The Lottery of Life
Added on Monday, June 2nd, 2008 by Carole Nash Editor
The Lottery of Life
Much of what I see of Ethiopia, or village life along any highway, is often one building thick. Between buildings you see the plains leading up to the mountains and whilst there would be agricultural communities scattered, there would be no real density of habitation for many thousands of square miles. 35kms south of Addis I walked the length of this ribbon strip of a small development. The International Tommy Hotel was the highest building on the left as I walked south, and a one story one room and charistically slow internet café on my right. Further down I found a spares shop and bought a strong bicycle pump to complete my survival and rescue package should I puncture. I had resolved to ride very carefully in the far south once entering Kenya. Preventation to a bike problem is easier for me to deal with than the cure!
Across the road three very black men were drinking avocado smoothies so I ordered one too. We were immediately into discussion about the state of Ethiopia and Africa in general. They told me that Africa’s problems lay with tribalism. The had horizontal cuts across their forehead, I counted at least six, and they said they were Nuwa from Juba. “So you wouldn’t like me if I were Dinka,” I said smiling and they laughed, “we like Dinka,” they said. But these are two very different tribes. A rather gay restauranter flounced out and started talking in French and when he said he wanted to go around the world with me, I prodded him in his stomach and said he was too fat.
Back up the road towards my hotel, Hotel Tommy was flashing on and off, demonstrating to everyone that it was not dependent on the generic power supply and could have electricity when it wanted. I sat opposite in the internet café and spent 30 minutes downloading and sending four very small photographs to my website. On google mail, there is a small green line at the bottom of the page that increases in size to denote the status of a file being sent. In Ethiopia, this movement is so slow as sometimes not to happen and I have learnt to do several other things while I wait. Much of my off-road activity is to do with snatching conversations and data transfer. If anything represents a parallel world, this is it. Whilst it’s still sometimes difficult to cross large cultural divides, and have something as simple as a conversation, you can, using 1′s and O’s binary code, squeeze bits of data down a heavily subscribed telephone line.
The next morning I set off at dawn and rode south. I have six or seven days to reach Lusaka in Zambia if I was to maintain a schedule which was still only a week behind the most optimistic position. This quite quick rythmn would have to be kept up all the way around the world.
All the big towns down to the south followed the pattern of Ethiopian road towns and sprawled right to the edge with its fruit vendors, it’s tyre repair people, bars and cafes. Considering most Ethiopians have few resources to fall back on, whatever it is they do, sing, shout, hassle and sell, they do with huge perseverance and fortitude. Not once did I hear a complaint. No mention of the lottery of life having given them a bum steer. This is one of the poorest countries in the world and wants to be seen as proud and surviving in an era of some progression.
South Spring Hotel in Awash, yellow birds swoop from trees in the courtyard in a cascade of song. It’s 11.21 on a Tuesday and I have 508 kms to ride to Moyale before setting off across the desert the following day.
Now the vegetation is lush. 400 kms from Moyale I am in Dilla. I stopped on the outskirts to rest and an english speaking guy embroiled me in conversation. We talked about tribalism, dividing lines, Russian literature and Dickens. How weird.
I felt more rested after a cola whilst he chewed the mildly narcotic leave called khat. Entering the town had a busy and industrious feel. It was less ragged than the side of the road, and the existance of a nicely run café, all spick and span with nice waitresses was the highlight of my day. By 2.30 in the afternoon it was muggy and there was the threat of rain. After filling up all my plastic corn oil bottles and having enjoyed the first meal of my day, omelette and coffee, frugally, quietly but not invisibly, I set off once again.
After the town of Awash, the asphalt rippled badly for about 80 miles. Along with the never ending stream of people that share this thin black line, progress was slow. Above large winged birds of prey hovered and then circled, all big enough to attack a fox. Here and there, freshly killed dogs all kind of looked the same when they die with their mouths splat open.
The soil turned red and the people were dressed more colourfully than I had seen. Now the girls wore beads of red and yellows, and greens and shawls saturated with solid primary colours. I had wondered across the boundary and into another tribal area. Camels were being herded and cattle by the hundred crossed the road. Small shrubs and trees with a flat extended canopy formed if not an archytypal African plain, endless trees and vegetation undulated to form several dusty horizons faraway. On the road cattle crossed. Large camels were prodded by sticks by children no taller than small shrubs. In the dark I ride to Yebella, into a gas station to refuel, and amazingly, opposite there is a motel.
