Author: jdewyze

On the road, Ugandan-style

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I’m writing this as we jounce along over badly gouged dirt roads on our way from Kibale to Queen Elizabeth NP. It’s the third morning we’ve awakened in Uganda, and I found myself wondering: why are we here? And: why aren’t more Americans?

I think the answer to the second question is that all that most Americans know about this place, if they know anything (if they saw The Last King of Scotland or are old enough to have lived at the time of the history it recounted) is that the country endured a long spell of lunatic violence under Idi Amin, and later, devastating civil war. Also, “We have no writers!” as our driver/guide Robert pointed out yesterday over lunch. Meaning, I took it, no white foreign Afropromoters like Isaak DInesen or Beryl Markham or Ernest Hemingway to propel Uganda into the consciousness of farflung tourists.

Why Steve and I are here nonetheless is a mixed bag of reasons. We flew here using frequent flier miles, and American’s partner, British Airways, serves Entebbe. We know people who’ve been to Rwanda in recent years, and their reports made me want to go there. Uganda borders it, and as I began reading about the region, the enthusiasm expressed by recent travelers here impressed me. Now that we’ve begun to explore it, I understand why Uganda had been called the pearl of Africa. This place is a hidden gem, a lustrous surpprise, something you feel thrilled and grateful to discover.

It’s physically breathtaking, maybe the most beautiful landscape I’ve seen anywhere: rolling hills and muscular mountains, crater lakes and deep valleys, and everything so green, a hundred shades of it. Unlike the Omo Valley in Ethiopia, this land is gaudily, opulently fertile, In the last two days, we’ve passed plantations growing a half dozen varieties of bananas, but also tea and coffee, as well as farmers growing pineapple, avocados, papaya, sorghum, watermelon, corn, mangos, beans, tobacco, tomatoes, cucumbers, vanilla, melons, and more, Robert says all the beef, chicken, fish, pork, rice, flour, oil (sunflower and corn), and virtually everything else we’ve been eating or will eat during our stay here was grown in this country the size of Oregon. Mixed in with the agricultural abundance, as if the land was so potently fecund it simply couldn’t control itself, are brilliant tropical flowers that attract jewel-like butterflies and more than a thousand (!) species of tropical birds.

We drank in all these sites on the long drive Wednesday from Entebbe to the Chimpanzee Forest Guesthouse, along with the endlessly diverting pageantry of life along African roads: farmers carrying produce to tiny village markets, pilgrims converging on a religious festival, mini-buses bursting with passengers and dodging the motorscooters that serve as the taxis for urban areas. (We assumed their name — “boda-bodas” — came from the sound they make, but Robert says it sprang from their origin in Kenya, where they travel from border-to-border.) We didn’t notice any traditional billboards, but Robert pointed out that Ugandans use a cheaper alternative. Various companies pay home- and shop-owners to paint their residences with brilliant colors and announcements about their products. “Airtel,” they shriek, or “Sadolin,” and it doesn’t mean you can buy Airtel minutes or Sadolin paint there. They’re just adspace, rented for a certain period of time (and then covered over with a fresh, noncommercial coating as part of the arrangement.)

Kibble

By mid-afternoon, we were deep into the country, in a more heavily forested region. At one point, Robert slowed the Land Cruiser, and it took me a beat or two to realize that the dark forms next to the side of the road were a troupe of wild olive baboons. They barely blinked as we photographed them, just a few feet away.

About the Chimpanzee Forest Guesthouse, where we stayed for two nights, let me only say that it was wonderful, with excellent food, attentive service (we were the only guests the second night), lovely gardens, and beautiful views in every direction. About that chimpanzee forest… well, that deserves a post of its own.

An auspicious beginning

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Of our five trips to Africa, none has begun as well as this one.

The flight was on time, and during the final descent, I devoured the sight of the landscape as it emerged in the growing light of dawn. Green, very green, with low hills but few visible roads. This was my first look at equatorial Africa, and it excited me as much as John Wesley Powell must have been felt at his maiden encounter with the Colorado river.

A slight glitch in our pick-up from the airport was recitified quickly, and within minutes we were riding to our guesthouse. I had braced myself to inhale the stew of jungle funk and burning garbage I’ve grown to associate with the developing world. But instead, the morning smelled fresh. In the course of the short ride, I was struck repeatedly by what was missing: garbage, graffiti, any obvious signs of poverty. The town looks rural. Few streets are paved, and even those that are sealed are dusted with the brick-red earth. Scattered pedestrians and an occasional cow strolled down wide byways lined with huge trees and bushes bending with the weight of their flowers. From time to time, we glimpsed verdant, gentle hills and expanses of Lake Victoria, the largest body of fresh water in Africa.

I fell instantly in love with the guesthouse, a large compound composed of cottages and service facilities built around a beautiful central garden. Because it was so early, our room wasn’t quite ready, but we consumed delicious papaya, pineapple, and tiny bananas, then watched the giant resident Rottweiler (Simba) romping with his German master.

Before long, though, we had settled into our spotless cottage and set off to explore the town on foot. The neighborhood ATM spat out 500,000 Ugandan shillings (less than $200) and a jaunty guy in a mobile phone stall put both our cell phones in service and stocked them with 60 minutes for about $17. In the hours that followed, I felt surges of gratitude that we hadn’t raced off to Kampala, Uganda’s reportedly charmless nearby capital, noted for its noisy, often traffic-gridlocked streets. Our map was pathetic, so we got lost, but found our way to an outdoor cafe where we drank passionflower smoothies and ate a bacon and avocado salad, a cheese/tomato sandwich, and good fries. We walked and didn’t glimpse a single other white person. The byways weren’t exactly thronged with Ugandans either, but everyone we chatted with was gracious and welcoming (and spoke English! — long ago the place used to be a British “protectorate.”)

Eventually we found our way to the 5 star (almost deserted) Imperial Hotel overlooking the almost-mystical lake (source of the Nile?), and we wandered through Entebbe’s more-thn-100-year-old botanical garden, a splendid primeval preserve. After rambling for more than six hours, we were too beat to tackle the local wildlife center; the end of the afternoon evaporated in a cloud of showers, email, and cocktails.

 

Dinner was served at 6:30 on tables out in the garden, and it was wonderful: pumpkin soup and more flavorful avocados, grilled beef and fish fresh from the lake, tasty rice and chapattis and delicate green beans, capped off with fruit crumble still warm from the oven. At another long table, a group of student and teacher midwives from British Columbia celebrated in advance of setting off the next day for six weeks of work and study. We’d chatted briefly earlier in the day with their leader, a decisive looking woman who was here in Uganda for her tenth visit. “This is the best guesthouse in the country!” she’d declared, more than once. That’s easy to believe. Tomorrow Steve and I will depart for Kibale National Park to track chimpanzees and hike in a swamp. But having at least sampled Entebbe, I wish everyone’s first taste of Africa started out as well.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The De Wyze Wolfe seal of approval

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Because we have long layovers in London and Boston (on the way back), we’re trying something new: we bought a 30-day Admiral’s Club membership from American Airlines. Already we approve. In San Diego, we got to wait for our flight in a soothing room with comfy chairs, drinking, snacking, and using the wifi (all free.) Here at Heathrow, the AA lounge is vast, with an impressive open bar, many food choices, wifi, showers, and more.

What I like best, however, are the lounge chairs, in which I hope to nap. Our flight to Uganda departs in 4.25 hours, but I’ll be content camping out here for a long as possible.

 

 

On our way!

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Steve says we STILL have too much stuff, but I disagree. Two carry-on rolling bags, two small backpacks and one little duffel that we checked (and only because we really, really wanted to take our trekking poles). I think that’s respectable for four-plus weeks in Africa!

Our flight to Entebbe (Uganda) via London should take off in one hour.

 

The most unlikely festival

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Every year I go, I can’t believe the Los Angeles Times Festival of Books still exists. This last weekend was the 18th time it has unfolded and the 9th consecutive one I’ve attended. Since it began, bookstores have died off en masse. The Times itself is in bankruptcy, its future in doubt. And yet the festival not only took place this year as it has before, but our experience was as pleasurable as ever.

The reason I missed the first 9 years is that every year back then when I studied the upcoming schedule, none of the events seemed irresistible enough to justify the long drive up and the cost of a hotel room. I finally took my friend Leslie’s word on faith (that I would like it). Once there, I got it — got the fact that the main point (for me, at least) is the opportunity to spend some time with a whole bunch of ideas that people have recently put into book form. Some of the events showcase a single writer, often in the form of an onstage interview. This year the roster of big names included Carol Burnett, Debbie Reynolds, Demetri Martin, Margaret Atwood, Orson Scott Card, Anna Quindlen. A larger number of the events are panel discussions (which the festival organizers have begun calling “conversations.”)

Over our two days on the USC campus, Steve and I spent time in 8 events. We judged three to be stupendous: the hour we spent listening to sci-fi master Orson Scott Card, the crackling panel focusing on political cartoons, and the knot-tying (and teaching) performance by Philippe Petit, the tightrope artist who commanded global attention 40 years ago when he danced on a wire at the top of the World Trade Center towers. We liked two other panels where the talk ranged from Hollywood mogul Lew Wasserman to the early years of Saturday Night Live and Joseph Papp’s Public Theater to the role of storytelling in human life to a scientific defense of procrastination. Watching celebrity chef Susan Feniger whip up Asian millet puffs on the outdoor cooking stage (and then toss them out, as one might lob nutrition pellets at the bears in the zoo) was fun too. To the panel of novelists gathered under the dubious title “The Ties that Bind” and the one discussing “Landscapes Real and Imagined,” our reaction was lukewarm — but even those included a few valuable nuggets.

Political cartooning in the spotlight.
At 63, Petit has more vitality (and personality) than most guys half his age.

Chef Feniger is hardly a shrinking violet either.
The whole thing feels like it lives up to the promise of offering something for everyone. In addition to what we did, there are dozens upon dozens of vendors (selling books and a whole lot more), children’s activities, music, and even more films. Almost all of it’s free (though you can assure getting seating by going online and paying $1 per activity.)
Will the book festival make it to the 20-year mark (two years from now)? Will it even be held again next year? Who knows. But if it is, consider making the trip before it vanishes like some glorious Southern California mirage.
Something new this year was the party hosted by The Last Bookstore in downtown LA, which offers both used and new books -- both for sale and incorporated into art works.

 

Tunnel of books at the Last Bookstore party.

 

Several readings were going on when we dropped in.

 

Fully Satisfying

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I’ll probably never attend one of the big-name, high-prestige film festivals like Sundance or Cannes. But it’s hard for me to imagine I’d any enjoy any of them more than the event that Steve and I participated in last weekend: the Full Frame documentary film festival, held in Durham, North Carolina every spring. We learned about it from friends who love it so much they’ve gone 5 or 6 times, including this year. At one point, I commented to them that luring S and me to this festival was a little like introducing us to heroin. I’ve never used that, but I imagine the intensity of the pleasure and the rush are similar.

In the four days, the festival organizers screened almost 100 films (including about 15 shorts). We had no opportunity to see about a quarter of them, because we didn’t get in until late Thursday night. It’s only possible to see 5-8 per day (since there are almost always four films showing simultaneously.) But given those constraints, we amazed ourselves by what we were able to consume. I watched 17 films ranging in length from 6 minutes to almost 2 hours — an average of almost 7 hours of movies per day. My brain was exploding by the end of each day. But I woke up ready each morning for more.

As for the films, of the 17 I saw, there was not one I didn’t like. My only tepid response was to the 6-minute-long short on Lyndon Johnson — not much weightier than a youtube video. But I liked it. Five of the 17 were good to very good. And I thought 11 were superb. The ones most likely to be readily accessible for viewing are:

— Manhunt. This was the real-life version of Zero Dark Thirty — and far more interesting to me than the fictional one. It will be airing on HBO in early May.

— Twenty Feet from Stardom. An introduction to the world of back-up singers. I didn’t see this one, but Steve did (we split up for a couple of showings) He raved about it, and he’s not even that into music. It will be released in theaters in June.

— Muscle Shoals. I’m not sure if this one (or the next) will be released, but it’s hard to imagine they won’t be. Muscle Shoals is the legendary Alabama recording studio in a little town on the Gulf. A huge number of really famous musicians recorded there — from the Stones to Aretha Franklin to Bob Dylan to the Allman Brothers to so many more. The music was great, but even more fascinating to me was the insight into the art of capturing it.

— Downloaded. A riveting history of online music sharing, focusing most on the original: Napster.

The beautiful Carolina Theater, one of the festival venues

All my 11 favorites were so good (and so varied) it’s hard to rank them in my affections. Still, I think the two that may have the most lasting impact on me were:

— Menstrual Man. This was the astounding story of a 9th-grade dropout in India who became obsessed with finding a way to get inexpensive sanitary napkins into the hands of Indian women (90% of whom do not use them, instead relying on cloths that they’re too embarrassed to hang out in the sun to sterilize, and thus are often germ-infested.) He came up with a small, simple, and easy to maintain manufacturing system, but he has no interest in getting rich from it. Instead he’s selling systems the NGOs that in turn are making them available to women in hundreds of villages all over India. They in turn are now supporting themselves and their families. Deeply inspirational, it was also funny and mesmerizing.

— After Tiller. This film tells the story of the four doctors who are the only ones in the United States left doing third-trimester abortions since the murder of Dr. George Tiller in Wichita four years ago. Before seeing this film, I thought third-trimester abortions should be illegal. The movie taught me why there is a need for some. It showed me how that decision so often springs from the desire of anguished parents to protect their unborn babies from dreadful pain and early death (caused by various medical conditions afflicting them.) Viewers see the four physicians struggling with moral dilemmas and tortuous dramas daily; I don’t think I’ve even seen a movie so concerned with ethics. And I was awed by the manifold bravery of those four doctors.

I doubt either of those two films will be easily accessible, and that’s a big reason for going to a festival like this. It’s an opportunity to see so much one would otherwise miss. It was also a chance to visit places I’ll never get to (Tajikstan! The inside of a Moscow jail.) It was also a huge intellectual blast. Maybe I could eventually have found everything I saw online. But probably not, and I also wouldn’t have known what to look for, nor would I have had deep pleasure of watching these amazing movies in the company of hundreds of other people who also loved them.

Something else I'd never seen before: a USED bookstore in the Raleigh-Durham airport

 

More Mora

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Since it opened two years ago, the Map and Atlas Museum of La Jolla has exhibited five works by Jacinto “Jo” Mora. They draw a lot of attention, particularly the one of San Diego, commissioned in honor of the long-ago 50th anniversary of Marston’s Department Store. The museum’s director, Richard Cloward, is a huge Mora fan, and so it was fitting that for the facility’s first special exhibit, it is offering a much bigger taste of Mora’s work.

Born in Uruguay in 1876, Mora was a Renaissance man — an illustrator, painter, cartographer, and more. The charm of his pictographic maps (which he called “cartes) is evident in this show, which opened yesterday. In the special exhibition room, the museum has mounted striking black and white portrayals of Yellowstone, Grand Canyon, and Yosemite national parks, a rare poster presenting “the evolution of the cowboy,” and several fascinating maps. My favorite is the 1942 depiction of Los Angeles. It has the hallmark Mora classic vignettes surrounding the main field of the map. But great swathes of the central portion look sparsely settled, with only a handful of vintage cars of the few thoroughfares. There’s nary a freeway in sight; Universal City looks to be a country junction.

The Los Angeles map

The exhibit will run through the end of this year. Next the museum staff plans to pay homage to Gold Rush maps. As always, admission to this extraordinary community resource is free.

 

How great a space?

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In my Travels in San Diego blog, I recently wrote about the list of the Top 100 Public Places in the United States and Canada, noting that San Diego got only one item on the list (#9 — Balboa Park). At the time, I also noticed that Civic Space Park in Phoenix occupied the #34 spot, and I made a note to check it out on my impending first-ever visit to Arizona’s largest city.

How it came to be that I’d lived in Southern California for 38 years without ever doing more than driving through Phoenix (just 6 hours or so from San Diego), I can only explain by saying: other places seemed more interesting. Now that I’ve been here for 72 hours, I can attest: other places ARE more interesting. At least to me. And Civic Space Park is NOT the 34th greatest public place. At least not in my opinion. I drove downtown on Friday morning, which seemed as if it should be as lively a time as any, and I found no more than a handful of folks occupying the large expanses. The suspended netted sculpture is interesting, and some of the seating is pleasant. But I strongly suspect that some official (the architect? the Phoenix park and rec department?) mounted a campaign for votes in order to get this place on the list.

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Certainly boosterism in general was very much in evidence. During my 90-minute visit, I counted at least 4-5 orange-shirted “Downtown Phoenix Ambassadors” — paid by someone to function as “roving concierges of Downtown.” One gave me a map and, at my request, plotted out a comprehensive walking tour that led me past compounds belonging to Arizona State University, Phoenix’s “Heritage Square” (with it’s historic buildings, science museum, and history museum), various shopping centers, and Chase Field.

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I’m sorry I didn’t visit the history museum; I’d like to understand better how America’s fifth largest city came to be HERE… and so recently. (The downtown felt to me like something conjured up out of the desert within just the past two or three decades.)

Because I wasn’t sure when (or if) I’ll be back, I sightsaw elsewhere diligently too. My take on:

— the new Scottsdale Waterfront development. Gigantic condo complexes cheek by jowl with big upscale retailers (Nordy’s, Crate and Barrel, H&M, etc.) Seriously boring — except for the cool footbridge over the canal designed by Paolo Soleri (see below).

— the Musical Instrument Museum. Impressive on several levels. There’s the building — a massive but elegant monument in stone, housing something like 10,000 instruments from countries all over the world. There’s the technology. Admission comes with a pair of headphones that automatically sense which display (and video screen) you’re standing in front of, enabling you to hear musical selections being played by the instruments in front of you. But I saw few if any overarching stories being told. Instead it felt like walking through an encyclopedia of musical instruments. I was impressed, but pretty quickly overwhelmed.

— the Heard Museum. Celebrating the art and cultures of Native Americans (particularly those who once inhabited the Southwest). The kind of museum that almost makes me wish that I lived in Phoenix (or — more realistically — that the TrueValue Hardware mogul Heards had moved to San Diego and founded their museum there instead of Phoenix.) It seems so filled with stories (the history of bolo ties, the excruciating story of the Indian boarding schools, the true story of Geronimo and the Apaches, etc. etc.) that you could spend hours upon hours absorbing them all (and returning frequently, since most of the exhibits change.)

— Taliesin West. Frank Lloyd Wright’s winter compound from 1937-1959 — conjured up in the desert when he was 70 years old. It’s not pretty in any classical sense. The style felt to me like an oddball blend of Japanese pagoda and LA googie. But I’d love to live in many of the spaces, and the 90-minute highlights tour was crammed with fascinating stories. It all inspired me so much, I want to make pilgrimages to other Wright constructions.

— Cosanti. The home and workshop of Italian visionary architect and artist Paola Soleri (a one-time apprentice at Taliesin West’s architectural school). I didn’t find out what shape Soleri’s in (he’s pushing 93). But he still inspires a legion of devotees. We watched some casting bronze bells (which can be purchased at Cosanti for prices ranging from $30 up to many thousands). And crews are apparently still working on Soleri’s “Arcosanti” project — illustrating his principles of “arcology” blending architecture and ecology — in the desert about 70 miles north of Phoenix. Cosanti’s buildings and landscaping also express Soleri’s vision, and the beauty of it all took my breath away.

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We sadly didn’t make it to Arcosanti. That would be the first thing To Do on my list if I ever return this way, followed (very distantly) by visits to the Desert Botanical Garden, the Arizona Biltmore, the Phoenix Art Museum, that history museum, and a hike on Camelback.

Final thoughts

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January 17, 2012

According to our seatback monitors, we’ve just crossed the border into Northern Sudan. My feelings on leaving Ethiopia are mixed. We didn’t have a chance to see many things that probably would have been great: the castles of Gondor and churches hewn into the rocky cliffs of Tigray; the ancient stellae of Axum. Other travelers spoke highly of Awassa in the south and the little-visited western provinces.  And the Afar Depression, lowest and hottest place on earth, where great camel caravans still carry salt and a spectacular volcano simmers, is something I’m truly sorry to have missed.

Still, we saw so many amazing things, it felt like we were journeying via time-travel machine, rather than planes and Land Cruisers. In the south, prepubescent shepherd boys would ignore their flocks to race down and perform weird tribal welcome dances, in the hopes of our stopping to exchange the photo op for a handful of birr. One day we passed a gruesome sight — a dead horse on the shoulder being feasted upon by a host of condor-sized vultures, hopping up and down with excitement about the feast (or so it appeared.) Ubiquitous were the donkeys and people laden with yellow plastic 6-gallon jerrycans. The cans hold the water that must be gathered at wells or tanks. It seems so ironic that Ethiopia, the “water tower of Africa,” source of a big portion of the water that flows to the Nile, would be so stingy with it’s own parched residents. But getting the water to the hands of workaday Ethiopians (or the random tourist passing through) requires big investments in pumping and purification stations, pipes, and the like. Lacking that, staying healthy is a constant challenge.

Endalk (Michael) Bezawork
Belay Hailemariam

Apart from the strange and marvelous sights, what impressed me most were the Ethiopian people we got to know. If our time with the Omo Valley tribesmen was short and constrained, other encounters were just the opposite. We spent 8 long days with Endalk and Sharom in the south, and over the course of that time, we developed deep affection for the intelligence and impish charm of the former and profound respect for Sharom’s careful driving skills. We had only three days with Belay, our highlands trekking guide, but conversations with him ranged even farther; we discussed everything from Robert Mugabe’s mental health to US foreign policy to how Belay should use Internet marketing to build his guiding business. In Addis, we stayed at the guest house on four separate occasions, the last one for the better part of two days. Each time we returned, we developed a keener sense of what made the cast of characters there tick.

I had trouble falling asleep last night, thinking about one of the waitresses in the guesthouse restaurant (where we ate hamburgers on three separate nights). She spoke perfect idiomatic English, and last night we heard a tiny bit of what’s likely a long and complicated story. When she was little, her mother and stepfather got visas for America. So she lived in various parts of Southern California: Orange County, Pomona, even San Diego for a while.  But her mother had died, and her stepfather had “become a bad guy.” She’d returned to Ethiopia to live with her grandmother, but the grandmother had died too.  She’d gone from living high to struggling for survival, she said, matter-of-fact but wistful. “Could you fit me into one of your suitcases?” she’d asked.

This woman was so astute, so competent, I could easily imagine her running an emergency room in an American hospital or doing something equally demanding. But twists of fate had brought her to waitressing at a budget hotel in Addis Ababa. If my suitcase had been big enough, I would have been honored to transport her. Instead all I can do is give her a few sentences here.

Addis Ababan Airs

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January 16, 2012

Ethiopia has an awful lot going against it. While long and colorful, its history has had several hideous chapters, and even today little protects the rights of ordinary citizens. Many of its 80-plus million residents live in dismal poverty, and the deformed beggars are appalling. The pickpockets are wily and skillful (Steve has now added Addis to his growing collection of Places Where His Pocket Has Been Picked). To me, though, the worst thing about Ethiopia is the abysmal quality of the air.

In the country, riding through hour after hour of powdery road dust and breathing the smoke of indoor wood fires at night gave both of us coughs that still are plaguing us. Here in Addis (elevation 7,500 feet), the already thin air reeks of diesel and gasoline fumes churned up along with road dust, construction dust, cooking fires, and all the unburned hydrocarbons, oxides of nitrogen, carbon monoxide, and other substances that modern air-pollution-control devices mostly have purged from the developed world’s air. Walking home this afternoon, both of us felt a tightness in our chests. For the first time since our arrival, I yearned to leave.

In the Merkato

 Otherwise, our stay in the capital has been satisfying. Although plain, the Addis Guest House has dazzled us with its amenities: transport to and from the airport (only 5 minutes away), good breakfasts, laundry service, ubiquitous wi-fi, and an amazingly friendly staff managed by a guy who literally grew up in San Diego before returning to Ethiopia at 22. All this for $55 a night. This morning Jonas also helped us secure a driver/guide who took us to the enormous Merkato district, where we walked among the wholesalers of everything from mustard seeds to mattresses. Then we drove to the main campus of the university, to visit the Ethnographic Museum housed in a former palace of Emperor Haile Selassie. While it was okay, we felt like our Omo Valley trip had already exposed us to much of the content, and more vividly.

 After lunch, Steve and I decided to forego a stop at the National Museum in lieu of visiting a much newer facility next to Meskel Square about which we’d heard from a fellow traveler in Harar. The “Red Terror” Martyrs Memorial Museum describes the horrors that unfolded after Haile Selassie was assassinated in 1974 and Ethiopian Stalinists unleashed their barbarities. The docent who was there when we visited had spent 8 years in one of their prisons. The suffering he recounted moved me deeply; I was glad to be able to bear witness to what he endured.

 We walked home along Bole Road, the artery feeding the homes of some of this country’s wealthiest families. We passed one weird embassy after another (Cameroon! Ukraine! North Korea! Angola! Congo!) The multiplex at the Edna Mall was showing War Horse, along with J. Edgar (neither one of which we’ve seen yet). In a nearby gourmet cupcake shop, we broke down and bought “double choc” and red-velvet goodies — the first true desserts we’ve eaten since Christmas in San Diego.

The cupcakes were good, though I expect we’ll get better in Frankfurt tonight. What Frankfurt (or San Diego) can’t match is the chaos of Addis Ababa. Most Germans and Americans would probably be revolted by it, and God knows I wouldn’t want to live here. But the grace with which the Ethiopians cope with it provides me with endless amusement — and admiration.

Here’s one example: when we went out for dinner Sunday night, we found a taxi whose driver sounded like he might know where the restaurant was. We bargained with him over the price, struck a deal, then piled in. Only when I took my seat in the back did I notice the 3-year-old girl strapped in next to me. She was impeccably dressed, wearing shiny zebra-striped shoes and other finery. She sat silent; drowsy but conscious. The driver (her dad)  made it clear that he adored her; indeed her name in Amharic meant “love.” Then, apologetically, he asked if we would mind if he dropped her off at his home. We told him to go ahead, and he turned off the main street, driving down unpaved roads illuminated only by our headlights and the occasional cooking fire. After a couple of minutes, he pulled up to a gate, scooped up the now-nodding toddler, and tenderly deposited her in the arms of a waiting woman.

We sped off, and not long after, we approached the street where our restaurant was located (our taxi driver in fact hadn’t known it, but he called a friend who did.) But there had been an accident, and cars from every direction were stalled, while the driver of one of the injured cars made chalk marks in the street to record what had happened. It seemed a colossal mess, the sort of thing that would halt everyone’s progress for hours, were it in San Diego or New York. But within minutes, the damaged car limped off, and our taxi driver moved centimeter by centimeter into the automotive mosh pit. Somehow he made the turn and deposited us at the Jewel of India only minutes after our 7 p.m. reservation. The food was spicy but delicious.