Postcards from Ethiopia

My first thought on boarding the flight to Ethiopia and finding my seat was: “Wow, Lufthansa rocks!” Captain style, plush seat, leg room to spare, and a smiling stewardess offering a freshly fluffed pillow.

I immediately started playing with the remote control for my seat. Legs out, back straight; back down, legs straight; or completely prone. I pondered the possibilities as a bearded dignitary waited patiently in the aisle. Holding up the line was a young white kid, with haphazard dreadlocks to his waist and a Bob Marley t-shirt on. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to ask the waitress a question, or if he was possibly choking on a hairball from his dredlock. Doctor senses alerted, I watched him with narrowed eyes, waiting for the diagnosis to declare itself, as I mentally reviewed the Heimlich remover and how to do a tracheotomy with a Bic pen. Seconds later, in a broad Midwest accent, he disappointedly said, “No, no, I don’t speak German. That’s Amheric! Don’t you understand Amheric?” The stewardesses blinked in surprise. They hadn’t recognized his variation of their native tongue, but they smiled politely and ushered him to his seat. As one of them returned with a glass of freshly chilled champagne, I suddenly realized I was in the Promised Land: Business Class.

Seven hours and thirty eight minutes later, I yawned contentedly, stretched with a smile, and disembarked the plane. My traveling companion stared at me with equal parts disgust and envy. “You were asleep before the plane even took off, and you slept the whole time! How do you do that?!” It’s just my special gift. I simply can’t stay awake on plane rides. Oh, and I win raffles with an unusually high frequency.

The international air terminal in Addis Ababa is a cavernous room, half heartedly illuminated by flickering florescent lights. Our pale blue diplomatic passports got us waved to the front of a line where a bored official branded them. “Welcome to Ethiopia, have nice stay,” she spoke through her yawn. I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to be one of those mainly white people who go to Africa for a few days, and come home with corn rows, indigenous clothing, and speaking in reverent tones of having had a life changing experience. None the less, my heart bounded with excitement. I was in Africa! A whole new continent!

“Three minutes!” the young woman in the official vest had proclaimed. We’d walked right past the metal detector and “Immigration Suggestion” desk, sent our bags through an unmanned X-ray machine, and exited the main terminal. Our hotel had promised a “Speedy Shuttle” as part of their guest services, and we were greeted by a smiling clerk in a mint green uniform, as we entered the seething masses of humanity outside the terminal. I guess the business travelers are that easy to pick out. She carefully checked our names off a list, and assured us that the driver would pick us up in three minutes.

We politely smiled, and I inwardly placed bets as to how long three minutes would turn out to be. Thirty minutes? Probably. Three hours? God, I hoped not. I was still charmed by the specificity of the time promised. Not a few minutes, not five minutes, or a little while, but three minutes. Thirty minutes later, the clerk leaned over the counter and reassured, “Three minutes he say! I talk him on cell phone.” She carefully reapplied lipstick, banged out a text message on her cell phone and began to shed her uniform. Was she abandoning us to our wait alone? Many choruses of “three minutes” later, her cell phone chirped. Visibly relieved, she ushered us out the door, down a winding cement ramp, and into a parking jungle.

Cars, animals, people and luggage were strewn about haphazardly. Wending our way through the dark obstacle course, we finally came upon a van with the “Jupiter Hotel: Two hotels, one concept” motto emblazoned on its side. The driver stubbed out his cigarette and threw our suitcases in the back. The clerk hopped into the passenger seat.

“How far is the hotel?” my traveling companion asked. “Oh, it’s three minutes!” called the driver, as we sped out into the darkened street, narrowly missing a goat taking a piss on the center lane. About three minutes later, another chirp from the cell phone had us swerving, braking and turning around to go back to the terminal.
“We very close, get more passengers now.” The clerk explained. “Take three minutes.”

The charm of this promise was starting to wear off. Forty minutes later, the van was packed full, and we again set off into the night. The social worker sandwiched in between the driver and the clerk visibly tensed as we careened out of the parking lot. Again. We arrived without further adventure to our hotel, but then we passed it. To drop the clerk off first. Smiling, she wished us goodnight, and said “Hotel very close. You be there three minutes.”

And finally, two and a half hours after we arrived in Addis, we made the 5 kilometer journey to our hotel. The smiling doorman, grabbed our bags, and undid the rope so that we could walk to the side of the metal detector. The security guard, rifle in hand, affably nodded. “Welcome to Addis!”



I groaned and hit snooze. Besides the jet lag, I’d spent the last seven hours turning and coughing, trying to fall asleep in a room permeated by the stench of tobacco and penetrated by the pounding of Ethiopian techno. The driving bass line was punctuated with amelodic wailing. When I did sleep, it was to dream of cats in labor, locked in a drum. I blame the soundtrack. The music died down for a few hours, but then at 430 the day’s rhythm began. Lumbering diesel trucks shifting into low gear. Workmen calling greetings to each other as they waited for transport. A surly rooster. Women arranging displays of produce on blankets by the roadside. That damn music again.

As I swung my feet to the side of the bed, and staggered into the day, my eyes burned from the haze of smoke that clung to the curtains, carpet and blankets in the room. I wandered to the room’s window to get my first look at Addis Ababa in the sunlight. The windows were caked with dust, so I pushed on the rusty catch until the window swung open into the daylight. Facing me, across the crumbling road, was a row of one room stores shaped by cement blocks and covered with slats of painted wood. A shoeshine boy took swipes at kamikaze flies as he waited for customers. Clustered behind the store, amidst concrete rubble, multiple burn piles and assorted rubbish heaps, dwellings sprang from the earth. A slab of corrugated metal propped against a wedge of splintered wood, carefully covered with a plastic tarp.


As the caffeine hit my bloodstream, my enthusiasm picked up. Today we were meeting with teams from reproductive health clinics throughout Ethiopia. In Africa, maternal mortality is still at insane rates. Throughout most of Africa, 1 in 30 women dies in childbirth. In Afghanistan, being pregnant is even more perilous, about 1 in 12 women. That’s a stat that deserves a pause. What’s cause for baby showers, baby moons, and “pushing presents” in the United States kills an awful lot of women in Africa. With unplanned pregnancies accounting for about half of all pregnancies in the U.S (and half of these ending in abortion), it’s not surprising that in Africa the situation is even more dire. Fewer resources of every kind whether it’s contraception or a health care provider. Restrictive laws. The doctors we were meeting with were giving us feedback on our new guidelines to help reduce unsafe abortion globally. In Ethiopia, there is no scarcity of patients.

How would I describe the moon that night? A razor sharp crescent, fierce yellow beams enveloping glittering stars. The darkness of the sky wrapped around us, despite the brilliant constellations. No street lights, porch lights or neon signs. The rare beam of light from a passing car briefly illuminated the path. I carefully placed each foot, feeling each stone, pot hole and assorted menace through the sole of my foot as I made my way. I wondered again, silently, at the wisdom of walking to the "Abyssinian Cultural Center," where we were to meet our group for a traditional Ethiopian dinner. My supervisor had assured me blithely that "it would be fine", but the hotel security guard had looked doubtful, and I felt like soon I would be starring in an episode of Law and Order. The streets were quiet.

Down an unmarked alley we finally saw the bright lights of the restaurant. A goat tethered outside the front door bleated angrily. Sorry, little guy. No ngiri or beer for you! The restaurant was packed. Rows and rows of tables faced a stage where dancers whirled, movements so fast colors and limbs difficult to discern. Waitresses in bright coral dresses swarmed past us, trays of beer, coffee and assorted beverages held high above their heads.

This was clearly a popular tourist destination. After six months in Europe and at the UN, I have gotten pretty good at profiling foreigners. The table in suits, with shovel-shaped jaws, still sporting name tags I identified as oil businessman. The tables with ill fitting cotton dresses and unattractive, yet comfortable footwear, were obviously aid workers.

“Obama!!!!!” The cry startled me as I hopped out of our Jeep, and I blinked in the bright Ethiopian sun as I glanced around. Was the U.S President also in Addis Ababa? Jet lag is almost as effective as being post call for knocking points off of the IQ. I caught the eye of a gaggle of teenagers waiting near the Family Guidance Association of Ethiopia’s clinic and was rewarded with gap-toothed smiles and another chorus of Oooooo-bama! Oh. They meant us. A small girl with almond eyes, elaborate braids, and a striped Hello Kitty shirt stared in fascination as one of the teenagers loped across the courtyard to make our acquaintance.


“Hello! Hello, hello!” he exclaimed, as he reached out to shake each of our hands. “You know Obama, yes? He good man, yes?”
We all nodded and smiled, offered a bouquet of assents. Our agreement caused a smile that threatened to split his face in half, and he jabbed his thumb to his chest for emphasis. “Yeeee-SSssh!” he nodded vigorously, “Bush he bad man.” This got him high fives.

Variations of this conversation were repeated over and over during the dusty days I spent in Addis. Obama pride is huge in Africa, his Kenyan heritage makes him a native son.

Patients formed a queue that extended from the clinic's front door, along the front of the white washed building, along the side, and to a courtyard in the back where folding chairs and umbrellas would shield their wait from the hot Ethiopian sun. A woman clad in leopard print leggings with a long tunic and turquoise heels jabbered into her cell phone. The little girl with almond eyes ran to hug the leg of a woman clad from head to toe in layers of white muslin, her bright eyes followed our steps through the yard.


One of the nurses we had met the day before enthusiastically burst out of the clinic to greet us. "Hello, hello!" We smiled and greeted her, kissed cheeks. Her energy and pride was infectious, words poured from her, as she showed us each room. In between faltering descriptions in English to us, she called greetings in Amheric to the waiting patients. The little girl with almond eyes had followed us in. She stood in the narrow hallway where patients were lined up waiting. The nurse clicked her tongue, uttered a few words and patted her on the head. Four rooms, three nurses, two doctors: two hundred patients a day. One day. Five to twenty rape victims. A day. Five to ten safe abortions. Five to fifteen complications from unsafe abortions. HIV care. Prenatal care. Vasectomies. Tubal sterilizations under local. The operating room had stained lace curtains, a metal stretcher, and pots holding antiseptic and steel instruments.

"Integrated care," the nurse carefully enunciated each syllable of the catchphrase. She then smiled and said simply, "Whatever she may need, we do."