I‘m sitting in a hotel lobby in Port Louis, Mauritius, waiting several hours for a ride to the airport to return home, and decided to jot this down.

In what I have seen in and of the world, I have realized Life is stranger than Fiction.  Hollywood can regurgitate from now until Hell freezes over, and can only dance around reality.  The most interesting and thought provoking stories are those born from real life experiences.

The Pretty Lady, (my wife) is an incredible Lady.  When I first met her, the first thing I noticed about her, is her ingrain gracefulness.  The way she sits with her toes on point, the way she walks barefoot, her simple hand gestures; and when I found out this pretty woman had over 20 years of Classical Ballet, it all made sense.

Now, enter el Toro.

An expression we use often in Ethiopia to explain the bizarre is simply, This is Africa.

Sunday afternoon, I had to fly out to Mauritius, down off the coast of Madagascar, just off South Africa.  I’ve been several times and was not looking forward to the long cramped flights.  All baggage was loaded into the Embassy vehicle to take me to the airport.  Terese and I were saying our goodbyes and Dasvidaniyas, when the driver slid the driveway gate open.

We often see livestock being moved along in the street, usually by someone who knows how to deftly use a stick.  Out in the roadway, walking like a thug looking for a fight, was a bull with a bad attitude.  What I am about to describe is an encounter with the bull from entrance to exit, that lasted maybe 4 seconds.  It doesn’t take a bull much time to do its thing and move on.

The driver said, Maybe we close gate?

Terese said, No, we don’t need to.  I thought the same. The bull is probably out for a Sunday walk, like any other thug on the street.

The bull was about 15 feet from the gate and as soon as he saw us, he dropped his head and charged.  Terese was standing in the space between the vehicle and the gate, where the bull saw daylight behind her.  For several hours afterwards, I kept thinking I should have pushed her away, but I had to realize, there was absolutely no time to do anything.  Not even speak.

Terese went over his head and landed hard on the pavement.  It happened so fast, I cannot fully replay it in my mind, but I instinctively dropped down to her to see how bad she was hurt, totally unaware the bull was still in our front yard, a small space the size of our kitchen and will not be staying for dinner.  Maybe I subconsciously thought the bull was just going to stand there and marvel at the aftermath of his entrance.

No.  In the second I was down with Terese, the bull jumped over us and was gone.  I shoved the gate closed to avoid an encore performance.  (I later realized, I closed the gate so hard, I bent part of it)

Terese being a medic, knew not to just jump up and go kick his ass.  I helped her slowly get up as she assessed herself.  She had a small cut on her eyebrow which bled like a stuck pig and a skinned knee.  She also had a foot that will be the main injury.  The bull evidently stepped on her foot during their short dance sequence.  How her foot was stepped on as she went over his horns, I still cannot play it out correctly in my mind.  But a later assessment will reveal a badly torn ankle and broken toe.

In the house, she assured me she will be okay and convinced me to leave for the airport.  She even went back out on the porch to see the driver who was badly shaken up over the incident.  I got into the vehicle with the driver and on the way to the airport, he kept thanking Jesus she was not hurt more.  (I later found out, he was thrown against the vehicle and had some aches and pains also.)   As I sat in the seat, it was then I realized the fact the bull jumped over me and Terese while we were down, without hitting either of us with a hoof or stepping on us.  A blow to my head with the hoof of a bull would have killed me.  To have the bull step on us would have ended with death or paralysis.  Yeah, I think the driver was right.  I thanked the Good Lord myself.

Once I got through Security at the airport, I called the Duty Officer at the Embassy to report it.  This is an individual who is on call 24 hours to assist with problems like this.  I had to start by saying, You’re not gonna believe this …

The Duty Officer in turn called the Embassy Medic and had her call Terese that evening to check on her.  I placed a request for Motorpool to pick her up for work so she wouldn’t have to drive.  The next morning, she hobbled to her office and was asked, So, you were run over by a bulldog?  Terese said, No. A bull!  They said, A bull as in cow bull?  Yes, cow bull.

They sent her to the Medical Unit, where they basically said, Yep, torn ankle and toe broken, and here’s some pain pills; now go back home and do not come back for a week.

Over the next few days, Terese learned the bull had gotten out several times before and has hurt at least 12 other people, including two officers.  Several of them were in the hospital with severe injuries.  He also attacked two taxis, but we don’t care about that.  The last report, both bull and owner have been caught and locked up.  Hopefully in the same cell.

The woman has been down many times with injuries from all directions.  Been though childbirth several times, been in three roll-overs, had cat scratch fever, had the H1N1, endured two husbands and many crazy in-laws.  And perhaps many things I don’t know about.  Terese is a tough woman, but the bull was tougher.

But I cannot leave this without saying, that bull had some massive testicles and I was a bit jealous.

Okay.  Enough of that.  For those with two good feet, kick butt and don’t stop.   D.

I’m flying out again this afternoon and wanted to give a quick catching up post before leaving.

As I noted before, Hywät has the two little dots above the “a” on her name, like a little creature peeking out from behind it.  I asked her if she puts the two little dots there like my computer does, and after a tussle with translation, and with Terese’s help, she basically said, what “a”?   I asked her to write her name in English and she did.  In a way I think it may have been a mistake.  Turns out she spells it “Hiwot”.

So I have a bit of a quandary.  Should I continue using “Hywät” with the two little dots, or succumb to her spelling of it.  I spent no little time thinking about this and decided to go by her spelling but refuse to go back and change her name in the past.  What is past is past.

So she will henceforth be known as Hywät, … er,  Hiwot.

A few months ago, I gave blood at the Embassy.  It had been more than two years since I was able to and it felt good to do it again.  In the States they ask you a battery of questions which include if I had sex with this person or that person.  Or if I ever used illegal drugs?  What countries I had been it, etc.  Giving blood here was simple.  How much do you weigh and what pills do you take?  Quick and simple.

Michael, our Day Guard/Gardener, lives with his Grandparents who basically raised him.  Grandfather passed away a few weeks ago.  I met the 87 year old gentleman last year and was instantly fond of him.  His hand shake was firm and his smile was genuine.  We both started bowing to each other and soon we were both bouncing up and down.

Grandfather had arthritis and took cortisone shots for the pain.  Somewhere in there, he acquired a staph infection that he was not able to shake.  Surgery just made it worse and he became bed ridden.  Terese, being a very compassionate lady, suggested we help Michael purchase a wheelchair for him so Grandfather could be moved around and retain some semblance of normalcy.  But before Michael could get him one, he passes away.  Terese told Michael to keep the money to help bury the good man.  He was most gracious.

Okay.  Enough for now.  I’ll be back later.  Until then, kick butt and whatever anyone else tells you, don’t stop.

D.

 

A couple of months ago, while eating at the little restaurant on the hill, I had to sit somewhere other than my usual seat, because it was previously commandeered by four Asians.  Probably from the large number of Chinese in Addis for the massive road construction.  No problem, no hard feelings, as I moved over one table.  Several times throughout the meal, one of the table thieves, probably the ringleader, would loudly rattle away on his cell phone.  I find it absolutely irritating to endure a phone conversation in any language where the individual has no regard for others.  It’s as if they think talking loud on the phone is a sign of intelligence, or they want everyone to believe they are someone important.

I placed my napkin on my shoulder as a signal for Hywät to come see what I want.  When she arrived I told her:  Hywät, grab his phone away from him and throw it on the floor and stomp on it.  I added some hand and foot gestures to leave no doubt as to what I wanted her to do.  Without having to think, she shook her head and leaned over to me and whispered,  … they know Karate!

I’ve been tempted to ask her, when she signs her name in English if she puts the two little dots above the “a” in her name like my computer does.

On my way to Abuja, Nigeria, earlier this week, I flew in a new Boeing 777, with all the new nifty gadgets like a USB port stuck in the seatback in front of me.  As I started to sit down, I noticed a small stain about ¾ inch on the edge of my seat.  Didn’t think much if it except, I wonder what caused that?  The flight was about four and a half hours and midway through, they served us hungry confined animals our lunch.  It was either beef or fish.  After being in Africa I realized that beef here is usually tough, so I opted for the fish.  Came with some yellow sauce on a bed of couscous. (I swear I grew up not knowing what that was).  Tasting the fish, it was rather bland, so I added some salt.  Still a bit bland, so a little more salt then swirled it around in a sauce that must have had 50 shades of yellow.  Ate a bite with the skinny plastic fork they give and it wasn’t too bad.  Ate another bite, then another.  Somewhere between the 6^th and 9^th bite, a chunk of fish jumped off my fork and landed on the seat.  Right on the stain that was already there.  Like it was made for it!  Well, I now know what caused the stain; the next question is, how many layers are there?

Upon my arrival in Abuja, I got in line for the usual passport shuffle.  When it came my turn, I handed the unsmiling man my passport and said, Hi.  Without smiling, he replied in a run-on sentence: Welcome where are you working?  I told him and he muttered something I didn’t understand, then handed the passport to an equally unsmiling woman in a military uniform sitting in the next booth.  So I stepped sideways to the next window.  I thought, interesting.  It takes two people to look at the passports.  Then the woman asked me how long I would stay?  I said, until the 13^th.  She responded, This is the eleventh!  I replied more succinctly, The 13^th.  Again she appeared baffled, so I said, Wednesday.  She replied, Wednesday?  Yes ma’am, Wednesday.  Then she handed the passport to a big woman also in a uniform, standing outside the passport booth.  She had a sour look on her face like she was suffering from indigestion.  She looked it over and either grunted or burped, then handed it back to her. She then stamped my passport like she was making sure it was dead, then handed it back and gloomy said, welcome.

I find my bag quickly and head for the Customs area to get out of the building.  But some guy in a uniform guided me to a side room full of other military personnel who like to look through people’s bags.

I entered and one guy pulls me aside and beside him is a smiling but unhappy woman also in uniform.  He asked me what I have in my bag while the woman said, Welcome.  When I fly somewhere, I take a small bag of tools with me and almost every time, the Authorities want to see what’s in my bag when it is x-rayed.  I told him clothes and tools.  The conversation went something like this:

Tools?

Yes, tools.

Open bag please.

As I unzipped the bag, the woman again said, Welcome.  When I got it opened, I stood back for them to gaze upon my belongings.  He picked up my little plastic box that I keep my vitamins in.  You know the little plastic boxes that has little compartments, one or two for each day of the week.  All old people use them these days.

He asked me, What is this?

I said, Vitamins and my tools are …

Vitamins, he repeated.  Not as a question.

Yes, Vitamins.

At this point she again said, Welcome.

I tried to continue, Now my tools …

Are they for consumption?

Yes, my consumption.  Now my tools …

You may go welcome.

And she repeated his word, Welcome.

Yeah.  I never felt so welcomed by so many gloomy people in all my life.

Remember all the Nigerian scams on the Internet?  I realize why they are from Nigeria.  From what I see, that country has to be one of the most expensive and most corrupt countries in Africa.  I stayed two nights at the Hilton in Abuja and I had to pay for my room with the local currency, because I was told giving them your credit card info is dangerous.  (This is at a Hilton, mind you)  I had to get 60,000 Nigerian Naira to pay for each night.  That’s about $360 a night.  Nice hotel, but not that nice.  I could have had breakfast there also, but it was an additional $35.

The city had very few beggars but many hawkers in the streets.  There are signs posted saying, No Hawking, but it didn’t matter.  And it’s amazing what you can find with them.  I remember seeing bread, drinks, shirts, women’s undergarments, window shade film, umbrellas, books on writing resumes, soap, toothbrushes, tissues, an electric engraver, bicycle horns, maps, puppies, toilet paper, etc.  I wish I could remember everything.  I’ll add to the list when they come to mind.

Then Wednesday I flew to Lagos.  From what I could tell, not as corrupt as Abuja, but evidently extremely dangerous.  I was picked up in an armored SUV and driven very quickly through the city to the Embassy where I would work.  It reminded me of having to ride in an armed convoy from Kabul, Afghanistan to Bagram Airbase, on terrible roads at a high rate of speed, with armored Humvees ahead and behind.  If anyone had gotten in the way, they would not have stopped – only sped up.

In Lagos I stayed at an American recreation facility that houses Expats working in the area.  Simple and nice.  The food was American and the bar actually had Coors beer.  Not the watered down stuff, but the original beer.  Traveling between the Embassy and the housing complex was by a high speed boat, because the Embassy is on the shore and the housing is on a large island.  (or maybe the other way around)   In the morning, there is a heavily armed Nigerian soldier riding on the back of the boat.  Probably hanging on for his life.

When I flew out of Lagos on my way home, I had an Expeditor that meets me at the airport to make sure I get out without any problems.  This was the first time I had this on a simple flight out, but after getting into the airport, I realized why.  Expeditors are worth their weight in gold and this young lady led me through the maze(s) only a military government could come up with.  She took me to 4 or 5 little desks that each had to look at my passport.  Which one was the actual Passport Control, I couldn’t tell; but finally she left me on my own at one of the coffee shops and all went well after that.  Well as far as Africa can be.

As I work on this on the flight back to Addis, I’m thinking, if I could make some invention that would cancel out body odors on the planes in Africa, I could become very wealthy.

But, I am now home with my wife, in safe, comfortable Addis Ababa.

 

Under the heading: I’ve Always Hated Book Reports under Page Two, is my thoughts on reading.  And writing.

I have realized when I am in a grumpy mood, I can go up the hill and visit Hywät at the Italian food restaurant, and before long I’m laughing.

I’ve got her trained so that when I put my napkin on my shoulder, she needs to come see what I want.  The first time I did this she probably thought:  What’s with this idiot now?  It works well, only to a point, because she’s still not fully trained.  As soon as I get through eating, she takes away my napkin.  Right off my shoulder.

The other day I reminded her that her birthday is coming up. (March 17^th)  I asked her how old she will be and she stated 20.  I said, I thought you were 26!  She had this ghastly look on her face like she found that offensive.  Gee!  If someone thought I was 26, I’d be elated!

The last time I was there, Terese stayed home.  So to get a conversation going with her, I start asking about her medical schooling.  She dragged a big book from behind the counter and showed it to me.  The cover had a bunch of Ethiopian writing on it (an alphabet with over 200 characters and in existence before 3000 BC).  It was her Pharmaceutical textbook.  I looked it over and there was only one other book I’ve seen in my life that was more confusing, –  a book titled, 20,000 Chinese characters and their usage.  (The only thing in English was the copyright page)

I asked her if she understood all this and with a big smile she replied Yes!  The only pictures in it – something I can relate to – were drawings of tissue cross sections and molecular diagrams.  I said, Hywät, I’m an electrician and I can’t understand any of this because it has no wiring diagrams.  She pointed to some complex molecular structure and said, These are my wires!

She has still yet to deliver her first baby.  Something she has to do to graduate, and she’s dreading it.  I told her when she does, we will give her a gift, because she helped bring a new life into the world.  Then I told her, when she does deliver one, tell the mother to give it my name.  She didn’t react at all, like she’s beginning to know when to ignore me.

In a few weeks, I will have to go into Nigeria to do some work.  I will fly in and out of Lagos.  That airport is one of the most disorganized airports I have been in.  I transited through it last year on my way to Niamey, Niger.  My incoming flight arrived late and there was some character walking though the airport yelling something which made no sense.  He walked right past me, before I realized he was calling my name for the next flight.  I realized years ago, my name does not come out very clear when some people say it.  It comes out as “Wannolt”.

More later.  Kick butt and don’t stop.

Mister Wannolt

 

Another posting under the category, America (with a “C”).  You will find it under Page One on the left.