Camel Bones and Canopy Walks: Adventures in Vancouver with Uncle B

Last weekend I went on a short notice trip to the Lower Mainland. A cultural society asked me if I’d do some facilitation work for them in Chilliwack, and I wanted to, but I had the kids in tow (Jason as doing all his ski patrol certification that weekend, so he was out of the picture.) My creative solution was to fly down Uncle B from Fort St. John, to babysit the girls while I facilitated. That definitely made the weekend a cost neutral exercise, but it was great for the girls and I to spend time with B, who we usually only see once a year. Plus, we had a weekend full of adventure in Vancouver! Thanks to B for joining us and showing the girls and I a great time.

Click on the images to embiggen…

Melkam Bal! Our wild Meskel night in Addis Ababa

There are certain places that are famous for their celebrations. Last night, my friend T and I experienced the wonderment of the crowds, blaring music and smoky pyres of Meskel in Addis Ababa.

If you aren’t aware, Meskel is the celebration of the True Cross. It’s an Orothodox Christian holiday, celebrated across Ethiopia. The holiday is named after the Meskel flower, or maybe the Meskel flower is named after the holiday. In any case, the fields of yellow flowers only bloom this time of year, at the very end of the big rains. This is a picture of Mekel flowers form my Ethiopian art collection at home.


After a quiet morning of walking the eve of Meskel, we took a cab up to our next guest house, on the north side of Addis Ababa. Vulnerable Children Society’s Teenage Sex Trade Worker Project is located on the far north west part of Addis Ababa, an hours drive from our former guest house (which was as close as we could get to the Love and Hope Centre in Kality.) We had picked the guest house for its location and recommendations, but when we arrived, we were less than impressed. The whole little place was surrounded by Barry windows. But 5 minute later, we were off again, taxiing as close as we could to Meskel Square. We got dropped off just south of the Hilton, and joined the throngs walking down towards Meskel Square.

Pete were walking form all across the city. There were constant streams of families, young people with their friends, and couples decked out in fine clothes and nutellas, the white scarves. Rich and poor, everyone had donned their best clothes for the occasion. We reached the square, and after being frisked by the military, climbed with the throng up onto the grassy slopes of the massive amphitheater. The usually busy traffic square was full of white robed priests, with expanses of pavement I between the groups from different churches. T and I had expected more milling about in the square, not the spectator setup. After climbing up into the sloped grassy hills, we picked our way down a foot wide dirt path between sitting participate to. After many minutes of stumbling walking, we found two open spots next to the path, about a quarter of the way across the back. We sat down, much to the amusement of our fellow spectators. Amounted the thousands and thousands of people in the crowd, we only saw one ferengi family pass by, and a handful of ferengi individuals.

Our neighbours that we were squished into made us feel at home. The boy next to her kept taking cell phone pictures of the side of T’s head, and shouting the only English words he could think of. Rounds of laughter from the people nearby. The sweet older lady beside me tried to strike up a conversation about the crowds. I couldn’t understand a word, despite my limited Amharic skills. I said “tinish Amharinga” (I only speak a little Amharic) and she laughed and replied the same. I don’t know where she was from, but I’m guessing she is Gurege, the tribe that is epesically celebratory of Meskel. So we smiled and made little waving jokes with each other.

The crowds thickened and thickened. Whenever someone would stop on the little path in front of us, standing, a lady three spots down would hit them with her candle and tell them to move along. But after an hour of people filtering and filtering into the sitting crowd, the path was completely stopped up. I’ve never been so squished in my life. Even T, who lived in India, said she’d never been in such a sitting jumble. There was one man with rough curly hair and a pressed dress shirt sitting on my boot toes in front of my knees, bunched up to my chest. He was leaning against my knees. T was glued to my left side, and I was sitting on a lady’s bare toes, that she had slipped out of her flip flops. I never saw he face, but my back was parsed to her knees. There was a twenty year old boy to my back right, whose knee up against my right shoulder. He softly and kindly asked about my Ethiopian and Meskel experience, encouraging me that soon we would be listening to some of the best “church music” in the world. I asked him if there was dancing. He laughs, and other laughed around us. “Priests don’t dance!” He guffawed. The lady to me right kept shooting me sidewise smiles. Both T and I felt so welcomed and included, despite not really knowing the details of what was happening.

After several hours of sitting, but still an hour or so from the huge pyre in the middle of the Meskel Square being lit, we had had enough. People were still picking their way, step by step, in between the seated crowd. I was starting to feel claustrophobic, and the trampled crowds on Mecca last week kept creeping into the periphery of my mind. So I asked T to leave. We speculated if it was even possible, then stood with difficulty. We said goodbye, and started picking our way, step by step, through the seated spectators. Once we reached the side, there was standing room only, and people were pressed so tightly against each other, it was impossible to move. I started using my Canadian charm, and with no care for personal space, switched spots with people, thanking them profusely in Amharic. I dragged T forward. She later said the crowds reminded her indeed of India. At one point I flashed panic. We were trying to crawl uphill towards the entrance. The entire crowd was pushing and started to sway in a way, exclaiming in that communal tone “ohhh!” I flashed panic, and then saw a kind man several feet above me offering his hand. “Here sister!” He yelled. I grabbed his hand, grabbed T’s with my other hand, and hauled ourselves up towards the back wall.

It was easier after that, and we managed to break free of the throng as we hit the street. Much to our amazement, people were still flooding towards the square. We walked up and out against the crowds. Once and a while, a young man would shout exuberantly, “wrong way!” But we had had enough. We absorbed the outfits, the families, the festive mood.

We stopped for a brief bathroom break at the Hilton. Yes, we totally exercised our white privilege on that one. We wondered… Where do people pee when they are stuck like canned oysters in a tin for hours on end? There certainly are no bathrooms…

We hailed a cab up to the university area, got out at Arat kilo and looked for some supper. We ended up at a restaurant I had been to before during the day. It has two huge patios between the high rise buildings and the street. The music was blaring as we took a seat, as far as possible from the speakers. Blaring music is definitely one of those cultural things we’ve not quite gotten used to in Ethiopia. We ordered doro wat, shiro, a beer and a water, and it was less than $10. The best value meal we have had anywhere! There was an MC who was constantly shouting advertisements into the mic for this occasion and other events at the restaurant, and breaking into dancing between sets. Six young dancers came onto the open area in front of the bar, scattered with grass, and did some of the best traditional dancing I have ever seen. T and I barely talked, but enjoyed watching the other diners. The cool thing about Ethiopia is that almost any occasion is for kids. Very one was drinking and eating, but there were families with small children, who occasionally joined the MC at the front, busting a move. Grandparents, parents, young men and couples were all celebrating together. That’s an Ethiopian custom I totally love.

After the restaurant, it was 15 minute walk to our new guest house. The streets were busy, with people walking. Just as we passed a military compound, the soldiers started to light the pyre, walking around it with torches, singing and dancing about. Further down the dark steer, neighbours in white nutella were singing all together in someone’s yard, and they had laid out candles in the shape of a cross on the street. The pyre was covers in meskel flowers, waiting to be lit. We continued on, past a bar, and the streets got emptier. There were groups of young drunk men walking together, but less families, so I started to get nervous and beat a quick path for the guest house. T was non-plussed, but she has greater faith in humanity than I do.

Finally, uneventfully, we walked thought the locked gate, and up to our guest house apartment. The for was open, despite us having locked it when we left. T sat on the sofa, and looked at me. I looked at her. And within a minute, we decided to move. There was no guard, it was not a particularly fantastic neighbourhood, and we felt exposed with barred windows on all sides of our room.

So we made a late night taxi ride with a thankfully Muslim (aka sober) taxi driver back t our first guest house. After a half bottle of wine, some chocolate and deep sighs of relaxation, we fell to bed. A wonderful, eventful, exciting Meskel!

Melkam Bal!

Now we are off for a coffee ceremony… A lovely holiday to all our Orthodox and Hebesha friends!

My least favourite stopover in the world is getting family friendly

I’m on my way to Ethiopia, with an overnight stopover in Dubai. I was dreading this visit; the last time I had to fly Emirates with my three year old twin babies, my airport experience was nothing short of a nightmare.

It was two months after I met my daughters, and we were flying home to Canada for the first time. As most outgoing flights leave Addis Ababa late at night, I had two very sleepy toddlers on the medium haul flight to Dubai. The girls both slept the whole way, but for the first and last time, one of my daughters wet her herself on the plane. I didn’t realize until I picked her up to leave the plane for our overnight in Dubai.

I vividly remember hauling two comatosed toddlers, their little puppy backpacks and my carry-on down the ramp and onto the bus. My arms were overflowing. I had a kid in each arm, a backpack in each hand, and a carry-on backpack strapped to me. It was way too much for me to handle. I struggled to get onto the he bus, and had to beg for someone to let me have a seat. The girls refused to wake up; after all, it was the middle of the night.

After we got off the bus, I hauled them into the terminal. There were Emirates employees standing around, but none of the white robed men would help me get my girls and luggage further. No baggage carts, nothing. The walk seemed interminable. We reached passport control and were told to go to another station to buy a transit visa. So I hauled my wet, sweating and sleeping bundles there. They only took cash. Then to a bank machine. Then to the visa station. Then back to the passport station, all the while trying not to drop the kids and literally kicking my bags in front of me.

Finally through the passport control, I walked to the station to wait for the hotel transfer bus. All this while, even when I asked, not one airport employee would help me. What a nightmare. I was crying, and no one wanted to help. We waited for 45 minutes in those seats, not knowing when the hotel bus was coming. Finally at the bus, two French ladies graciously hoisted my bags in and carried them into the hotel for me. But when I finally got the girls into the hotel room (where of course, they woke up and started running around,) I broke down and just bawled. I have never been any place less child friendly, to this day. After I washed the girls, fed them some room service and rested for a couple of hours, we left Dubai as quickly as we could.

So it was with trepidation that I got off the plane today, onto the airport terminal bus. I’ve been avoiding flying Emirates for years, because of that horrid first experience.

There were quite a few kids on the terminal bus. It gave me flashbacks, but I took it as a positive sign. Then as soon as we got out of the bus to the terminal, there was… Hold onto your hats… A stroller rack, full of complementary strollers. I would have traded a kidney for a stroller six years ago, and here was a whole rack of them.

Then in the terminal, there was a, gasp! Baby changing station! I couldn’t believe it.

And finally, the passport control was much easier, with no visa needed. Now, we might have needed it last time because the girls were traveling on Ethiopian passports. But this time, with only my Canadian passport to process, it took one minute. And next to me was a female passport control officer. What I would have done to have an understanding and/or female passport officer last time!

I walked out to the bus station for the hotel shuttle, and waited three minutes. The bus arrived, and we got off at the hotel ten minutes later. There were all sorts of kids on the bus, and I smiled for the first time in Dubai, as a little Afghan toddler sitting next to me played with my carry-on bag.

And where should I find myself, but in the exact same hotel that we were in six years ago. I kid you not. After supper, I wondered outside and found a playground with the huge long, and an enormous pool with a fenced off waiting area for children.

The sum of this story is that Dubai has changed. It was infinitely more family friendly this visit than it was six years ago. After avoiding Emirates for years, I would now definitely fly through with my nine year old daughters. (But maybe not with sleeping, wet-bummed twin toddlers and their puppy backpacks…)