10-10-10 0740 Apartment, behind DH Geda Building, Bole, Addis Well, I finally know how to say where I live, because not knowing created a 'communication difficulty' as Beranu put it, when I said I was at the Kaldi Coffee bar on Bole. That turns out to be a little like saying I'm at the Starbucks on Lexington...
Kaldi uses a round Green/Black sign that is immediately recognizable, and obviously intentional. There are other similarities; the coffee is good, and the waitstaff are young and attractive, in their knockoff t shirts and serving aprons. The differences; nothing plastic (so the waitstaff also dry dishes when not waiting), there is table service (no behind counter barristas here) and I like the machiata for both size and taste
Of course, perhaps Kaldi's was where Starbucks got the logo plan, The myth (dating from the 17th centuray apparently) is that a goatherd named Kaldi noticed that his goats jumped higher after eating fruit from a local bush. He tried it too, and felt a lift. He took it to the head monk who, hearing its effect, disapproved and threw the fruit in the fire. The aroma was so good they raked them out and made the worlds first cup of coffee. OK, I didnt say you have to believe it, but as creation myths go, its pretty harmless.
On the way to Merkato yesterday, Direr the driver in charge of the SUV that belongs to the project we are working for, and who was my guide yesterday, wanted to stop and treat me to a coffee. There are many ways to do coffee in Ethiopia. This one was the walk in, pay for what you want and get a plastic marker, take that to the barristas, and get your coffee, cake, whatever. Lots of beans, lots of good smell, lots of newspapers frazzled about on the stand up tables, and the coffee was great, black, slightly grainy, so you get those tasty little bits to crunch towards the end. Direr was dressed for the market in the zip up top of a yellow and green ETHIOPIA warm up suit, jeans, and track shoes. I was dressed ferengi, as usual. We drove on, through increasing foot traffic, and finally crept the final few yards along a potholed lumpy street absolutely packed with people engaging the market. This is one of those circuses where you simply cannot watch the horses and the clowns and the smiling lady on the caparizoned elephant at the same time..one of those movies where De Mille has hired doubles for the extras and thrown in some cameo guest appearances as well. We jolted up to the guarded gate of a fenced parking lot, and left the SUV. A guy I thought was a parking lot guy talked with Direr and then led us off up the hill, around the corner, down a lane, over a construction mound, behind a long haul truck, in front of a herd of donkeys and then up some stairs and into a building where on the third floor (huff, puff) there was a Gallery aka store.
No, I am not going to say it was authentic and cheap. I have no idea if all of it was authentic, and it certainly wasnt cheap by Ethiopian standards. But it was one of the greatest hauls of stuff that I've ever encountered. Comparable to that mostly furniture and suchlike place in Santa Fe..I cant remember its name, but it goes on and on back into the dark corners of what seems like a whole city block. Or to what the New England Demolition place in New Bedford is for clawfoot bathtubs. But this was wooden head pillows and silver necklaces and orthodox crosses and carved wooden gizmos that open to show a large eyed vision of Mary on one side and Jesus on the other, all painted in that trans Mediterranean manner. And brass anklets, and clay labrum plugs and calabashes smelling of beer and of milk and mostly of human use. And bows and swords and camel bells and spoons....whoa...did I see spoons? Oh yeah, there was spoons. There were dark wood ones and light wood ones and horn ones and metal ones. And then, of course, there were some actual old ones.
There is a clarity of purpose and a determination of strength to a useful object that endures. Or maybe it was just lost under the flooboards or behind the stove. Anyway, it seemed to me the older stuff had a line, an attention to detail and finish, and a balanced feel that made it quite different than the new.
The prices, as I say, were pretty high at first. I usually deal with this by getting the first price, and then when I have about 5 first price items (it used to be 7 or so, but my memory isnt so good these days) I compute a price for all of them, and then ask the sellers price, and then haggle for a while on that, and then start taking away things i dont really want down to the 1-2 items that I do want. We were seated, by this time. No coffee...we werent at that level of transaction. Thats only happened with higher value (when we were buying bulky sweaters and tire sandals in Toluca to stock a store in P-town back after graduating from college) or with a different sense of time (as in Leh, Ladakh, and then it was thick sweet yak butter tea in small cups). This shopkeeper/salesperson was younger, and quite intense. It got complicated because I didnt have enough birr, and the dollar has a value of anywhere between 160 and 180 birr. But yes, I did end up with what I wanted, or at least part of it. Then the guy who had picked us up in the parking lot, and whom I had thought was a friend of Direr's (but was just a guy; Ethiopians are so cordial its sometimes hard to tell about actual intimacy) wanted to take us to look for Gabi's and neTela's, but on the way Direr communicated this should be a looking only experience. So we did. Then shook hands goodbye, and plunged further into Merkato.
Its supposed to be the largest market in Africa, but if so, I have an exaggerated memory of the souk in Cairo. But as rough and tumble markets go, on a Saturday Merkato is pretty grand. For one thing, the streets are as cobbled and rocky rough as any in Manali or Mwanza or Manaus. There are really potholes large enough to cripple an incautious SUV or even a Tiger tank. And in between the streets, the alleys and lanes, often covered to make a dim underworld of color and smell and human presence, are as powerful as anything I've experienced. The women and girls crouching under sales tables kneading dough. The wicker cages of chickens being doled out to men and boys who will carry handfulls of them to some awful fate. The clanging and banging of metal on metal in the lane of sheet metal, and the more muted and more regular clumping and banging of men in the street of leatherworking, where they turn rawhides and hard tanned leather into saddles and bridles. The smells of the lane of spices, vats of them, baskets of them, little carefully weighed smidgens of them...and not to far away, the high pitched shrieking ammoniacal smell of too many donkeys in too little space. Wedged in at various points are khat merchants, and khat chewers. Did I remember the oil sellers, and the coffee merchants...these are the green shelled beans...or sometimes just dried. Direr bought a kilo...I think I have to have sealed packages to bring in vegetable products these days.
If I sound like a Merkato convert, I guess I am. Found some admirable horn spoons...the wooden spoon nitche has been taken over by a chinese product wrapped in plastic...and fingered, smelled, even tasted a lot of other stuff. And looked. In most Ethiopian street situations, direct gaze isnt always appreciated or comfortable, but here it seemed normal. Smiling helps. Taking photographs of people is definitely not appreciated, and to their credit, just because you are buying something it does not mean you can photograph the seller. So I have to admit I resorted to suremptitious video...the Flip that I have looks like a phone rather than a camera, and so by just leaving it on, I did take some pictures, while Direr worried about it being wrenched from my hand.
And then we went, on our own, to the Gabi and neTala section, and bought some more stuff...pretty much exhausting my supply of birr. The Gabi is made by sewing together two of the standard widths of cloth, and thats done while you wait, on a foot powered sewing machine down the way. Give 10 birr to the tailor, please.
Whew, a tiring morning..4 hours in the market.
Spent the afternoon working on the project (meaning sitting at a computer in the apartment) and then met a new friend, Beranu, who when we eventually worked out on cell phones which Kaldi's Coffee I was at, picked me up in his dented but functional car and took me to the Che Guevara bar.
Yes, lets take a moment to remember that 43 years ago, on October 9th, Dr Guevara, physician, author, and revolutionary, was murdered after leaving Cuba to bring change (and presumably medical advice) to South America. Vale, Che!
The Che Guevara bar in Addis is on a side street not to far off Bole, and has an outside section, where we met with two of Beranu's age mates, which makes them slightly younger them me. We all turn out to have two children, but they dont have grandchildren yet. These are guys who have been down the river, over the waterfall and through the mill...time in prison, time out of the country, time in the government, and mostly time on the planet. It was a real pleasure to get buzzy on beer (they switched to Scotch) and hear about some aspects of life in Ethiopia that I hadn't heard much about before. In some ways, they have the same bemusement that I often feel...which is countered by the certainities of family and friendships, and to some extent mitigated by...well, remember what Sala once said (forgive my paraphrase if I have it wrong) ' You can't always win, but you usually know who the a**hole is"
So later than usual I was dropped off behind DH Geda tower with its multiple neon lit boutiques and its coffee bar, and said goodnight to the dog pack, the solitary and opaque cat, and the night watchman, and went to bed.
This morning, the beautiful family under the green cloth were just waking up. The three little ones shivered, still huddled together around mom. I passed over my usual contribution. Oh, the smile! Break my heart. The amplified calls to prayer were loud from the Orthodox Cathedral down the street. Its Sunday, and I will get back to work on the project now, I guess
Salama
Alan
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