surfing, running life and stories

Start with bowl of green scooped out of the hills. Drop Johannesburg gently on the slopes- pull the urban edge out a little further. Pick up the whole of Soweto, with all its beauty and rot and sprinkle it into the middle of the city. Paint in swipes of bright greens, red, yellows. Before starting on the finer detail of the a breathless city two kilometres above sea level, coat the whole image with beige dust, rust coloured roofs and thick diesel fumes.

The city begins to live. It is busy, blue and white Lada taxis, fast flowing streams of people. Pock-marked roads, and a cosmopolitan espresso culture of tailors, pizzerias, merchants selling ten meter long iron girders jutting out of their garage-like shop fronts. Above the growling United Nations Toyota Land cruisers, the architecture is New York, Rome, China and unquestionably Africa.

Bob Geldoff and his ego-laden empire carved a deep image in my mind of a hungry nation. Millions starving in Ethiopia. I can never think of Bangladesh, without thinking of the Beatles effort in the early seventies to save it from hunger through their Eastern flavoured concerts, as they grew their hair long and went all guru.

My eyes are not closed to the beggars with twisted limbs and the sad faced street children at the robots. And I am not analysing the economy of this beautiful, confused land, currently siding with the American war machine to bomb the shit out of neighbouring Somalia, cause they (the hate-filled US) cant find Bin Laden and are losing the Iraqi war. I know many friends and travellers would cringe. There is lots to cringe at. The inner city rivers clogged with thick debris. The crass government and NGO elite shoving their way through traffic to get to the glittering reception at the Sheraton and Hilton.

In the same way that South Africa is not all crime and Israel is not all war, it is so dangerous to portray a country with only one aspect, as I am guilty of in the previous paragraph toward the US, which I am flying to in 2 weeks time, and so offer a half hearted withdrawal. Ethiopia is not all thin limbed swollen bellied children. In my second night in Addis I was crippled by painful diarrhoea. I had an ice pick being thrust mercilessly into my gut and a hot iron poker piercing up my bum. Our BnB on the first night, booked by us via the internet was a back room of someone’s house in `Khayelitsha.’ As we politely tried to explain to our host the next morning why we were booking out and not staying for the three weeks we had booked for, my white lies were as obvious as the un-fresh bread I had hidden in my lap top bag. Unwilling to eat it and equally unwilling to insult the effort our host who had bustled around for over an hour preparing this unappetizing spread. But, the Coffee cleared my head and put a smile on my face.

We secure two rooms at the 80’s style-plush Hilton, but for three nights we need to vacate our rooms as Addis fills to the brim with an African Union Heads of State Conference. On Thursday night the Hilton is throbbing with the political termites. The press, NGO’s aides and wannabees try and stretch their expensive drinks out at the bar as they wait for the VIP to chance buy, so they can sell or buy their cause- I know, I used to be one of them. The security guards, with carelessly AK,s slung over their shoulders put on more of a pantomime. Black SUV’s and Mercedes darken the parking lot, but Thabo, Robert and friends will be at the arrogant Sheraton, plush to the extreme. Sitting watching late night British comedy on BBC prime, the concierge phones. He will be outside my room in a few minutes with the condom I ordered. I imagine the elegant, white gloved fellow at my door, with a single condom on a sliver tray, politely covered by a white napkin, I inform him that he must have the wrong room. Then I imagine the desperate fellow with his throbbing member and panting partner waiting for required sheaf.

Our Ministry of Finance host takes us on a dusk tour of the sprawling city. We stop at nine BnB’s., hotels and lodges and even those 30km out of town are full. On arriving back at the Hilton late on Thursday, our stay has been extended to include Friday night. By lunch-time on Friday our beds are almost guaranteed for Saturday, but Sunday and Monday are no-go. Friday lunch at the Ministry Cafeteria is a festival. The eating hall is thick with the sweet incense from the in door coal fire which is part of the coffee making ritual. I dip liberally into the local dishes, aware of the eyes of the staff, watching what we eat. The white-coated matron beaming that we are eating her food. Turning down the coffee, we rush back to the Hilton to check for accommodation. The streets are lined with armed police. There are police snipers on the roof, but the atmosphere is alive, busy and vibrant and, at least for me, there is a festival air about town. I worry that the work we are doing is not changing anything or adding value. But every waking minute I am learning, growing and being challenged. Addis is humbling. Addis is invigorating. Addis makes me wonder what South Africa would be like if the colonial regime had not clung onto power for so long.