Ancestral Plaster, Thrones and Mead

Ethiopia stuns me at every bend of the road, every vista, every occasion. I suppose a lot of my amazement with Ethiopia is due to my cluelessness about the country. While I have learnt quite a bit ever since my first visit, I am also aware of the depths of my ignorance. Aside from the very superficial and the very mythical, I knew nothing of the country.

The first visit to the country was short and busy, but still I managed to do what every self respecting tourist must do, by visiting Entoto Maryam (here), and then the next day after work, going to the national museum and having dinner in Yod Abyssinia

The national museum in Addis is a grand, greying old building that is home to artefacts from prehistoric times to modern day Ethiopia.

The most famous of  all those artefacts being Lucy, our 3.18 million years old ancestor, a female australopithecus afarensis, learn more about her here. In a room in what I remember being like a basement, in a glass coffin, laid against black cloth on a hard flat surface was our ancestor.

A range of emotions flooded over me; excitement (OMG, this is it, I am in the presence of history,...in the same room, staring at it in THE FACE!); Interior design rage (My Lord, the lighting is terrible, has the curator not read Snow White- you know, crystal coffin-a very well padded and comfortable looking casket that was, in a meadow, with the sunrays gently filtering through the leaves), Sadness( I mean this is our ancestor, and she is splayed with the indecency of human remains display that only museums know how to bring about) and a range of other mostly negative feelings. Sad really.

I made a silent prayer to her, to her and all the people who have trod the land before we did, to watch over me and those I love and to rest in peace. My Burundian catholic upbringing inferred (really just inferred) that pleas to departed ancestors were as potent as an Ave Maria, that there was no need to shed and discard our traditional spirituality, our link to what lies ahead, the comforting thought that we are beings made of the eternal stuff, that we will ALWAYS be here.

Watch over us Lucy.

And then, I read the plaque that said it was a plaster cast of the real thing. Crestfallen I was. I’m still cross. But I know she heard from wherever she is. Watch over us. Watch over us.

After that shattering disappointment, the visit continued through time, through the amazing journey that Ethiopia went through to become an empire. There is a room, an atrium really, with the crowns and robes and jewellery of the Negus, his family and his entourage. Even one of his thrones is there, a bulky wooden affair with a dusty red velvet cushion.

In his book the Emperor, Rysjard Kapucinski describes the life at court and in one particular instance the function of the pillow placer. The emperor being of a diminutive stature, the emperor’s feet would often not touch the ground when seated on a throne. The royal pillow placer’s job was to know which pillow, went with which pillow on what occasion. One mistake and the King of kings could be, at best in an uncomfortable position, at worst ridiculed. I cannot recommend that book enough,(link to a review here), an autopsy of regime collapse, autocracy, political science in a changing world. The room was sad and humbling, what with all the insignia of power and prestige, literally caged and contained, restricted and dead. The mighty have fallen and will still fall.

That evening, dinner was at Yod Abyssinia, a restaurant that has an Ethiopian food buffet (Injera complete with what seemed to me like twenty seven sauces). I think they still remember as the Burundian who ate until he couldn’t remember his name. Ethiopian food and restraint just don’t roll together. Not for me anyway and I know about twenty other people who can say the same. I pigged out with very nice St George’s beer with the food and a fragrant sweet mead that packed a punch, alcohol wise. I was surprised to find out that Burundi does a very similar drink, called "Akuki k'Abami", the drink of the Kings.  a drink as potent, with an uncanny ability to sneak the drunkedness into you before you know it ( ref; cousin Henry's engagement do..memorable).
Yod Abyssinia doubles as a show house complete with stage and performances from at least six different regions, all with the rytmic blend that Africa and arabia produced when they met.

I loved Ethiopia when I went to bed, pissed as an upright mattress and happy.

The french have a lovely expression to describe the state in which i woke up; "La tete dans le cul", to have one's head up one's own backside. That particular situation, we surely agree, is painful, very uncomfortable and it must blur all images and sounds while tasting and smelling very bad.

That day that shall be remembered as the one time that, I, a proud and outspoken coffee and chocolate hater, had two espressos that I downed like tequila shots, to clear the impenetrable fog of my hangover (I think coffee and chocolate taste and smell absolutely horrid, and makes you fat too..the chocolate that is. The work of lucifer).

It helped. Beans from the home of coffee were compressed into a bitter, powerful, minisized drink.

As much as I hate to admit but, it did help. And I've never looked back.

Chronicling the moment in Burundi

So my brother is an irritatingly exposed man, who speaks about the intricacies of Rundi culture as easily as discusses post modernist swedish furniture. A list of some of the things he has dabbled in and achieved competence(in no particular order), guitarist, human rights advocate (complete with run in battles and brawls), traditional drummer, antique restorer/dealer, journalist and more recently photographer.

While he has been good at all of them, he has excelled at photography. Bear with my skewed and probably incomplete picture(pun intended) as this is only the perspective of a sycophantic younger brother.

He has excelled because photography has become a natural extension of himself, as what he is, what he stands for and what he does. As far as I can remember, he has longed, managed to and found purpose in being at the center of changing times as an active agent. And the pictures he takes reflect what he believes in. That there is beauty out there, that our history and times need a more permanent anchoring in our memories so we may look back and reflect, and that Burundians are able to look at their present world in stark, sometimes accusatory black and white to form an idea of a future which is not written as per the custom, written for them. More importantly that someone needs to tell the story.

So there it is. 

Ugly and Pretty, Past and Present, Peaceful and Warring, Black and White, This is Burundi trapped in a lens by Teddy Robert Mazina. My brother.

Visit. And have an Opinion.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/mdmexpo/

Holy Scents

I was surrounded by smells. The eucalyptus resin that permeated the whole area; the incense clouds that wafted every three minutes or so from the incense burners, engulfing me and blanking out the world around me for a few seconds; the smell of people with its warmer tones of sweat, garlic and spices and sandalwood (as I found out later is used in traditionnal cosmetics), the rich and strong smell of my freshly purchased small leather-backed Amharic bible and something that smelled like a rose in full bloom was being held under my nose.

I was in the church courtyard of the Entoto Maryam church on the Entoto hills (or mountains, the jury's still out) towering over Addis.

And it was during Lent, a time when the devout Christian orthodox fast, eat only special lent food (fast food ;-) ) and abstain from what they like most, but most of all they pray. They pray all over Ethiopia at churches like EntotoMariam for hours, reciting psalms, chanting in a way that made me aware of the power of faith, of ritual and of the institution. The Ethiopian orthodox take this way more seriously than any catholic I know. Special lent food all over restaurants, the nightlife all but dead and a church attendance that goes through the roof.

The crowd of many hundreds was dressed predominantly in white, with the women veiled in white shawls, a powerful sight in the intermittent incense fog that was kept coming and going. The crowd was facing into the church, following the cues that were issued from inside via large loudspeakers. The church is octagonal, standing on about ten steps up from the courtyard, with alcoves on its external walls that house huge elaborately adorned icons framed in glass, objects of the faithful devotions in the form of touch, kiss and the occasional spray of perfume-the rose smell from earlier on.

It would have been difficult, even for the hardened atheist, not to recognise that there was a power at work there. God was there. Now whether God brought those people there and inspired them or the power of their collective faith imagined, willed and CREATED God, to me is quite irrelevant. And to top it all, this is a faith that is meshed so intricately with the culture of the land that they are virtually indistinguishable from one another.

I felt an energy that was positive and kind and caring and ancient, something so potent and trustworthy as to promise to carry all the worries and all the hopes in the world and give back an answer sooner or later. I felt peace, harmony, compassion, strength and love. And looking down into the valley, towards the lights of Addis in the distance, with the crisp breeze in my face, I felt special, I felt blessed.

Entoto Maryam was commissioned by Empress Taytu Betul, Consort of Menelik the 2nd on a group of hills that were considered to be strategic. Addis grew around the court that subsequently settled in the area. First it was a private chapel next to one of the imperial residences, a nondescript museum building nearby(It was too late visit it). It is said that Selassie used to retreat there.

I could imagine him standing looking over his country and making decisions he knew History would either laud or decry. I have said before that I am fascinated by Haile Selassie, the man and the myth. And standing here looking down on Addis in the already cold evening breeze, I did not for one second envy the loneliness and worry that come with the job of emperor.

In the setting dark we drove back down to the city on what seemed to be the steepest, quasi vertical winding road I had ever seen. And whereas I had had visions of death (by-plunging-backwards-off-the-cliff-because-of failing-brakes-and-engine) on the way up, now I had the comfort of being able to see my demise when it came at me. On the way up, the small Lada taxi had revved and strained and clawed its way up the hill valiantly, with the driver totally unaffected, as he kept describing the sights of Addis. I was positively constipated by the time we were on top of the hill. Now, the drive back down, was giving me the very opposite effect. It had been a great day if only i could get back to the hotel and have a drink. Spirituality makes me thirsty. 

Kebabs on a bed of friendship

Travelling is like food in many ways. In my experience, both can be either improvised or carefully planned. They can be kept simple or extremely elaborate. Food, like travel, can leave you deeply satisfied or with the bitterest of after-tastes, swearing NEVER EVER to try that again owing. Food and travel, through the the multi-faceted experience they offer, have the magical ability to transport one through space and time, kicking imagination into overdrive and springing memories out of the dustier recesses of the mind. And when the whole experience is shared with someone, it is magnified, it's not food anymore, it's a meal; it's not a trip anymore, it's a voyage of discovery.

Some smells and tastes catapult me back into childhood whenever I encounter them, encasing me into a loving, safe homely cocoon. Succulent sweet fried plantain(Muzuzu, a cousin of mine can potentially inflict GBH over the smallest piece), Chicken Moambe stewed in palm fruit juice a la Congolaise, homemade mayonnaise with crispy frites, vanilla pudding, Dad’s succulent cotelettes de porc.....I could go on for hours.

It isn’t just the food it’s the experience of sharing the meal  I can still hear their kind admonishments whenever I made a mess -
Dad: “Non, mais...est ce que tu dois toujours manger comme un cochon?” which loosely translates as “Sharing a table with you is like watching a pig eat!”- or for non-observance of Mum’s rather strict table etiquette;
Mum: “Space for a cat between you and the back of the chair, sit up straight, no slouching, no elbows on the table and the metallic things either side of the plate are cutlery, not toys, not weapons, not useless decorations but CUTELRY And finish your food, tu as toujours les yeux plus gros que le ventre....do you know how many little kids are starving out there?”

My sister rather intelligently asked why we couldn’t take it to them. I remember my siblings’ sneaky attempts to get the last piece of plantain from one another’s plate.
Lazy sunday afternoon babercues, potlucks at uni, I remember the food because I remember the meal and the people.

My travel experiences are forever imprinted because I have had the blessing of sharing them with extremely interesting and kind individuals, and I say interesting and kind because I have come across individuals with the personality of a depressed amoeba and dangling icicles for a heart. Of the good ones, some I have known for years, others I met on the road and a good number have hosted me; opening the doors to their homes and making me part of their families, sharing their countries and cultures. Most of them, I will know for as long as we both live. The most amazing sights I have beheld carry heavier meaning because a travelling companion made an insightful- or phenomenally funny-remark that has cemented that moment into my head.

Which brings me to an amazing journey and the amazing people who I shared it with. In the winter of 2008, I was in Pakistan . Not bustling Karachi, not sleek Islamabad, but Peshawar, the capital of the North West Frontier Province, a mere ten kilometres from the Khyber Pass and Afghanistan. We are talking about a place that is competing with Mogadishu, some back alley in a drug-cartel-owned neighbourhood of Mexico and a small mosque in Sarah-Palin-vote-country, for the title of “Most dangerous place on Earth ever EVER EVER”. . Two friends of mine, Qash and Yaqub, took me around Peshawar, Islamabad and the Indus Valley in Pakistan. Qash is a big gangly guy who looks much younger than his twenty three years while Yaqub is a shorter sort with a thin wiry body and the face mischief would have if it had one.

My work allowed free afternoons every second day and I spent them walking with them in the old city, a network of narrow alleys where they pointed out medieval parapets, lattice work, ancient doors and other architectural features in the same tone as they would shrapnel scarred walls, signs of the all too frequent suicide bombings.

Peshawar is a beautiful city in a sense that there is a profusion of old and new. Shopping with them in ultra modern shopping malls with Calvin Klein and Louis Vuitton imitations was really cool. We took rides in the extremely garrishly addorned buses(entire volumes have been written about them), we took walks in the grounds of the University of Peshawar, a venerable instution that looks like an imperial palace complete with courtyards and towers.

They offered to go into the hills and shoot an RPG (Rocket Propelled Grenade-I’m sure you knew that) for about ten dollars and should I add five dollars, they’d throw in a goat to aim at. There is not a joke within a mile of this. I declined the offer and remembered not to comment on the poor goat( imagine it being led into a meadow, where it would proced to graze unsuspecting of its fate) I did not say anything because that would have just been GAY.

Pakistan, and the entire Indian sub-continent I was told, is crazy about food and I soon caught the bug. I pigged out continuously, never refusing a parcel I was offered and occasionally stealing it when it wasn’t offered. It was that good. Food is what naturally happens in Pakistan after a handshake. I visited their families, ate the best lamb kebabs in this solar system, big flat spicy patties of lamb mince that you have with Naan bread and an assortment of vegetables. I am drooling copiously on the keyboard as I write this.

Walking through the colourful markets with them was an enlightening experience as I managed to be pulled in the back of every second shop, to sit on a carpet with seven or so other bearded men( bearing an uncanny resemblance to the stereotypical Taliban) who would poor me tea , nudge me to drink it and have a few samosas with. It’s a sign of respect to the guest, owing to the sacred custom of hospitality and sanctuary. And I tell you I was a hit. At the end of one particularly full day at the market, my pee had the distinct and unmistakable whiff and tinge of Jasmine green tea.

Sadly for me, The North West frontier Province is one of the few places on earth where alcohol is expressly forbidden.

To acquire some legally, one must first register with the local authorities for a permit by providing proof that one is not a Muslim. The permit takes upwards of three months to get (“Shrill scream” to use another friend’s expression). They must have noticed the trembling of my lip and the tears welling in my eyes because they quickly told me that there were “ways” wink-wink. That same evening I was generously plied with smuggled vodka (that tasted like paint stripper but hey...who am I to refuse a gift) and cold, battered and bent Heineken cans that had been brought in on camel back from Russia. You just have to know people who know people.

Strongly regimented societies need outlets, valves to let the pressure out, and I was lucky to witness one such instance by going to a party. Think of an apartment at the top of a building in the business quarter of the city, packed to the brim with mostly young men and the odd group of shy-looking but extremely outspoken young women and a sprinkling of visiting arty types from Karachi and Islamabad. The discussion went from fashion to gossip (I knew no one concerned, but I tell you it was sizzling), to politics. The whole thing happened in a very relaxed way, with a respectful observance of etiquette between the men and the women, but I could see some romances blossoming on the couches(still a good metre distance between the two , bashful eyes, very awkward and really sweet- it was courtship the Romeo and Juliet way).The blaring music (from Britney Spears to Pakistan’s top ten of the week) and a sea of cheap booze moved things along and soon after I got there everyone was dancing. I almost envied them, this double life they lived, this juncture of world they lived in and their deep awareness of the moment. I remember at some point being in the middle of a circle of dancers throwing back my nth shot of liquid fire and thinking that I was partaking in a privileged, exclusive and rare experience, much like a once in three hundred years alignment of stars. Drinking in the moment, literally.

Three weeks into my visit, we went to the Indus Valley, at a spot where the Indus and the Kabul River meet into a gigantic Y shaped formation. It was in the full of winter so the water levels were low and we stood in this expanse of huge shiny pebbles, waves upon wave of smooth rocks in colours ranging from jet-black to a translucent white with all the hues and nuances in-between. We let our minds wander for a while taking it all in. I imagined how many people had sat here throughout the ages, in this legendary valley. And we talked about world perspectives, life expectations, country, family, and love.

The both of them were expecting their families to choose brides for them and they explained the rationale behind what is widely viewed in the west as backwards and devoid of love. First of all, their parents and their parents’ parents had had their marriages arranged and fared quite well in them, viewing the marriage less as a thing of love and more like a stable partnership whose primary aims were the prosperity of the family, the flourishing of good relationships between two clans as well as the upholding of millennia old traditions that make up their culture. They also believes tht love grows, it doesn’t just happen. An approach that carries more sense and sensibility than “the bachelorette”, what with its hire/fire, marriage for morons(albeit with perfect teeth and heaving bosom) . When they said marriage they meant “business” and if love happened in the mix they would be really happy.

We talked world and we talked country. They were enamoured with their torn land, in love with what it could be and they expressed their views on the fundamentalists- they were sad at the fact that most of them were born and bred in such poverty that undiscerning fundamentalism was the only thing that gave them purpose. They could understand that but all the same they spoke of them with palpable disgust, as the people who robbed them continuously of their lives, family members, their religion and their future.

We took a trip to Islamabad, a beautiful artificial city that is laid in an uncompromising grid of confusingly similar streets. It’s wooded and very cosmopolitan, a mere few hours from Peshawar, there were women with no veils on in the streets, fewer burqas and all manner of things western. After a mosey around the main sights, Feisal mosque (Incredible place), we went up the Margalla hills to a place called Daman-e-Koh, a popular-if not generic looking- picnic spot for the well heeled locals with an array of restaurants. The view was unbelievable, the city literally laid to your feet.

My experience of Pakistan will always be through the lens of the friends I made, a friendship that transcended a lot of race, religious and location obstacles. I’m still in touch with them and I still miss a land that is troubled, misunderstood and beautiful. From the organic chaos of Peshawar to glitzy-and somewhat clinical - Islamabad, I met the people whose voice I hear whispering “try a bit harder “whenever I have a guest. With them I learnt to appreciate the extent of the problems their country is facing and the courage it takes to live there and still believe tomorrow will be better.


Incidentally, two of the places I had meals in, The Marriot in Islamabad and the Pearl Oriental in Peshawar were the targets of terrorist attacks which claimed the lives of dozens of people.

The day before I left, Qash and Yakub came over and brought the last round of booze along with some gifts, one of them a huge cake made with dates and cinnamon. We spent two hours talking and eating and making plans about the time they would come and visit Africa. We parted tipsy- a tad bit teary too- but armed with the certitude that we shall meet again.

The next day at the airport, I was coldly informed at the PIA check-in(the things I wish them are in the BLEEP category) that I had excess luggage and had to lose some of the ballast. After a few moments of careful consideration I parted with about three kilos of books and –shriller scream- the date cake. It had to be done-although dates and cakes even when not together trigger a sweeping tide of guilt . I calm myself by chanting “it’s not the food, it’s the people that matter.”

To my two brothers from another mother, Qash and Yakub and to their beautiful country, Pakistan.