Ambulatory Adventures

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.

Ethiopia, the Olympics and cosmic consciousness

Ethiopians have much to be proud of. This past winter Olympics offered hope to young Ethiopians and Africans around the world that one day, they too could participate in the ancient competition. Ethiopia’s son Robel Teklemariam competed in cross country skiing, an event which is considered by most to be the most physically demanding athletic challenge in the world. It requires massive upper and lower body strength and an endurance level that tests medical definitions of possibility. These athletes actually have more blood vessels in their body than any other living human, experts say.

Robel, whose family owns the Nile Restaurant in Richmond, Virginia, first competed in Torino in 2006. The mere fact that he was able to compete was satisfaction enough for the dreadlocked athlete. He admits that his appearance drew an assortment of judgement and negative comments from the media and his contemporaries. When he was tested for drugs, his hemoglobin levels were above normal, a sign that performance enhancing drugs had been introduced to his system. However, people who live at high altitudes also have high hemoglobin, and Robel had lived at high altitudes for most of his life. But many people focused on the drug factor because Robel seemed to represent something different, something non-western. For centuries, western societies have continuously found ways to manifest their fear towards other people – especially those of color. This was just another one of those events used to intimidate and get inside the heads of “the other.” But he prevailed, and won. Not the Olympics, but the game of prejudice killing and stereotype shattering.

In Ethiopia, jokes abound about Robel being a skier, given that the country has a mostly tropical climate with snow only existing at the top of the tallest mountains. Who cares that there’s no snow in Ethiopia? There’s no snow in Florida, either, but people from Florida can compete in the winter Olympics. Where do we draw the line? Geography is not the issue, it’s a matter of principal. It’s an extension of the increasingly globalized world in which we live. Anyone can do anything at anytime. Robel is a physical manifestation of the power of the Internet, the interconnections that bind us all together, the spirituality of our religions, and the universal cosmic consciousness that unites every molecule in existence. That’s a lot of responsibility, Robel!

In addition to having a representative in the winter Olympics, Ethiopians should be, are are naturally, very proud. Aside from the fact that the recent elections are strewn with allegations of corruption, Ethiopians are not a people of the government. Before Meles Zenawi, they were Ethiopia. And they will be Ethiopia long after he is gone. Legacies remain, and they are defeated. Dynasties last only as long as the bloodline remains securely selfish. Eventually, all powers find rest in the annals of history. People are the true leaders of their destiny, and they are the true dreamers of dreams. Ethiopians are survivors. More than 80 recorded famines in their 3,000 year history, not to mention countless droughts. Westerners think that famine started in 1973 with Jonathan Dimbleby’s report, but the reality is that Ethiopia is no stranger to these events. And they have survived. They have not been defeated by the hand of nature or by the hand of man. But, like gold in the rock, they have been purified by fire. This is no argument for eugenics, but one of natural selection, a process that has been stunted in western societies by modern medicine, which in reality, only serves to strengthen the bacterias and viruses that are exposed to our antibiotics and vaccines. Of course, some benefits are obvious, but long terms effects are not known and history has a way of showing us how our vanity comes crashing down on us at the most unexpected moment.

This is no argument for the importance of famine, but a reality of what famine does to a people. And, most importantly, what a country’s reaction to famine really means. It is no different than walking down the street in New York City, eating a hot dog and feeling happy with oneself and life, when suddenly a man clothed in rags and reeking of a horrid conglomeration of urine, alcohol and body odor approaches and asks for change. It’s usually when we feel the best about ourself that we give to a homeless person. Why? Because we feel guilty for doing well, for feeling good. We only give to relieve ourselves of our guilt, not to really help this man. If we wanted to truly help this man, we’d sit down with him, find out his story, listen to him, understand him, hear him out. If he’s destined to be on the streets, as is sometimes the case, so be it. But, if he’s just one of the those people whom life has shat on constantly, the best thing we can do is offer him a place to stay, food in his belly and clothes on his back. Then help him get a job and teach him how to keep the job. That’s how we help people. Giving someone $50 or 50 cents doesn’t do a damn thing except perpetuate the socio-economic divide and exacerbate the neediness of the needy. In the western eye, Ethiopia was a homeless country whose story the west never took the time to know, only threw money at it to make us feel better about ourselves.

That's not to discount the people who came together with a heart of right to help those in need. But they are not limited to westerners. True heroes are the unsung; the neighbor who leaves food on your doorstep then disappears in the night without being thanked. The stranger who sees you sleeping on the sidewalk in the cold and leaves his jacket on you without you knowing until you wake up, surprisingly warm. The farmer who opens his field to anyone willing to bend their backs. These are true heros, and they'll never be interviewed because the attention we give them removes their real reward – their anonymity.

Of course, people who are starving are hardly going to deny help. Nobody wants to experience that, as millions of people can lose their lives in a most brutal fashion. But, is dying from famine better or worse than being blown to bits by a remote control airplane? At least when you die of famine, you look to God for answers, because it was nature that failed. When you’re blown up by a remote control airplane (AKA Drone), you tend to look to the person flying it. Unless of course we want to declare war on nature because of her weapons of mass destruction that have been working overtime lately, I suggest we re-examine the nature of international aid, which is a cultural and historical blight on the integrity of the people receiving it. And if we continue to offer aid to combat famine, then we must cease every and all wars and engagements and occupations of foreign lands (starting in Okinawa) or else our hypocrisy will feed the hate that already fuels violence against our country. Save a child from hunger in one country, blow up a child by accident in another. They don’t cancel each other out, one doesn’t pay for the other, it is not good policy.

Of course, one might argue that we are responsible for our brothers and sisters, because if we know there is a famine, we are responsible to act. That is, a starving person may blame us if we do not act, because now instead of nature it is human beings who have accepted the responsibility to act because we are aware of the famine’s existence. This I will not argue against. But, western society, in all its good intentions, does absolutely nothing to bring long-term solutions to these situations and is consciously unaware of the consequences of their good intentions. There are NGOs and small groups of people who drill for wells and do their best, but it is not the status quo. The status quo is control, as exercised by all players in the international community. Nobody wants a famine, but it offers an opportunity to exercise control like no other, so much so that I would argue that famine is political capital on a global scale. Without the opportunity to stop a famine, there would be no chance to show how much love we can give. If we can’t show our love, how will people know of it? Especially in time of war, what better deterrent from killing babies than to talk about all our efforts in Haiti? Therefore if behooves international interests that famines and natural disasters occur, however random and staggered in their occurrence, as international political capital is gained from their existence. Especially in times of war.

But what does that mean? It is an argument for the need for human beings to break away from their perceptions of reality and understand that we are all 13 billion years old and that our physical body is just flash in the pan of time. If we can revolve our minds, unchain them from the illusion of the material world, if we can understand the human condition from the lens of universal consciousness, then perhaps one day famines will cease. The amazing thing is that heaven is on the earth, it is everywhere. We just have to find it and live in it.