Sylvia's Journal

We ended yesterday’s workshop a little earlier than planned because the participants used up so much of their energy in the morning that there was little left after lunch.

We were done about 3 PM and once again I found myself in that sweet spot which is called ‘goods delivered;’ a place that is both empty and full at the same time. Free to relax and do whatever I want, it always takes awhile to recover from the adrenaline surge that accompanies such an event. For the first time I felt how bad my foot ached. I had not paid much attention to the pains because I was focused on other things. With that need for attention gone I suddenly became a cripple. I had, after all, been standing and walking non stop for two long days. A bath helped. A foot massage would have been better. I remembered the 90-minute foot massage I had in China; something like that.

Cell phones are on big part of my professional life; less so my own and more so those of participants which always ring in workshops no matter what agreements you make about it. I get exposed to an amazing array of ring tones. This week I heard some interesting new ones. One cellphone rang like a marching band was coming around the corner; another was a laughing baby. It was hard to keep a straight face when it rang. Click here to hear it.

In the middle of the conference room was a large bouquet of roses; compliments of the hotel. The roses were still in good a shape when the room was disassembled. I pulled out the best looking ones which are now gracing my room in a beer glass. The arrangement was sprayed with a gold glitter spray for a special glittery effect. The floor of our room was also sprayed, each morning, to make it smell ‘orangy.’ The person in charge of the conference rooms, who I first mistook for a doctor because of his white coat, proudly showed me the the spray; made in America, he pointed out. The resulting scent was one of waxed floors treated with chemicals that smell like they ought to be outlawed rather than the intended orange blossoms.

My new found facilitator friend from the local management institute, Eneye, invited me out for an evening of culture. While I was waiting in the dark hotel lobby, the lights do go out from time to time and sometimes the generator overheats, she arrived with her driver who I mistook for a husband, and her little sister. They took me to a cultural restaurant that was already full with Ethiopians and only a few foreigners. Guests are seated on uncomfortable low stools or chairs that look like the obelisk of Aksum and tables that look like woven laundry baskets with a platter on top. There appeared to be always room for a few more people. Soon we were packed like sardines.

Stunningly beautiful waitresses served the traditional food, goat and lamb stew served with sauces that ranged from very hot to inedibly hot, on top of what Axel considers a dishrag (injera), a large spongy pancake, with more rolled up injera, dark and light colored, on the side. Musicians playing traditional instruments formed the backdrop of a tiny stage. More stunningly beautiful young men and women danced a variety of traditional dances in an odd assortment of outfits that seemed decidedly unafrican. I loved the music and the dances. There were dances that were simply happy and peppy and those that were more of the possessed kind with much shaking of body parts. In one dance the woman rolled her head so fast that her face looked like an early Picasso, where the eyes, nose, mouth and ears are all in the wrong place. At times I feared her head may simply come off. Eneye, her sister and I touched our necks in sympathetic pains.

This morning I was woken up at 4:30 by warm fresh bread smells coming in from below. The smells were accompanied by the throbbing sounds of music and dancing that came from the night life that was apparently still in full swing in the neighborhood.

This morning the rain is coming down in sheets. It is the kind of rain that washes away roads. It is considered a good thing. Rain is about food and thus life and survival. My colleague Karen has arrived last night. She, too, brought rain, a good omen for her, a good thing for Ethiopia.