Where There is Passion -
There is Art
Africa Middle East:
Where it began
"...initially you're overwhelmed. But gradually you realize it's like a wave, Resist and you'll be knocked over. Dive into it, and you'll swim out the other side. This is a new and different world. The challenge is to cope with it. And not only just cope, but thrive." Source: British Film, 2011, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.
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It’s about 2am. I’m standing among a sea of people. From the back of the crowd I see my suitcase fall out on to the carousel. I jostle my way through the mob to grab it. Next… the foreign exchange lineup. Need to get Birrs, but just enough to buy my visitor’s visa. I can’t get past immigration and out of the secure area without one.
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2004. The first time I set foot in Africa. Suitcase and Birrs now both in hand, I’m standing in the long line waiting to purchase my visa.
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The crowd is noisy, I’m exhausted. And then, among this sea of strangers, I see him. My partner's smiling face.
I made it! It had been a long two days of travel. My feet are now in Ethiopia. Addis Ababa Airport. Not your typical tourist fare. I am next in line. I step up in front of the glassed-in counter. The man slowly extends his hand. I slide my passport through the narrow glass slot. He opens it to my photo page and glances up at me with disinterest. No words are spoken. He again extends his hand. I slip him the exact amount of Birr through the narrow glass slot. Within seconds I hear the loud stamp. Visa granted. My passport slowly slides back through the glass back into my hand. We quickly make our way passed the disinterested immigration officer, and then outside, to the waiting car.
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The drive to the hotel remains but a blur. It was still the dead of night, the streets were dimly lit, and Bernard and I hadn’t seen each other for almost 3 months. We arrive at the hotel in what seemed like only minutes. I’m blown away by the beautiful lobby with its high ceilings and walls of marble. But my head would soon make its way to a comfy pillow. I would sleep that short night with no comprehension or real impression of the city where we would spend the week. For Bernard, the week would be spent in meetings. For me, each day was my own to fill.
Bernard quietly left me early morning with a thermos pot of hot coffee bedside. I had the luxury of slowly settling in that morning. Later, I would make my way downstairs and outside for a short stroll through the lush hotel gardens. I would spend the remainder of this first full day in Africa poolside, recuperating from the flight over and some 36 hours without sleep.
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Flopping down in a padded lounge chair under a sun umbrella was exactly what this girl needed. I felt totally pampered. If I even so much as appeared to move a finger, a member of the staff was beside me asking if they could assist me in any way. I have to say that my fears of Africa were quickly dissolving...Yup, I could handle this! But in all seriousness, I was clearly aware of the fact that I was living a very privileged, protected and temporary lifestyle that in no way reflected local standards, or my life back home. And as I sat there that day, I realized that beyond the beauty of the pools and the manicured gardens, the hotel grounds were completely enclosed by plywood walls. The walls had been colourfully painted with beautiful African scenes. And while I was admiring the artistry, I suddenly realized that these walls had been intentionally installed so as to hide hotel patrons like me from being in any way exposed to daily Addis life, the real life that existed -- beyond the walls.
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By day two, I decided it was time to see what Addis Ababa was really all about. With the help of hotel staff, Bernard was able to arrange for a local driver to come and pick me up. I must admit I was a bit nervous at the thought of leaving the safe confines of the hotel all by myself. But when the driver arrived he greeted me in the lobby with a broad smile and a kind disposition. It was also evident that he was well known to the hotel staff. Something inside of me said that I would be safe alone with this fellow who was now my tour guide for the day. So I hopped in the back of his car and was set to discover the real Addis -- Addis in daylight -- Addis beyond the painted plywood walls.
In an instant, the calm opulence of the hotel was behind us. Addis was a maze of narrow, chaotic streets lined with smalls shops and market stalls, and drivers of cars and trucks that had a complete disregard for road signs, designated lanes or signals.
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The sites, smells, and sounds were, by their very newness to me, overwhelming. And then there were the crowds of people – young, old, disabled. My driver seemed calm and unfazed in his familiar surroundings but warned me to keep the windows closed. When stopped in traffic, the car was immediately surrounded. The crowd outside waved their hands and tapped on the windows hoping to be offered money or bottles of water or, quite frankly, anything at all.
This strange chaos was all new to me and very unnerving, but I still needed to see more and I chose to trust my driver to know how to keep me safe. We drove a few kilometres outside the city to witness the beautiful Ethiopian countryside. We passed a live market where cows, goats, chickens, even small birds were being sold. From the backseat of the car I watched as one poor goat was unceremoniously dragged along the pavement by its owner who had hopes of making a sale. Upon returning to the city. we drove through the grounds of the local zoo . We were once again surrounded by children, but this time they were smiling and laughing and eager to see who the stranger was in the back of the car. Then it was on to the main city market which my driver explained was one of the largest of its kind in this region of Africa.
This day proved to be like none other I had ever experienced. I reached a point in the early afternoon when I was no longer able to absorb what I was seeing -- and feeling. I was pleased to return to the calm familiarity of life within the walls of my hotel. As I sat down in my room, the events of this day really began to settle in. Was I ever going to be able to rationalize or comprehend the divide between the world I was discovering in Addis, and my own world, which now felt a universe away? How can I enjoy sitting within the perimeter of these plywood walls when I know what lies beyond them? If I chose to dive into the wave, would I make it out the other side?
In the days that followed, I was taken out and treated by wonderful local hosts. Together, we walked through some of the small streets of Addis, and visited the roadside stalls and the tiny shops that I had earlier only seen from the backseat of the car. We went into small restaurants and cafés where I was introduced to Ethiopian cuisine and freshly brewed Ethiopian coffee. The real deal. I began not only to see, but to feel, the local rhythm of life.
Ethiopia is a country mired in conflict, corruption, disease and famine. Like its many neighbours, it has a privileged elite, a very small middle class and a majority impoverished population. The luckier ones live in oft times roughly constructed concrete slab structures. The many others reside in congested, and cramped, makeshift shelters constructed out of whatever pieces of cardboard, corrugated iron, or useful materials they can find. Each day they struggle to have enough clean water to drink and enough food for their families to eat.
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Q: "How can you bear this country? What do you see that I don't?"
A: "Oh...the light...colours...smiles...and the way people see life as a privilege and not a right. It teaches me something." Source: British Film, 2011, The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel.
Despite the harsh realities of my surroundings in Addis, I found myself quite inexplicably beginning not to fear them but rather to "lean into" them. This was by no means a blind acceptance of them. Rather, in my brief time as an outsider I was able, temporarily, to look beyond that which was immediately perceptible to my eyes and ears, and to feel beneath the surface. Many of the City Dwellers I witnessed would simply go about their daily lives as would you or I. And I would discover that, despite being surrounded by the harsh realities of daily life, both young and old seemed to know how to find joy in life's most simple things. Ethiopians are a social people. They congregate with their friends, they laugh, they dream, they fall in love, they share moments together.
And it seemed to me to be without hesitation that they would choose to embrace a stranger such as me and welcome them into their circle for what was only to be a short moment in time. They are a fiercely proud people. They want you to know their country, and like and respect their country, and they are ready to teach you their ways, and share with you their friendship and their table.
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These are quite clearly not an entitled people. Many face what to us are unthinkable struggles and yet they work hard, they appreciate everything they can eke out of life, and they will share with others whatever morsel or joy they have. This country has a spirit, a soul. You feel it.
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By weeks end, I would realize that I had been given a great gift -- that of stepping outside of my privileged comfort zone; an incredible opportunity to jump head first into unfamiliar and at times heart-wrenching surroundings. And among the many lessons I learned was that this country, had much to teach me. Physical possessions were no match for a people who held a great wealth of strength, pride, and a love of community, giving and sharing. I will be forever grateful for the gift of Addis.
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In the several weeks that followed, I would walk through the crude streets and markets of the small African country of Djibouti. The Djibouti of 2004 had little western presence at all and remained virtually untouched by western commerce. It was raw, and it was poor, except for the wealth held by its small ruling class. There was no tourism. Among the non-Djiboutians stationed there was a small contingent of French foreign legionnaires, American Military personnel who were running counter-terrorism operations in the Middle East and its coastal regions, and contract workers like Bernard who, in his position as chief of port security, were part of a small group tasked with upgrading port facilities and operations to meet United Nations standards established following 9/11.
Our Djibouti townhouse was full of ants, huge cockroaches, and at least one large hungry rat who eagerly chowed down on the shoulders of the raw silk shirts hanging in the closet. We had a guard that lived outside and slept on sheets of cardboard. Never in my life had I been exposed to such conditions And clearly, my living accommodations from the week before had changed exponentially.
Camels walked openly in the streets, goats and feral cats ran beside you as you sat in the outdoor restaurants, and in the centre of town on market day, small lambs were chosen by their buyers and promptly killed and taken home to feed the family.
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One day, we decided to join a small group from the Port who were going off-roading outside the main part of the city. As we made our way out to the desert, we saw a goat hanging from a pole which had been freshly eviscerated in celebration of the feast that took place every year at the end of Ramadan. We were chased at one point by a herder leading a group of camels and who, I learned quickly, I had insulted because I had tried to take a picture. Later that same day we learned not to gift a small group of children your empty plastic water bottle unless you had one for each child. The parent scolded us because we caused a fight to break out between the kids. Again, our ignorance. Water bottles, even empty ones are precious cargo to desert dwellers who need the capacity to carry water when they find it.
​Djibouti was, yes, raw, crude and poor. But once again, I was able to experience this country at the side of my partner who because of his role at the Port, worked, supervised and interacted every day with the local people. My eyes were opened to an impoverished yet fiercely proud people who would open their hearts to anyone who showed a respect for them and their country. And I would do just that.
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​I was never going to be able to reconcile, however, the vast chasm between my world and this one, or the many others that exist around the globe and to which many millions of people belong. I have not the power to change the reality and the politic of this world. It would not be, however, beyond my reach to make a small difference.
As a couple, Bernard and I would learn that if we took the opportunity to live and work among the less fortunate, we could contribute by our very presence, and by any and all offerings we could personally make to those around us... be it at the physical level of food, clothing, or at the level of opportunity - employment – a job in a positive environment free of abuse. Although life’s realities would always remain a divide between our world and theirs, we shared many moments of joy, friendship and a respect for one another. We felt privileged to be in their presence, and living and working among them. And we were witness to their receiving whatever small assistance or opportunity we could offer.
And so it would be. For reasons that are still not entirely clear to me, I would choose to embrace and thrive in these environments, rather than to flee them, and seek a seat on the first available flight home. My fears turned to compassion, and my judgement to respect. I would learn the importance of looking and listening beyond the first world noise.
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Although I would never suggest that I ever walked in the shoes of the people I met and spent time with, I was given a miniscule peek into their lives, their spirit, their realistic, unselfish approach toward life. And what I received from being beside them, was far greater than I could ever give. These people touched me to my core. They taught me some of life’s most valuable lessons and I have carried them with me every day since.
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Three years later, we were given the opportunity to go to Qatar, and to the surprise of family and friends, we jumped at it. We had less than 4 weeks to sell our cars, rent out our house and pack up our entire life in boxes. And, yes, despite our excitement, we too were somewhat nervous and unsure about our personal safety in the Middle East.
We will both never forget that very first morning we woke up in our hotel in the capitol city of Doha. We had arrived in our room at about 2:30am. We knew we had to be up, dressed and in the lobby by 7am in order to arrive on time for our medical screening appointments that all new permanent residents of Qatar had to pass. That first morning, after only 3 hours of restless sleep, we turned over in bed to face one another, opened our eyes, and with the bed sheets pulled up under our chins, shared that look of "what are we doing here?!"
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Then, Bernard reached over and took my hand. It was at that moment we would decide to dive into the wave together. And, once our pre-conceived fears were behind us, we would quickly come out the other side.
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In fact, we would accept two postings and spend a total of 8 outstanding years living in Doha, travelling from there to other countries in the Middle East and Southeast Asia.
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I think it is time now to leave you with the foregoing. Life in Qatar deserves more time to describe than I have right now. Perhaps one day I'll reproduce and share with you some of my experiences as written in my "Doha Chronicles".
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Suffice it to say that during these several years of my life, my eyes would be opened, my early-formed opinions and fears altered, and my heart both torn and deeply touched. And I would be unexpectedly, and forever transformed.
I hope that at least some of the joy and admiration I hold for the peoples and cultures of Africa and the Middle East have found expression in my art.