98 – Police Interrogation – The Case of the Stolen Clothes – Ethiopian Journey

The next day as we were having a leisurely breakfast, there were loud thuds and heavy banging on the front door. I walked out and opened the door and was shell shocked. There was a cobra (Toyota land Cruiser) parked in front of my house and a bunch of cops.

There were at least four to five young cops (may be our constable cadre, any how it was a herculean task to ask their ranks as my Amharic and their English would be at the same level – rudimentary, to say the least). And two or three senior cops. They were all wielding heavy artillery, (pistols and AK – 47s).

A sneaky doubt was forming in my mind. Did something go wrong in the university? Did any of my students complain about the grades awarded? My imagination was running wild.

Seeing my bewildered expression, the senior most cop opened up, “You, Anil??!!” It was more than a question; it was an accusation. “Me, Anil”, I responded sounding as meek as possible.

“Enquiry” he announced in a pompous voice. The realization dawned. Oh Oh, they were here to enquire about the robbery!!! (“but why the excessive force both human and weapons wise?” I asked myself. But who am I in the bigger scheme of things, especially in the matter of Ethiopian law and order).

To protect myself from being the laughing stock of the kable, I invited them in. They reluctantly followed.

Padma and the kids were shocked at the cavalcade. The police force stopped in the verandah. “Here?” was the cryptic question. By now, I was familiar with the Ethiopian short gun version of talking in English. Fire, but fire short…. precise bullets. Talk using as few English words as possible.

I nodded a silent affirmative. The senior cop took over. We watched them open mouthed as he walked up and down the verandah. Padma pointed out the nails from which the clothes line was hung. The Police chief went and peered through the rickety green boundary wall between our house and Chidambaram’s. He was quite annoyed. His annoyance was further enhanced when he looked at our front door. He muttered something to himself in Amharic.

He plonked himself in our bamboo sofa and Padma and I, sat in front of him. “What you lose?” Padma started off, “Anil’s shirt and his favourite pant” “PANT!!??” was the anguished yelp. “Yes” Padma was on a confident wicket, “His favourite pant, this pant was special. It is the pant that he wore on our marriage reception. He had been wearing it for the past 12 years’. She was laying it as thick as possible.

“Favourite pant, wearing it for 12 years!!!” The top cop was wailing. He was nonplussed. “OH MY GOD” I muttered to myself “there is a cultural issue raging on”. “Trouser sir, Trouser” I responded quickly dousing the flames of cultural misunderstanding. I threw an almighty glare at Padma gesturing her to be silent.

Pants for Ethiopians are under garments (underwear) and the district SP would have been shocked that this mad Indian had worn the same under garment for twelve years and that too proudly claiming that it was his wedding pant. “Trouser Sir” I said again “Trouser”.

“Trouser” said the relieved SP. He was clutching at proverbial straws. He made a very dramatic recovery. “Umhh, he said, “What colour?”. “Slate” Padma replied. “Slate? What Slate?!!” “Greyish black” I said in a consolatory voice. “BLACK” he said as light dawned on him.

He quickly made an inventory of lost items. It was a herculean task to describe the clothes. Necessity, the mother of invention took over. Padma brought out similar clothing and showed it to him. The SP very solemnly and quite laboriously scribbled all our lost clothing in a note book. He had the exasperating habit of asking us the brand names of the clothes that we lost.

He frankly did not understand the concept of getting clothes stitched by a tailor and expected us to remember brand names of the clothes. The SP asked Pranav to come. Pranav who was speechless at the sight of the guns came forward. “You” the SP pointed out “You lose anything?” Pranav responded, almost in tears, “My suspenders”. “Suspenders??!!”, the SP queried. 

Presto, Padma ran inside and brought out another of Pranav’s suspenders and showed him. “Anything else?”, “Yes” replied duty conscious Pranav and he noticeably brightened “My Strap Shoes”. “What Strap shoes and what brand?”. This was wearing us down.

We were not able to fathom which was worst: losing our clothes or being interrogated for a long time. Sahithi was scared out of her skin. She kept hiding herself behind her mother. Her worst fears had come true. She was not at all perturbed about the lost clothes. She was petrified at the sight of the tough looking policemen.

“Mitu (Cute baby in Amharic)” said the SP. “You……….”. Before he could finish his sentence, Sahithi burst into tears. She was inconsolable. It took Padma quite some time to cajole her. Later over hot cups of Shai, the SP counselled us.

“You need to be careful. This is Bahirdar and people are very poor. Never hang anything outside in the open. Infact do not even keep anything in the verandah. Keeping or hanging things out is an invitation for the poor kids to come over and steal. You are asking for trouble”. He assured us that he would try his best and promised that one of his team members would keep visiting us in the future too. He said with obvious pride, “You are our guests and are here to teach us and make our country more literate and help us in development. We will take full care of you”.

Saying that, the police party left our house and we let out a collective sigh of relief. It was an ordeal by fire. To cut a long story short, we never again saw the light of our belongings. They were gone forever. But something very significant emerged out of the enquiry. The SP made scathing comments in his enquiry report about the very poor boundary wall between our house and Chidambaram’s and also about our woebegone ‘look at me with a frown and I will topple over’ front gate.

This prompted our house owner to build a solid nine-foot-tall concrete wall between ours and Chidambaram’s and also constructed a thick concrete front wall and fixed a solid metal door with a calling bell and a very secure locking system by the starting of our next contract. Talk about small mercies of life!!!.

95 - Prodigious Pranav and Deadly Dosas! Ethiopian Journey

Pranav was a prodigious kid. Full of beans and doubts which could stun and irritate the most docile and placid person. It was very irritating and quite frankly we were spell bound by his doubts. We simply did not have answers to his prolific and ‘always-on–tap’ questions. He could rattle off a sequence of doubts and expect his mother to answer them to his satisfaction! A tall order by any standard!!!

He was quite dubious and cunning about the entire thing. He would slide up to his mother and fire one quite innocuously with “butter would not melt in my mouth” demeanor. Some of his doubts almost made poor Padma jump out of her skin! We were very sure that his 8-year-old body would be twitching in delight seeing the hardships he was causing!!! 

Many dishes were spoiled and many times Padma almost lost it. Even though she was quite calm and composed, Pranav’s continuous barrage of questions were wearing down her defenses. At times she had the haunted look of a person locked in a room with a machine that keeps firing questions at her just like cricket balls thrown at 100 miles per hour at a helpless number 11 batsman! Such was his volley of questions that he was quickly christened “Master Doubtfire” by his quite irritated and totally hapless mother. 

Sample some of his doubts: 

Why is it called Ladies Finger why not Gents Finger? 

Why should we call it Mango why not Womango? 

Why Handsaw why not Handsee? 

Why T-shirt why not coffee-shirt?

Why Rocket and not stonet? 

Why Octopus why not 8-pus? 

Why Donkey why not Donlock? 

Why Mongoose and why not Mongeese and not Mongander? 

Why Breakfast why not Breakslow for a person eating slowly?

Why tooth paste why not teeth paste and teeth brush 

And the mostly deadly one - Does a tiger eat a man with his clothes on, or does the tiger take the clothes off his victim before eating him?

We never had answers to such questions!!!

On an exceptionally hard day Padma was totally at her wits end. She was ready to say quits! Seeing the seriousness of the situation, I made the family sit in the garden and passed a diktat (order). In my most serious and dictatorial voice, I proclaimed with all the pomp that I could muster “For the next one hour our family will be the most silent family in Bahirdar”. 

Padma the poor soul was delighted. ‘Silence is gold and I need a tonne of it” she must have muttered to herself. Sahithi all of two years was intimidated by my seriousness. She became silent and looked at her mother for support. 

This was something not to Pranav’s liking. His 8-year-old self-rebelled against the idea of sitting silently for 60 minutes which otherwise could be spent fruitfully by asking mind numbing questions that would send any sane person into stupor or even into coma! 

Then he brightened visibly and glibly said, “Sahithi, a silent family is a family that does not talk. Silence means that no one talks. A silent family is liked by everyone……………..” He rattled on and on. For the next ten minutes we were given a lecture on silence, why we need to be silent and virtues of being silent in the most noisy and raucous fashion! I SILENTLY marveled at the ingenuity of my son who adroitly turned tables on us! For once I was totally stumped! Game set and match - Pranav Pratheek, the noisiest boy in the world!!! 

You can take an Indian out of India but you can’t take India out of an Indian. We were yearning for Dosas and Idlis but Minappappu (Urad Dal), skinned Black gram was not available in Bahirdar. Dr. Radhakrishna, a fellow faculty member made a monumental discovery. HE DISCOVERED URAD DAL in Bahirdar market and it was quite cheap, ten birr a kilo. 

Soon there were stories making rounds in Bahirdar. Stories of how Radhakrishna’s family was enjoying Dosas and Idlis by the dozen. His family was the envy of the town. Soon a contingent of Indian teachers beseeched Radhakrishna and finally he consented with a kindly light took us to the shop in Bahirdar market which sold the URAD DAL. The shop keeper was nonplussed but solemnly sold us as much Urad Dal as we wanted.

Padma the kind soul, threw a dosa party. Kable 7’s Indians, Bala, Suresh, Krishna, Rajani madam and Clara were invited. Oh boy did we have a dosa party! It was the mother of all parties. 

Padma made karam podi and potato curry and we all hogged. Many of us had three to four dosas. The dosas almost tasted Indian. Everyone dispersed after the dosa orgy. By afternoon all hell broke out. 

Everyone barring Sahithi (who wisely had only one dosa) was having the most severe stomach cramps. So severe that it felt as if our stomach was being churned by an infernal washing machine in the fast wash mode and it looked like someone forcefully stapled our stomachs. 

The pain was unbearable. Home remedies were tried out, including drinking water copiously, having soft drinks, digene but to no avail. Many Indians faced a sleepless night. We suffered too. It was like an Agatha Christie novel “Death by Dosa!”. 

Next day I scooped up some of the innocuous and innocent looking skinned black gram seeds and took them to my Management HOD. She too was puzzled. She did not even know what they were! I was desperate to crack the mystery. I took the offensive grains to the Agricultural Department of Bahirdar University. 

The kind professor who received us too, was nonplussed. He took the grains and promised a quick investigation as to why these grains caused so much pain!! 

The professor was at my office the next day. He had an almighty grin. A grin so wide that it threatened to tear his face off. He was trying to control his mirth, but it was a lost battle, “Dr. Aneel” he almost shouted at me “It is very clear. What you ate is not for human consumption. It is a special grain that is used in Ethiopia to make race horses run as fast as they can. The grain is so strong that it is diluted so much that a kilo of this wonder grain is enough to boost twenty horses to gallop as fast as they can”. It was a shock of my life. 

We ground the very strong and toxic grains and made dosas!!!  And we had dosas with equally heavy potato curry.  It was no wonder that we all experienced the most severe stomach cramps of our life. Light dawned. That is why the shopkeeper gave us such funny looks! He could not comprehend why these scholarly looking Indians were buying grains that were almost exclusively bought by Ethiopians who bred race horses that could gallop as fast as wind! But being a smart seller he was, he made hay as the sun shone! He sold us the wonder grain, while inwardly he must have been smirking “Oh boy, these Indians are as mad as MAD can be!” 

As usual Pranav had the last laugh, “What Nanna? The solution is very simple. We can eat dosas and gallop all the way to Gondar (a historic Ethiopian city, 140 kilometers from Bahirdar)”. I was so annoyed and angry that I could not even muster courage to reprimand him! It was quite an ordeal! 

94 - Finally at Tiss Abay Water Falls - Ethiopian Journey

The lazy lunch was consumed but we were reluctant to move. Sensing the mood, we decided to slow the pace. I posed the question to the group. Which was the best part of the trip so far? As usual Pranav was off the mark, even before the question sank in by quipping “of course throwing stones into the river!!!”

We had come across Abay river, the birth place of the great Nile river the cradle of modern Egyptian civilization. Kuldeep and me agreed too. The river was not very deep and we hopped into the middle of the river. It was slippery but we did it. Padma the ever adventurous got to the center of the river and she was carrying Sahithi in her arms. Aunty, Krishna Kumari and Shilpa watched her in astonishment! They could not believe their eyes.

The locals were petrified. They started waving their hands. We need not know the language, the message was clear!!! “get out as fast as you can”. Safely back on the river bank, I was quite annoyed at being dragged back so soon. “What was the bloody hurry?” I grumbled “What will happen, would an Anaconda swallow us?” I asked sarcastically. The movie anaconda flashed into my mind. But the science student in me reared up his head. Anacondas don’t exist in Ethiopia!

Suresh who was talking to the locals came up. He was definitely worried, “Sir” He exclaimed “hundred times more dangerous. The waters are infested with hippopotamus”. “That missed me, totally!” I told myself. Languid, robust and appearing to be lazy, Hippos are viewed as safe and harmless. But they can be deadly dangerous and  aggressive and many cases of hippos goring people to death have been reported from throughout the world including, Ethiopia.

We recited the incident to others and everyone got cautious. Dare I say, Overcautious. Pranav and Sahithi started looking at any sudden movement with alarm and apprehension. Pranav was on his guard from the hippos. He almost expected hippos to jump out of a bush and gobble him up!

But we all agreed that the best part was the very green surroundings and the hills around which accentuated the effect. It was like walking in the valley of flowers in Himachal Pradesh, India.  It was pleasantly cool and there was a carpet of grass where ever we looked. The show man in me took over “Do you know what this carpet is made of?”. “Oh yes, it’s a carpet of grass”. “Ha, ha” I said, “You are wrong, this is not grass, it is made up of lakhs and lakhs of young marigold plants”.

The entire group bent down and checked. Yes it was tiny marigold saplings all right. They were growing like weed. We all imagined the sight of lakhs and lakhs of marigold plants and crores of marigold flowers when they bloomed.  It would be a spectacular sight. Now a days when we moan the lack of fertility of our land, this incident comes flashing back. How I miss Ethiopia where we dumped marigold saplings by lakhs from our garden. They were a nuisance!

Suitably fortified both mentally and physically we ventured out of our picturesque lunch spot. As we walked to the end of the meadow, we realized that we were not on a meadow, we were on a plateau, a plateau that tapered off into a small slope that led to the base of the water fall. 

As we reached the end of the plateau the noise turned deafening. The entire area was smoking – no wonder Tiss Abay in Amharic meaning great smoke/ smoking waterfall or waterfall that emits smoke or fog. The water from the waterfall was chocolate brown and was tumbling down the 45 metres fall effortlessly. It was like watching a giant chocolate fountain in reverse.

Watching any waterfall is always an awesome sight. Water is the elixir of life and water tumbling down a slope somehow makes us bow our head in reverence to the might of the nature.

We went down the slope and as we went down it was apparent that we were descending into the lap of nature. The waterfall slopes were wet and clinging on was moss of myriad colors. The rocks were glittering with drops of water like the sweat on well-toned muscles of a superbly fit athlete.

There was a rock right in front of the waterfall and we took the customary keepsake snaps. Yes, it was a very satisfying experience. We climbed up and wanted to go back. But there was a twist in the tail. There was a boat that could take us to the other side of the river and that could cut the journey time by half. 

We were delighted at the turn of events. We all crowded the small motor boat. The driver could speak English. He greeted us politely “20 birr, 20 birr” We did a double take. “20 birr for all of us” we asked hopefully. “No” he confirmed “20 birr for each”. We haggled “the distance is short” we argued “we can see the other side”. But he was adamant. “20 or walk” was his dictum.

We showed him our work permits. Told him that we were not tourists and that we were working for his people and that we were residents of Ethiopia. But to no vail.  After lot of front and forth finally we agreed for ten birr for each one of us including Pranav and Sahithi. We had no choice. We grudgingly paid. It was painful to pay 10 birr each.  The locals were paying only a birr. They were grinning ear to ear seeing our discomfort.

That is how the cookie crumbles throughout the world including India. For example, in Hyderabad, for entry into Golconda fort the locals are charged Rs 10/- and the foreigners are charged 25 US Dollars. Same is the case at Taj Mahal. The rates for locals and foreigners differ. But the issue in Ethiopia is quite different. The amount that was charged is not fixed by the government. Tourism is not state controlled and is in the informal sector. I am sure that for white tourists the same guy would have demanded 10 US dollars, equivalent to 85 birr!

The apathy of the government to tourism was apparent. There were no sign boards. Nothing to explain the uniqueness of the site and no souvenir shops. That is how tourism is run in third world countries. Tourists are left to fend for themselves and have to manage on their wits.

As we were exiting, a government official magically appeared out of nowhere. “100 birr” he exclaimed pointing to my video camera. “100 birr!!!” I gasped. “Why didn’t you tell us when we went in?”. It was too much for this government official. He kept repeating “100 birr, 100 birr” in a monotonous charade.

It was quite clear that he meant business. We paid him the 100 birr but there was bitter taste in the mouth. First of all, we did not even know whether he was a government official in charge of tourism. He could be any government official who was stationed at Tiss Abay. He did not give us a receipt.

Worst of all, why did he not tell us about the charge when we were entering? Why not a simple board about the fees and the dos and don’ts. What is permitted and what is not. Tourism is a Russian roulette in Ethiopia.  You never know which one of the six chambers of the revolver has the bullet! It is a guessing game for all, including the government officials themselves!!! 

93 - Tryst with Tiss Abay Water Fall - Ordeal by wet Mud - Ethiopian Journey

The tryst with the tourist guides, we thought was done and dusted. Oh boy! We were mistaken and How! The motley crowd of wanna-be-guides were not to be discouraged. They were made of sterner stuff! They followed us just like the children following the Pied Piper of Hamlin. Hamlin’s Piper must have had it easy.

The children following him would have laughed and giggled, not our Ethiopian lot. They were noisy and made many comments. And the entire crowd would howl away to glory. We were used to it but the experience unnerved aunty. She is from United States, where privacy is respected and valued. Privacy in Ethiopia was in short supply. You take a turn and the crowd is in your face.

There were many other wanna-be-entrepreneurs among the crowd. Some were selling handloom items of dubious lineage, some were selling small baskets and some were marketing long sticks!! why sticks we wondered?

Few minutes later, we understood the reason. It was the peak rainy season and the route was sticky and quite slippery. The mud had the look of a slippery goo. So slippery that walkers would slide helplessly and fall head or butt first right into the wet, slushy and sticky Ethiopian clay soil.

The locals had made rickety bridges with the logs which they must have taken from the surrounding forest. The smart entrepreneurs plonked themselves next to the rickety bridge and demanded 10 birr per person for the privilege of using their ‘golden gate bridge’. “If you don’t, you are welcome to eat the fine Ethiopian mud (when you fall)”.

Then there are the smart kids who would politely offered to hold our hands and guide us. These are the second generation entrepreneurs who are great at offering services instead of products. For a birr they would hold your hands and allow one to cross the bridge. And the third generation entrepreneurs are those who sell a steady stick that we could use to walk in the muddy terrain and the cost was cheap - 10 birr at the least.

Our mathematics teacher, Dr. Kuldeep Singh’s eyebrows were furrowed so deeply that they almost disappeared! ‘Ah, ah’ he exploded “10 birr for the stick, at least 3 birr for using the bridge and another 1 birr for holding their hands. That is a total of 15 birr!!!”. “By the time we reach the falls I will have to pay my entire salary to them”. His indignation was a sight. We did not have smart phones at that time. Otherwise we could have had a price winning photo opportunity.

The Ethiopians used the stampede technique. They would crowd us and create claustrophobia. We resisted their ploy but the going was tough. Every one slipped and fell. It was like the coming of age initiation ceremony.

‘Thou shall fall atleast once’ Tiss Abay waterfall seemed to whisper in our ears. And pronto people would fall, seemingly obeying the command of the naughty Tiss Abay.  Finally, it was only me and Padma, who did not bite the dust. Padma was carrying Sahithi in her arms.

She turned to aunty and said “No mummy, it is all about balance. You need to step gingerly and not firmly”. By this time she had the attention of the entire group “Like this, mummy“ She demonstrated. “One step at a time and you would never fall”. Our very own PhD ‘in slippery mud walking” was prophesizing.

Aunty turned, her eyes full of admiration. She wanted to take a look at her spider woman daughter who had a vice like grip on the slippery ground.  But where was her dear daughter!!!???? Nowhere to be seen!

Padma was sitting heavily on the ground. Just as she was prophesizing she slid rapidly and landed almost ten feet away. She was like an ice skater, totally out of control! Her breath was knocked out. She was not hurt but her pride was! We all had a laugh of our life time. Sahithi who was in Padma’s arms had a jolt of her life and she did not like it one bit. She started wailing indignantly. All for may be 30 seconds.

Our entrepreneurial lot had an opportunity of their life. All of them started crying in a falsetto. Incredibly all of them were imitating Sahithi. It was eerie to say the least! The sound was like 1000 banshees wailing! Sahithi had a shock. She had never been teased so mercilessly. She shut down as tight as a clam!

But the crowd would not stop. It was a party time. Even I could not avoid the Tiss Abay trail by Wet mud. My foot got stuck into the most annoying “try as you might” can’t take it out mud. I tried a lot but my shoe would not budge. I had to stick my hand into the nauseating and quite smelly mud to extricate my foot and yes my shoe too. I had to spend an exasperating ten minutes trying to get the mud off my shoe and then from my socks and foot too!

Nothing more annoying than trying to dry wet socks and wetter shoes, that too in humid conditions and in rainy season. Finally, I put my wet foot into an equally wet shoe and the shoe made sickening squeaky sound every time I walked. It was like walking forever in a field full of wet mud. The mud seemed to want to grab and hold me down. My shoes were squeaking like a badly made musical shoes of a one-year-old toddler.

By the time we reached the meadows our spirits were down and we were snapping at each other. The sight was majestic. We could see the majestic waterfalls in full flow in the back ground.  We sat down to eat. We had blankets but they too were soggy and wet. But they were much better than the beastly wet ground. As we started to eat, a melodious sound wafted towards us. It was the most incredible sound ever.

We were transported back to the times when Krishna frolicked in Dwaraka along with his friends. It was a heart touching flute recital by a cow herder. This kid wearing an angelic smile played on his rustic flute and as long as we had our lunch.

We beckoned him. He refused to eat Indian food but gleefully accepted the 10 birr note that we gave him. God Bless you dear cow herder. Hope that you made it big in life and are touching many other people’s lives – the way you touched ours and got permanently etched in our minds. 

86 - Pranav's 2nd Grade examinations get over - visiting India - Preparing for Graduation ceremony - Sai Baba Bhajans - Ethiopian Journey - Blog Post no - 86

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Pranav’s 2^nd grade examinations got over and the results were favourable. He passed the examinations with flying colours and got an overall percentage of 90%. He was over the moon!!!. We had to prepone our journey back to Bahirdar by a day as two examinations were held in a day by the school, so that we could go back to our universities one day in advance.

Ethiopian Airlines was accommodating and helped us in preponing our trip. There was excitement all around. We were not unhappy at Addis Ababa but home is home and we were keen to go back.

TFM (Telugu Faculty Member) who could not get us a small parcel from India even though he stayed only a kilometre away had given us a very generous list of things that he wanted from Addis Ababa.

As I read the list, I was truly astonished. TFM wanted almost everything from Addis, 10 kgs of fine rice, nearly ten kgs of vegetables. The sheer audacity of his wishes took my breath away.

We bought Thailand rice that looks like Sona Masoori. Basmati rice was available but somehow Basmati rice is not for daily use. It tasted funny when eaten as white rice. It is good for biryani and that too if taken once in a while. We also bought five kgs each of brinjal (egg-plant) and Okra (ladies finger).

The journey back to Bahirdar was quite rocky and full of turbulence. It was scary too. The plane was buffeted with strong winds and it kept dropping and climbing up again. Sahithi was very scared. We too were experiencing the same but put up a straight face but internally we were all shivering with fright.

In our first contract we had to deposit our passports in the university. Planning to go to India was a herculean task. First of all, there had to be a valid reason to travel and an Indian in Bahirdar had to sign the travel application as a surety.

Kuldeep (our PEDA mathematics faculty) wanted to go to India on a personal visit and saw to it that a telegram arrived from India citing that his grandmother was sick. I stood as a surety for Kuldeep. Kuldeep’s departure was a shock to many Indians in Bahirdar.

True to Indian mentality, rumours started to fly - That Kuldeep could not teach properly, that his feedback was not good and that he was gone for good and that as a surety I was in trouble.

Many Indians were actually very happy. ‘Anil got his comeuppance’ was the general feeling. They all purred like cats who had their full quota of cream and were contented.  They were sharpening their axes –eager to see the broom getting lowered on me (the penalty being levied).

Kuldeep returned from India. Most Indians were actually disappointed with the turn of events. Funny, the way people react to crisis and crisis management. 

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As the semester progressed there was palpable excitement in the university. The student community started looking brighter and the air was pregnant with anticipation. Initially I could not understand what was happening. Then it dawned upon me. The student community was preparing for the event of their lifetime – Graduation Ceremony!

For many in Ethiopia even in 2002, it was very rare to be well educated. Passing the school examination was seen as an achievement and here were students who were passing their advanced diplomas for the first time and in some cases some students were getting graduated! For many families, they were the first graduates!

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Getting graduated in Ethiopia at that time was a really big deal. It was very rare and families travelled long distances to different universities just to see their children getting graduated. The family would not spare any effort or cost to celebrate their most joyous day – GRADUATION CEREMONY.

It was an event of a life time. I was told that Bahirdar would get decked like a new bride. There would be festivities everywhere. Flower bouquet sellers would do brisk business and all local photographers would be busy.

There would be brisk business for stationery and gift shops. The students and their parents and relatives would roam in Bahirdar – the students in their graduation dress. The celebrations would spill into the streets. There would be dancing and impromptu celebrations everywhere. It looks as if entire Bahirdar was celebrating the students’ success.

They would visit the tourist spots and take keep sake snaps. It was truly amazing what graduation meant for Ethiopians. I could not wait. I wanted to experience my first Ethiopian graduation ceremony!

In demand would be the teachers, especially the foreign teachers.  I was asked by my students, including the ones that I did not teach, whether I would be in Bahirdar at the graduation time. Taking snaps with teachers was customary and taking snaps with foreign teachers was a badge of honour – ‘I was taught by a foreigner – that too an Indian!!!!!’.

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This planning for the festivities somehow made me pensive and sad. We Indians have become blasé and don’t seem to enjoy the small things in life. Graduation ceremonies are mostly done away in Indian Institutions both at graduate and post graduate level. It is customary for universities to hold graduation ceremonies only for PhD scholars and that too once in two or three years. We need to celebrate  the event irrespective of it magnitude.

Padma decided that we should perform Sai Baba’s bhajan every Thursday. Our family, Dr. Srinivas Inguva (who had a very melodious voice) and Dr. Neelima were the regulars.   We (our family, Dr. Srinivas Inguva or Dr. Neelima) prepared some snacks and offered it to Sai Baba as Prasad. After the Bhajan, we would partake in the Prasad and then disperse. It was soothing and made the kids concentrate on connecting with the almighty.

One Indian was quite upset. He asked me “Anil garu, I am very glad that you are performing Sai Baba Bhajan. That is very nice. But I am not getting my share of the Prasad”.

I was totally taken aback “Your Prasad sir, I don’t understand?”. That Indian gave me the look that people give an imbecile, “Sir, my share sir, you are not sending my share”.

By this time, I had recovered from the initial shock. I said, very gently, “Sir, Prasad has to be taken as Prasad. It is only for people who come to my house and do the Bhajan. We can’t give Prasad for the people who stay at their homes and expect us to home deliver”. The Indian kept quiet, grudgingly.

Flying To Take The Second Grade Examination – Pranav Pratheek, The Indian School, Addis Ababa, Ethiopian Journey – Blog Post No – 80.

The next big event was our Addis Ababa visit for Pranav’s annual examinations. The time, March 2003.  There were many Indian families in Bahirdar but very few Indian teachers had school going children.

It is not that they did not have school going children. They did, but with foresight they had left their children in India along with their wives or with their parents and had come down to Ethiopia.

The next set were newly married couples with no children and the last set were teachers in the twilight of their career, retired college and university professors trying to line their retirement nest with a little more feathers (cash) to make their post retirement life a little more cushier!

That left Azaz Ahmed sir’s family and mine. Azaz sir’s daughter Shariqua Ahmed too was also studying in the second grade along with Pranav. They were distance education students of the Indian school, Addis Ababa and were allowed to study in remote locations and take their examination once in a year.

Piazza, Addis Ababa

The Indian School, Addis Ababa was located in Piazza, one of the busiest business centres of Addis. 

Piazza is well known for its shops and quite distinctive Italian design and flavour. It is part of old Addis Ababa. It is the watering hole of the well-heeled Addis Ababa citizens. 

We initially planned to go to Addis by road using a Cobra (Toyota Land Cruiser) but after my bumpy, gut wrenching and dusty Addis Ababa road trip the idea was quickly dumped.

We were sitting in the PEDA campus canteen, sipping Shai and contemplating on which day to fly, when Ahmed sir wryly commented “Sir, flying in an aeroplane was a dream for us, and here we are planning to take our families by aeroplane to Addis Ababa and that too to write second grade examinations!!!’. I was deeply struck by what Dr. Azaz Ahmed said.

Hailing from the innocent sixties, I saw the majestic Aeroplanes flying from Begumpet airport. I was wonderstruck, overawed and quite often wondered “Would I be lucky to fly in an aeroplane at least once in my lifetime?”.

I remember my “NETWORK” days. It was the October of 1998 and Sales and Customer service departments from Secunderabad office were asked to come to Srinagar, Jammu and Kashmir.

Our excitement knew no bounds. We were thrilled to the core. We went to Delhi by second A/C and from Delhi we flew to Srinagar and for most of us it was our first flying experience.

We were fascinated to see our luggage disappear and were quite intrigued by the boarding pass and the security check, all of which are not part of road and train travel.

I can distinctly remember sitting in the wide bodied jet. There were four of us siting in the centre. Ranganath our ASM (Regional sales Manager), next to him was me, sitting next to me was Vijay the simple but a nice sales executive from the Customer Care Department.

Vijay marketed daisy wheels and floppy drive to customers who bought electronic typewriters from NETWORK. Sitting next to Vijay was NETWORK’s unofficial jester Ajay Nadig. Ajay looked very innocent and those looks deceived everyone. Beneath his innocent looks and baby veneer, lurked one of the most mischievous and innovative prankster that I had ever known!

The plane took off and we could all see that Vijay was tense like a coiled spring. We too were feeling the stress but were pretending and had the looks of seasoned regular air travellers. We even fooled the air hostesses who was taken in by our act!

But poor Vijay was not having any of it. He was almost gagging and was as comfortable as a fish out of water. He had a haunted look. Suddenly the aeroplane hit an air pocket and there was a distinct loud noise.

Vijay almost jumped out of his seat. Only his seatbelt saved him. His face was ashen. He turned to me, I was shocked at the paleness in his face. “Anil bhai, kya hua? (Anil, what happened)?”.

Before I could answer, Ajay piped in “Arrey Vijay kuch nahi rey, plane reserve mey gira”. For the uninitiated we were all from the Chetak era. Whenever the Chetak scooter’s petrol level reached the critical level (which usually means that little fuel was left) we could hear a peculiar noise. The noise was an indicator that petrol had to be filled.

Vijay went ballistic. For the next few minutes he was cursing the Indian airlines and the frugality of the pilots. He had a very brilliant query “what is the reserve holding capacity of this aeroplane”.

Ajay was innocence personified “pata nahi, par ho sakta hai ki das ya pandrah litres hoga (I don’t know but I am guessing that it would be 10 to 15 litres)”. We had to physically restrain a now perturbed Ranga from revealing the simple truth.

Ranga, Ajay and I had to control our laughter as Vijay almost said his final prayers. Until the plane landed in Srinagar, Vijay was on the proverbial pins and needles.

It was only after many more months that Vijay came to know that there is nothing called reserve in an aeroplane and that its fuel holding capacity ran into thousands of litres of highly refined air-fuel.

We booked the air tickets for the 16^th of March.  Each ticket costed us 250 birr (Rs 1,250/-) from Bahirdar to Adds Ababa. Our children were prepared and we planned to stay at Bel Air hotel.

Bel Air was popular among the Indians as it allowed visitors to cook their own food. We packed our clothes, text books, Murrukulu, jam, utensils and the most important item, the kerosene stove!

Queen Elizebeth Street, where Bel Air hotel was located 

The journey day finally dawned and Pranav was tensed. It was five months since he had gone to a regular school. The night before, all the Indians of our Kable Dr. Srinivas, Dr. T.N. Murthy, Dr. Neelima, Dr. Kuldeep and Tasneem came over and wished Pranav. It was as if we were going off to India!

We slightly widened the Andhra, Tamil Nadu border - the rickety, ‘touch me and I shall fall, woe-be-gone’ bamboo fence that separated our house from Chidambaram’s house. The gap was to ensure Chidambaram or his wife Usha to come over and water our precious plants.

Early in the morning we engaged a taxi. The charge for an airport drop was 50 birr (Rs 250/-). We reached the Ginbot Haya airport and our journey was about to start.

Hair cut in Bahirdar – a hair raising experience – Ethiopian Journey – Blog Post no 71.

There are some things that are difficult to grow, especially plants and crops. Paradoxically what we want never grows the way it is supposed to grow or grow abundantly! Weeds that are universally hated, proliferate and seem to have the last laugh by cocking a snook at our feeble attempts, to be the creators.

And there are many things that grow easily by themselves and we human beings are bestowed with hair and nails that grow at quite a speed! In India it is quite easy to go for a haircut as good hair cutting salons are available at every nook and corner and they can provide a decent hair cut at a very affordable price. Getting a haircut is a non-issue in India.

Things were different in Bahirdar. Pranav and I sported stylish haircut when we landed in Bahirdar in the month of November. But come February 2003 we realized that our hair had grown so alarmingly, that we could wear a small pony tail!

Ethiopian men prefer short hair. Long hair would curl and grow to be woolly and that was something that the Ethiopians were not happy with! We had a Nigerian faculty member named Ahmed in Management Department.

Ahmed was paranoid about short hair. He would have hair of three inches’ length and hair over four inches would give him palpitations and he would religiously make a beeline to the nearest salon to get his unruly hair back to a disciplined three-inch level. Once his hair was back to three inches, peace and tranquillity would reign in Management department of SBE (School of Business and Economics), BDU (Bahirdar University).

My Ethiopian friends advised me to visit a hair cutting saloon in Kable 7, quite close to my house. The news that Pranav and me were to have a haircut was met with howls of delight from Sahithi and stares of apprehension from Padma. Sahithi liked the fun element. Her brother having a hair-cut and undergoing the ordeal of inconvenience was god’s way of getting at her annoying brother.

Padma on the other side was worried about our Kurula Soundharyam (beautiful hair). “what if the barber spoils your hair”. “Don’t you worry” I assured her jauntily. “Bochhu, Bocche (hair is hair), it is not cast in metal. It grows back”. To be frank I was quite apprehensive. After all I did not want to be the butt of jokes in the department and I was scared of the puzzled looks my Ethiopian students would give me if my hair was botched up.

We set out for the hair-raising experience and tagging along were Padma and Sahithi. They did not want to miss it for their life! It was god’s deliverance to the women folk. They need not get a haircut. They were burning with curiosity to see we would have a haircut in Bahirdar.

The hair cutting salon was a simple affair. It was a tin structure and inside were two very young Ethiopian barbers wearing white aprons just like aprons worn by doctors. ‘Aha, this is where the hair doctors like Javed Habeeb must have got inspiration from”. I smirked.

The Ethiopian barbers were shell shocked seeing a foreign family of four walking confidently into their salon. They were shaking with apprehension and their eyes grew wide seeing the length of Padma’s hair (almost five feet). They were close to a collapse and a seizure. “No, no” I assured them “not for the lady, not for the lady. Neither for Mito (Mito means baby)”.

The senior barber was relieved. He was clutching at straws “Und, Hulat, Sost, Arat” he said.  My face brightened “Sebat” I said confidently. Just to drive the point home that I knew Amharic, I showed him seven fingers. “Intriguing Ethiopians” I muttered to myself. “Why do they want to know the age of the person getting a haircut?!”

“Sebat” the barber gasped. He wouldn’t have been more shocked, if I had shot him with a shotgun! “Sebat, Sebat” he blabbered. He was terrorized. He looked at his colleague, who too was looking to escape the ordeal.

I was getting irritated. “Use a scissors” was my free advice. The haunted barber took an automatic hair clipper and put an attachment. In front of our unbelieving eyes he gave Pranav a haircut that was quite illustrative in itself. At the end of the ordeal Pranav was close to tears. It looked as if he just tonsured his hair at Tirupati, a week ago. Scissors were not used at all! I was flabbergasted. we dumped the five-birr hair cutting charge on the table and stormed off.

The next day, I recited my experience to my Ethiopian colleague, Abraham. Abraham almost fell off his chair. “Sebat, Sebat, Sebat” he roared. He was uncontrollable. “Dr. Anil” he was giggling “The barber was not enquiring your son’s age. The numbers 1,23,4 signify the length of hair that has to be cut or trimmed.

1 (one) means sporting very closely cropped hair and 4 (four) means that he would hardly cut any hair and only trim lightly and make the hair presentable. You said seven and the barber did not understand what you meant. Not giving you any benefit of doubt he gave your son a crew-cut.

He must have thought he was saving your money so that you need not visit a hair cutting salon for the next few months. Don’t blame him”. As I made an inglorious retreat, his mocking laughter followed me. “Sebat, Sebat, Sebat” he would whisper and wink conspiratorially whenever he saw me after that incident.

Much later Suresh and Bala guided me to another hair Saloon in Kable 13. The Kable 13 barbers used scissors and delivered a passable haircut. But the way the scissors was held and hair was chopped never inspired any confidence among the Indian teachers. But we never had a choice. What we had was a Hobson’s choice!

Ethiopian barbers were supremely confident with the usage of automatic hair trimmers and were very tentative when it came to using scissors and did not have finger dexterity like the Indian barbers in creating hair styles. But they can’t be blamed.

Their clientele consisted of customers with small curly hairs. And all that the customers demanded, was short cropped hair. Ethiopian barbers had never seen straight hair and never had fastidious and disconcerting customers, bent on having many different hair styles. All said and done getting a haircut was a hair raising experience in Bahirdar and definitely not for the faint hearted!