If you get stuttered visuals or clicks in the sound, try the low-bandwidth version here:
Yesterday I had dinner with a guy named Brandon. A couple of weeks ago he was in the Democratic Republic of Congo, backpacking through a warzone. Having refused to pay a bribe to one of the Congolese soldiers who wanted to fine him for photographing a river, he hung out with them instead, and got a lift with their military convoy going into North Kivu. Apparently he was useful as a white guy, since they claimed to each checkpoint they were escorting him and needed to rush through without paying bribes. When they stopped in a village to eat papaya and peanuts, he found himself holding their AK-47s—even though a loose rock on the road while driving would prompt everyone to release their safety catches and prepare for a rebel ambush. All this reminds me about the exhilaration of proper backpacking: the delicate nexus of bravery and cavalier stupidity.
Anyway, that’s a bit different from my own experience here in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. I’ve been here for the last 3 weeks, living quite regally in a hotel room dating from the 1890s. It is large, with high ceilings, a huge veneered wardrobe, velvet armchairs, a porcelain sink, and a hatstand. My balcony overlooks a tiered lawn below, with waiters shuttling trays of drinks when there are customers, and a view of the jumbled city stretching out towards an extinct volcano in the distance. I’ve been staring at this view quite a lot while struggling to finish a report on African cities for the World Bank, and am now studying for MIT exams. The only downside of the room is that there’s no bathroom, and I have to be careful of absent-minded mistakes with the two water bottles I keep in the room instead; one for drinking, one not.
It rains regularly twice a day. Storm clouds gather on the mountains opposite my balcony, the sky darkens, and rain starts running in streams down the streets. This is normally the time I play Verdi’s Requiem at full volume, revelling in this simulated apocalypse. But Addis remains very relaxed: not much commotion, everyone very polite. The rain and muddy streets make good business for the hordes of shoe-shine boys sitting on their little crates waiting for business. I duck into a small shop for a mix of papaya, mango, guava and avocado juice. Avocados really do have juice! Outside a few children pursue me down the street for money; when I hand some over they—like almost everyone else in Addis—take it by supporting their right forearm with their left hand, as a mark of politeness.
I wanted to come back to Ethiopia next year to study what happens when members of different ethnic groups—who may hold strong prejudicial views out in the regions—trade with each other in the city. Do urban economic interactions promote a reduction in intergroup prejudice? Fortunately for Ethiopia (but unfortunately for my research) Addis seems like such a remarkably peaceful city (of between 5 and 9 million people—no-one knows quite how many), that I’m now thinking I should choose somewhere else. Even if I just studied how and why it is ethnically peaceful, I’d need some variance in the outcome to be sure what was causing it; but there are very few instances of ethnic rioting elsewhere in Ethiopia too.
Last night after dinner with Brandon I stopped by a couple of bars on my street for beers. Incredible (albeit drunken) warmth from Ethiopians in the bars. Yes, every single place was such a crowded sausage-fest I began to wonder if I’d walked into a gay bar by mistake. But the atmosphere was still great—each bar was darkened and loud, raucous dancing, with softly flashing multi-coloured lights, and a range of music from Ethiopian tunes to ‘King of the Dancehall’ playing on the speakers. People instantly gave up their seats for me, offered their space at the bar, pulled me on to the dancefloor. Then, when I got home I read a newspaper article from Ireland, which is currently causing consternation in Ethiopia, titled “Africa is giving nothing to anyone -- apart from AIDS”.
