I exit into a sea of commerce, culture, society and depravity. An old man with no hands and blank white eyes holds his stubs out, asking for the sake of God to give him money. His eyes have seen more than I dare to imagine. Sometimes I give, sometimes I don’t. I have the luxury of choosing, and my choice could easily determine if this man eats or not. I don’t like that kind of power, as it fills me with guilt if I don’t act, and consumes me with responsibility if I do. I continue walking.
A line of metal chairs waits for souls with dirty shoes. The orange seats are worn down to the rusted frame, and the remaining fabric is camouflaged with dirt and oil stains, blending perfectly with this cultural microcosm. Young boys occupy these thrones, and call their subjects to them with dirty cloth in hand, putting marketing skills to the test as they attempt to herd the masses to their Kiwi wax and horse hair buffers.
“Farenj! Farenj!,” they call out. Foreigner. I was called “China” once, which, as I understand it, refers to people of Asian descent. But like many Americans, I am a Euro-mut, with no semblance of Asian roots, aside from my alleged connection to the Caucasus Mountains.
I continue walking. I come upon an ocean of blue cars, Fiats and Renaults mostly, from the early 80s and late 70s. A group of older men stand on the side of the road, talking shop and planning their next attack on victims of an intimidating road system. “You! You!,” they call out. “Me?” I ask. “You,” they say. “You?” I ask. “You,” they reply, and point at a car. I point at their car. “Me?” I say. “Where are you go?” I point down the road and continue walking. My unwillingness to succumb to their salesmanship only fuels their technique. They call out “you, you” again and point at their car, as if a ride in their haughty machine could somehow bring meaning into my life, and without my fare my money would disown me for having never been spent on such an eloquent ride. But today my feet are my steed, as a beautiful day in Addis brings a perfect balance of warm air, cool shades and a kaleidoscope of stimulation for the senses.
A man selling Chinese belts approaches, attempting to convince me of the high quality of these items, which cost about $3 or $4. A woman selling skin-on peanuts, Hip-hop biscuits, chewing gum and suckers waits patiently for her customers to buy something to keep her and hers on the up and up. She sits with a stoic patience, with eyes that know the sun, hidden under a cheap umbrella which she traded a kilo of peanuts for just before the rainy season began two years ago.
Then comes the market. In five steps you have five options. Ten steps, fifteen options. How many different versions of ginger can there be? Who is the best vendor? The competitors eat from the same table, share secrets, lend each other hands. The true spirit of capitalism, invested in the acumen of each of theses respectful entrepreneurs. The only kind of market. A bailout for this system would involve loaning a few sacks of seed and water, maybe an extra hand to plow the field. Civilization never seemed so uncivilized until I saw how ‘uncivilized’ people live.
Walk into the metal-workers section. Men covered head to toe from years of hard labor. Their clothes the color of mace and tar, their faces reveal added years from all their sweat which dissolved their youth. Sparks fly as the saw-man takes off a few meters of rebar. Two youngsters carry heavy poles on their shoulders with effortless grace, as if their identity is tied to manual labor and without an aching back, existence would be meaningless.
Into the automotive area I go. Walls of tires, with radial wire spiking out and glimmering in the afternoon heat, sending waves of vapor and star-like reflections bouncing off the tire-man who waits for someone with a stroke of bad luck to improve his own. The ground is all rubber, beaten into the dirt like a child’s lost toy found years later by the boy who had become a man. The entrance is shredded tires, black filets enticing the appetites of weary motorists in need of a rubber fix.
I walk past homes made of cow dung and all I can smell is sweet incense and the intense aroma of roasting coffee, a scent that never enticed me until my trip here.
On the ground is a man with legs much too small for his stature. He sits in a permanent lotus position–a yogi of the street world. His eyes are healthy and real, and his arms strong from supporting his weight through many years of life. In his hands are wooden blocks, made to slightly elevate his body while he walks with his hands. He looks at me, desperately, trying to pull out my empathy with his eyes. But any reasonable effort I make to help this man is ultimately fruitless. Tomorrow he will still be on the street. Next year, if he’s still alive, my empathy will have long since evaporated into the ether, and that moment when he and I were connected in his struggle will be nothing more than words on a page.
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