selassie’s coronation in 1930, "Addis Ababa is a new town; so new, indeed, that not a single piece of it appears to be finished… It was not that here and there one observed traces of imperfect completion, occasional scaffolding, or patches of unset concrete; the whole town seemed still in a rudimentary stage of construction. At every corner were half-finished buildings, some had been already abandoned.” From what I seen thus far, not much has changed in ninety years. There seems to be a lot of construction, but it is hard to tell whether buildings are going up or down, or whether they are simply destined to be preserved in a skeletal state of raw twisted metal and crumbling brick as a memorial to the missing construction workers. One thing is clear: scaffolding must be a lucrative business here. Dangling from leaning beams are occasional advertising gems: “Semen Hotel” (named incorrectly after Semien Province, my dirty-minded reader), the “Bible Army International Group”, and “Bambi’s Shopping Mall” (not a place in which to lose your mother.)
In the afternoon, after firmly shaking off two overly friendly men who had decided, unasked, to incorporate my entire itinerary into their Sunday walk, I wandered, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. I had yet to find the heart and soul of the city; wherever I walked I felt as if I was still within the banlieues. I was “accompanied” a few times, but the number of people greeting me in a friendly manner and kindly warning me against hasslers outweighed the hasslers themselves.
Nearing the end of my first day here, I am not quite sure what to make of it all. It is tempting to abandon ship and fly tomorrow to Lalibela and then Gonder, and spend as little time here as possible. And yet… and yet… I have felt all day that the soul of Addis is just around the corner. Perhaps it simply isn’t finished yet.
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Or see more posts here: Get in the tuktuk, no time to explain
More on Ethiopia:
The Intelligent Woman’s Guide to Ethiopia
Into Africa
How to rectify a bad decision
Lalibela: Ashendye women's festival
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