Crossings

Things are getting so familiar here that it is difficult to know if what I write will be of any interest. Since we returned from Tanzania life has been busy but perhaps unremarkable - to us, anyway.  However something I noticed today on our way to the SIM prayer afternoon was how people behave on pedestrian crossings. The crossings are everywhere and many have recently been repainted, but neither pedestrians nor motorists seem to take much notice. Why is it (I know I should never ask “why?”…) that when I stop at a pedestrian crossing the few people approaching it refuse to cross until I have gone past, when the rest of the time they wander around in the road as if no cars exist? If I stop at a crossing, smile and wave they just stand beside the road smiling and waving and not crossing. The few that do cross look rather worried. It’s a topsy turvy world!

Shorts

I don’t like shorts. As my family know very well, one of the things I dislike about the UK is how men dress in the summer. Shorts are a problem, especially when they simply replace normal trousers with little thought offered to socks and footwear. And don’ talk to me about men in vests! However, Paul my son-in-law loves shorts. As far as he’s concerned the weather is rarely too cold, if ever. You’ll know if it’s unlikely to snow again as winter draws to a close if Paul appears in shorts – spring will be along shortly (ha ha). Anyway, maybe I now understand. The climate in our little Tanzanian beach resort was what Paul grew up with. I was the closest I have ever been to where he was brought up - I just needed to go a couple of hundred miles east across the Indian Ocean (being careful not to trip over Zanzibar), turn right for several more hundred miles and I would have bumped into Madagascar. It was so hot and humid even I wore shorts. Shorts at breakfast; shorts at lunch; shorts on game drives. The real downside was all the chemicals I had to rub on my legs. Unless of course when I forgot, which I did one afternoon as Chris and I sat in the observation building by the resort water hole. It was a stone’s throw from the reception building (although if you’d thrown a stone you’d risk hitting a Vervet monkey) and we sat there one afternoon from about 3pm reading and keeping an eye out for any animals going for a drink. A few Vervet monkeys obliged, as did a monitor lizard (we didn’t know they could swim). A Bush Buck strolled up and that was quite exciting. We didn’t bring the insect repellent and being aware that dusk is mozzie party time we thought we should go and get some, when in the half light three elephants wandered in for a drink. This was very unusual and to the delight of the local mozzie population we sat stock still and watched these wonderful creatures drinking and squirting water around. I have known for some time (and have happily shared the fact with new SIM missionaries) that mozzies like sweaty feet. well the practical reality of this was amply demonstrated as I watched the elephants as not only was I in shorts I had sandals with no socks. The elephants played, we watched, the mozzies munched. But it was worth it.

Here’s a brief grainy wobbly video You’ll get the idea. But not the bites…

The best photos I took during this short holiday are in a gallery if you’re interested.

Cars and Parking

I know I’ve written a lot about Addis roads this year, but I’ve rarely mentioned parking. It can be a real test of character. We park near the gym twice a week, and it is never dull. Magically, whilst you’ve been in the gym working out which machines aren’t broken, a small ticket will appear under your windscreen wiper. Walking back to the car you will be offered pirated DVDs of movies not in the UK cinemas yet, and sometimes some rough hewn furniture from an impossibly old-looking man who’s made it himself. As you begin to drive away a young girl with an official looking tabard on will appear, retrieve the ticket and expect some money. How much is basically random – you guess. Haile thinks I should pay 50 cents (a little under 2p). I usually give her six times that, so she stifles a gasp of delight. Then as you back out of the parking place a guy in a fluorescent tabard will do all sorts of antics behind the car ostensibly beckoning you safely out – as unnecessary a function as you could need but he also will expect some cash. If you don’t give him any he will bang on the boot as you drive away.

Tigist

Tigist is one of the two nurses in the clinic. She comes to the clinic session I do at Bingham each Wednesday morning to translate for me. She’s tremendous fun, has a heart of gold, and it’s not difficult to get her to collapse in a heap of giggles – especially when I try some Amharic. This week as I reached patient number 19 out of 21 (this was a record for a morning session) Tigist had disappeared. I wend to another office to find her and she was in a chair with her head in her hands weeping uncontrollably. Between the sobs she told me she had just found out her cousin, who was like a sister to her, had died. Saba was 31, and was well until a few days ago when she collapsed and was admitted to hospital. Tigist had sat with her most of the previous weekend, talking to her and praying with her although she never regained consciousness. Saba had had a brain haemorrhage caused by an undiagnosed brain tumour. The funeral was the next day. Tigist didn’t come to work, but was back the following day and after some tearful greetings she was soon back to her normal self. Saba was a Christian. Tigist has great faith (you should hear her pray) and is trusting God that Saba is now in the presence of the Saviour she loved and worshipped. Tigist will miss her terribly; she’s posted some lovely photos of her on Facebook; she’s said goodbye. But she knows where Saba’s gone. Please pray for Tigist.