13monthsofsunshine

We have yet another scheme to use the internet freely, and it is working so far. I will now do an electronic "knock-on-wood" and move our blog back to Blogger. Apologizes to those who set up accounts in order to leave us comments, and especial apologies to Auntie Dearest, who will have to bookmark us yet again, in her "favorites". You should have lots of practice by now!

From now on, go to: jessbrian.blogspot.com

Ciao!

ADDIS ABABA, March 17 (Reuters) - Ethiopia this week ran out of Coca-Cola after its local bottler said it no longer had enough foreign currency to buy bottle tops.

The East African Bottling Share Company -- who have exclusive rights to bottle the drink in Ethiopia -- said they were forced to temporarily close their two plants in the Horn of Africa nation and send their 1,000 workers on compulsory leave.

"The company sent its ... workers on forced annual leave with full pay and the fate of the firm will be decided at a meeting of the board ... next week," it said in a statement.

Coca-Cola franchises its bottling worldwide to local companies and local legislation often makes it difficult for them to intervene in such situations.

Hotels and bars in capital Addis Ababa ran out of the drink late last week and began offering rival brand Pepsi to customers.

Bottle-top shortages have hit other companies in the poor country that has struggled to find foreign currency during the financial crisis.

Producers of Harar beer and Hakim Stout also cut production.

Local bottle-top manufacturers have been unable to keep up with demand from bottling companies who can no longer afford to source the tops abroad.

The company is also struggling to buy the concentrate needed to make the drink.

Street children have been collecting the tops from the streets of capital Addis Ababa and selling them back to companies to recycle. They are being paid around 20 U.S. cent for a kg.

Saudi-Ethiopian oil tycoon Sheikh Al-Amoudi, last week named by Forbes as the 43rd richest man in the world, distributes Pepsi in the Horn of Africa nation. (Reporting by Tsegaye Tadesse)

There are several permanent residents in the ICS compound (not counting the director and his wife). Cutie is easy to spot, her shell still sports remnants of blue paint that was applied several years ago in a misguided attempt at school spirit by the 11th grade class. Tina Turner is shy and less likely to camp out in the middle of the track or tennis courts, in the middle of whatever is going on. A third, as yet unnamed African spur tortoise took up residence over Christmas, donated by a teacher who rescued him (?) from somewhere. They all live in an area that is about one third of the campus and contains the sports fields and early childhood classrooms and play areas. The rest of the campus is inaccessible to them, as it would involve descending some rather steep stone steps. Or so I assumed. Today, just as the elementary students were beginning to leave class, I walked up to the cafeteria to return dishes which had been lingering in my office. Just outside the cafeteria, in the drop-off zone, is mystery tortoise, slowly meandering from the parking lot toward the offices. Either he took a serious tumble down the stairs or some pesky middleschoolers thought it would be funny to carry him down. I grabbed one of the facilities men and we carried him back up to the fields, one on either side of his shell. Luckily it was the smallest of the tortoises.

Another day I was giving a tour to a prospective family and we encountered two of the tortoises, going at it outside the ECE fence. Two teaching assistants stood watching - older women, slightly naive. Both were exclaiming over how strange it was that these tortoises were fighting. The prospective father, video camera in hand, starts chuckling behind his hand, as it was clear to both of us that it was not fighting we were observing, as one tortoise repeatedly climbed on top of the other, to a rhythmic soundtrack of grunts.

Cutie and her four-year-old fan club

Shy Tina

Boom! Boom! I wake to the sound of big guns firing in the early morning. I
don't disturb Brian at first, waiting to hear if there is a pattern. The
blasts are regularly spaced and I slowly remember that it is a holiday, the
anniversary of Ethiopia's defeat of the Italians over a hundred years ago.
They fire 23 cannon blasts at 6 am to commemorate this event, from somewhere
past where we lived last year. Several Ethiopians have mentioned that it
will happen again next Monday, which is a holiday for Mohammed's birthday.

Those few seconds of alertness on Monday morning are a reminder to me that
we could someday wake to the sound of gunfire in the streets. Addis is safe,
but not always, not all the time. The president of Guinea-Bissau was killed
last week; the government of Sudan has banished NGOs working in Dafur,
including reputable organizations such as CARE, Save the Children, Medicins
Sans Frontiers. In Ethiopia we go to work, to dinner, to soccer, but one day
we could be going to the helicopters, to get out. We work with teachers who
have been evacuated from places like Niger and Pakistan. I don't expect it
to happen, but we cannot exist without acknowledging that it could happen.

I'm probably not going to finish writing about our Kenya trip...so here are a few photos, highlights of the remainder of the trip. I visited Ugunja, experienced flying with a local internal airline (probably one of the only times I will buy my ticket, with cash, 20 minutes before the flight leaves), spent a wonderful family Christmas in Naivasha, complete with roast goat, ugali and a terrifying rabbit, read books lounging by the water and ate some tasty Swahili dishes.

Click here.

Ndiyo, tunaweza!

For over a year, I stuck with our blogger blog, through thick, thin and experimental posting techniques. Finally, I had enough - I was defeated by the Ethiopians and their Chinese technology. I found Vox, which I do not particularly like, but it is free and the "vox" name reminds me of "Vox Clamantis in Deserto", the Dartmouth motto. Habesha.vox.com was not taken (habesha means Ethiopian, not that I feel qualified to call myself such) and that was that.

Now, for the first time, I can get on the old blog. Not just to post, but to view the actual blog. Other formerly banned websites are available as well. Is this a real change or just a change in personnel at the telecom? I've heard that when a new guy comes in there (which happens often), they reconfigure everything and certain ports are unblocked for a while.

It is so tempting to return to the cozy comfort of Google - new posts are easier, it loads faster, uploading photos is much more simple. But, in the same way that I know not to have my heart set on one specific dish at a restaurant here, I know that I cannot count on this change being permanent. If I still have access come next August, maybe I will consider returning.

****
In other news, yesterday was our second ever tennis lesson. Brian already wants to play a game, and while our instructor is very impressed with our hand-eye coordinator and power (thank you, ultimate), I think we need a few more fundamentals before moving forward. Our instructor has taught tennis forever at ICS and gets into an easy rhythm of hitting and coaching, peppered with cliches and the occasional unexpected Americanism that he has picked up from years of working with foreigners ("oopsy-daisy!"). My wrists are sore and my sneakers dusty with the red clay from the courts, but I think I could get to like this game.

Another 9th grade advisor sacrificed honor and dignity for 40 seconds this year and danced with a student up in front of the entire secondary school. However, if we are staying for another two years, that is another two spirit weeks in which Brian may have to dance. After all, there are ony three class advisors...

Tug of War

Cheering on the Ninth Grade

Nobody liked the 15-hour bus ride on the first day of the Bale Mountains trip last year, so we reorganized the itinerary and left a day early to avoid such a long trip. We were on schedule until just after lunchtime.

After the first of many mediocre-to-terrible pasta lunches, I walked out into the parking lot to see our kids loitering around two of the buses, entertaining themselves with group jump rope and a frisbee marking drill Brian had taught them. There's always a bit of waiting involved, as the drivers finish their machiattos, or as the bathroom line inches its way forward. But this time, the general shortage of fuel in the south of the country meant an hour and a half of waiting in Shashamene, homeland of Rastafarians everywhere, while one of our drivers searched throughout town for fuel. Even once he found it, the electricity went out, preventing him from actually pumping the fuel.

Ironically, we had driven the entire morning with a open jerrycan of benzene in the back of the big bus, kids complaining about the "gas station smell". But we were trying to prepare for later in the trip, when there would be less fuel available and empty tanks in the buses. More on fuel later.

We finally rolled into Dinsho, several hours short of Goba, our first stop last year, but at the same time we arrived last year. Tents were already set up for us, and Ato Danel had a hot cinnamon tea boiling on the fire.

Brian enjoys the morning sunshine at our Dinsho campsite

Brian finger-jousts with the big kids...

...and with the smaller kids

Everyone broke camp the next morning (the kids became experts at setting up and taking down tents) and much too slowly, we left Dinsho to head up to the Senetti Plateau.

The inevitable "sleeping on the bus" photo

That afternoon, evening and following morning were spent at 4000+ meters above sea level, on the desolate plateau. Home to hundreds of thousands of rodents, including the 1 kg (2.2 lbs) giant molerat, the plateau is dotted with tunnels, sparse vegetation and the occasional herd of cattle. The kids battled the wind to set up a cosy campsite and we played elbow tag in the dark to keep them warm as the temperature dropped and dropped.

The chaperones also got into the jump-rope action

Despite much complaining, no one was cold enough in the night to come wake up a chaperone, so when we all awoke early the next morning for our wolf walk, there were many exclamations over the transformation of the landscape. We were in the clouds, and the mist had frozen into frost on every tent and exposed surface.

Early morning in our campsite on the plateau

Out looking for wolves

The plateau slowly warms up

Last year we did not sleep on the plateau, and had to take an early bus ride up to the plateau to try to catch the wolves out early marking their territory. This year we woke up in the middle of a cloud, and walked out through a white and quiet landscape, after a quick cup of tea to keep us warm. The wolves were out and we even saw a little hunting later in the morning. The Ethiopian wolf is a solitary hunter, as little assistance is needed to catch a giant molerat, but otherwise is a gregarious canine that lives in packs like other wolf species.

Ethiopian wolf

Giant molerat with a symbiotic bird that eats insects and warns the molerat of the wolf's approach

For the second morning in a row, we broke camp and packed the vans, as the kids did a population study based on counts of giant molerat holes in quadrants spread out over the plateau. As we sped across the plain, we saw a familiar truck heading toward us, carrying Ato Danel and all our food. He had gone out ahead of us to start lunch, but on his way down the switchbacks on the other side of the plateau, his route was almost blocked by an 18-wheeler that was unsuccessfully trying to summit the plateau. In our infinite chaperone wisdom, we quickly conferred and decided, as raindrops started to hit us, that it wasn't worth the risk of taking the buses down to the forest and not being able to get back up again. Back to Goba we go!

Fortunately for us, there were just enough rooms for students and chaperones at the one decent hotel in Goba to accommodate all the chaperones and kids (our local plant expert and the camp guard with his AK47 had to sleep in the buses). Unfortunately for the French and Italian birdwatchers also at the hotel, we filled every nook and cranny of the place with 14 and 15 year olds excited for a shower and a soda. As the rooms were being negotiated, some chaperones lectured a few students with discipline issues, another gamely played Duck Duck Goose with the bulk of the kids, and the remainder of the chaperones ran around to each hotel room to remove the condoms that had been thoughtfully left on the bedside tables. These kids probably wouldn't use them for their intended purpose, but there was a definite risk of air and water balloons appearing.

We got another bad restaurant meal (I definitely preferred the giant pots of good-tasting slop that Ato Danel served up for us in camp) and a good night's sleep. Not going to the Harenna Forest meant less driving for us, but we still needed petrol. Wednesday morning we stopped in Robe to get fuel. The BP station had fuel, but anyone wishing to buy said fuel had to go to the government offices for an official paper that allowed him or her to buy the fuel. This was a surprisingly short delay, however, and we were soon off to Dinsho yet again.

The whole purpose of this trip is science, and the area surrounding Dinsho provided some great opportunities for that. The kids did kick sampling in a Dr. Seussian creek, funny waders and everything, and we observed mountain nyala, Menilik's bushbuck and the everyday warthog around our campsite.

What's under those rocks...

Erik investigates some wolf scat

The highlight of our last night in Dinsho was an epic game of Kick the Can in the dark, which one student decided should be Kick the Rock, resulting in a possibly fractured toe and much pain. The most surprising kids were into the game, however - a girl who I could only categorize as a spoiled princess was down on her stomach in the dirt, determinedly crawling toward the can.

Our worst driving push was Thursday, over the worst possible road and through countless diversions. Most of the way, we drove alongside a well-prepped roadbed that only needed a coat of asphalt to be perfect. Brian, the perennial bus entertainer, was still going strong with riddles, Mafia and endless Uno games, and one enterprising student supplemented the fun with a boombox, replaying Beyonce, Britney Spears and Chris Brown ad nauseum. If anyone was unaware that a "diva is a female version of a hustler", I can fill you in on all the details.

Our last night was outside Shashamane, in an old government hotel where the emperor used to vacation. Again, we had not planned to stay here, and the same hapless French tourists were staying in our midst yet again. The reception desk blared quality 70s and 80s music, while just one look at the restaurant made you think you were in the space-age 1950s.

At the Wondo Genet Hotel

Our week started in Langano - Monday was a holiday, for Timkat (Ethiopian Epiphany), and we got caught in two processions on the drive back to Addis. On Timkat, each church takes the talbot (a model of the ark of the convenant, which is believed to be in Ethiopia) from the church and parades it down to a nearby water source. Mobs of people dressed in white surround the priest who is carrying the talbot, with colorful cloth umbrellas shading him as he walks. Singing and dancing are involved, as for most Ethiopian celebrations. And through this crowd come Brian and I in our car, driving around people and finally off-road, throwing up billows of dust into the festivities. Luckily we timed our departure so that we missed most of the processions - by Timkat afternoon, most have returned their talbots to the church (after starting in the middle of the night).

Monday night we attended our first Ethiopian wedding, for two of our coworkers. Leulseged is one of the few Ethiopians who I have convinced to play ultimate, and Seble is an assistant in the Athletics Office. The wedding was very small by Ethiopian standards, and almost started on time, another unusual occurance for Ethiopian weddings. Not that many people get married in a church, unless they are Protestant. Getting married in an Orthodox church involves various purifications and rituals, for all participants as well as attendees, so most get married at city hall and then have a big reception, which is an interesting amalgamation of Western conventions with a definite Ethiopian twist.

Jess, Seble, Leulseged and Brian

The wedding party was dressed in Western-style clothing, the bride in a beautiful white dress and the groom in a dashing red vest and black suit. The groomsmen (basically the entire tech department at ICS) and bridesmaids wore handtailored suits and matching dresses, respectively. The entire wedding party sat on a dias above the guests, in white chairs decorated with doves, as the photographer's blinding lights heated up the room. A buffet dinner mixed traditional food with lots of mysterious fried things, and each table had bottles of soda, beer or tej, a honey wine. After a brief first dance for the bride and groom, the pretense of Western-style dancing was abandoned and the Ethiopians crowded the tiny dance floor, little kids to grandmas, moving shoulders and singing along to the incomprehensible songs blaring over the loudspeakers. You can see how flattering the white lights were on the ferenjis in the crowd...

Dancing

Usually a late Monday night means we're knackered for the rest of the week, but there was no way we were missing Tuesday night, and "Obama Mia!", the unofficial inaugural ball. Over 300 people, a mix of expats and Ethiopians, gathered in the Juventus Club to eat and celebrate and get their photos taken with a cardboard cutout of the man of the hour/day/year. I was congratulated over and over again, as if I really had anything to do with the whole situation. The tables were decorated with Obama kangas from Kenya, noise-makers and champagne to toast the new president. We all stood as Obama was sworn in, and cheered only slightly louder for him as we did at the sight of Bush's helicopter disappearing off the big screen.

We Were There