It was early and the wafting prayer calls in the distance were only disturbed by the occasional truck lumbering by and barking dogs, what sounded like hundreds of barking dogs. The sun hadn’t yet made its way into the sky. The last of the night was lit only by stars. I made my way into a street occupied only by cleaning crews. I set out in the direction of coffee.

The man who stopped wasn’t a taxi driver by trade. As he explained, he was on his way to church and could tell by the color of my skin that I was looking for a ride. It was a nice gesture that I was eventually charged about double the rate of a normal taxi fare for. We talked of the newly declared state of emergency and what the potential for government change could be.

There was more silence than there was hope. I got out of the car.

Ethiopia is a country of runners. As the sun began its ascent, the streets fill with the rhythmed patterns of footsteps on asphalt. I was basking in my own physical apathy after already completing my “zero-effort” abs program for the day. Sweat misted mocha skin shone above the graceful strides, the bright colors and moving shadows changing with movement; iridescent material cascading light. I was lost in thought of what other choices could have been.

I was on my way to meet a Chef. The market was calling and he knew the way to navigate it. Arriving at the previously agreed upon time, I woke Bini up. Time, as I was learning, is a slippery thing here.

A round man with fuzzy hair, deep-set brown eyes, and a contagious laugh, Bini was born in the Merkato neighborhood of Addis Ababa. Before opening multiple restaurants, he was on a very different path. “I decided to go into cooking as I was a fourth-year law student at law school. I always loved food, always had a thing for food. It was my calling,” Bini explained. 

In the Ethiopian generation Bini grew up in, the mothers of the house took care of the chores and cooked for the family. “I used to help my mom out in the kitchen, It took me a few years to realize that I had the skill and the interest to pursue cooking for a career.”

This was the beginning of a typical day for the chef. We had had Makiatos and a small coffee shop as he finished his shopping list for the day. We would go get fresh produce and run various errands, by the late afternoon, we would be back at the restaurant to accept the meat deliveries. This repetition may seem tedious but as he explains, “If you have the love of food,” it can still be exciting. We had gone to the bank so he could pay the keg delivery guys and now we were on the curb waiting for our ride. 

The minibus taxi system is a perfect example of the organized chaos that controls the daily flow of life here. Young men, with their heads hanging out of the open windows of the sliding side doors, yelled out the destination of each vehicle. People crowded around the open door as others tried to make their way out. Along with another man, I was put in front with the driver. I was one of about 15 people crammed into the small blue and white bus of death as it began to race toward an uncertain future at an unadvisable speed. The amount of distance left between the end of the vehicles in front of us, beside us on either side and presumably behinds us, was exactly as small as the line between death and dismemberment. MC Hammer was on the radio. It worked. Nobody touched us.

We bounced along the long, congested streets of Addis, circling roundabouts, passing through a city that breathes as a tired runner. After a ride that felt like being inside of a pinball machine, we arrived at the mouth of Altkit Terra

The market sprawled out in every direction from the main road. Children played in the small open pockets of space while their mothers presented fresh vegetables and spices on handspun rugs spread on the dusty sidewalks. The chorus of people grew thicker as we made our way deeper. 

The Altkit Terra market is located in the historic Piazza neighborhood. The main vegetable wholesale distribution market since the inception of the city, the market is now a collection of crumbling buildings and alleyways that are slowly being reclaimed by the soil. Seas of yellows, greens, purples, browns, and red spilled out into the rugged and dusty streets. Aging food coupled with the smell of diesel fumes and burning plastic hung low under a rising sun. 

As we made our way into the first complex of buildings, shafts of light fell through the missing tiles in the ceiling. The packed dirt floor of the market building was spotted in discarded vegetables. A kaleidoscope of colors set against the red-tinged compact earth. It’s worth looking into whether or not Jackson Pollock had ever made his way here. At one of the many tomato stands, stacks and stacks of 60-kilo crates were full of the bright red, oblong globes. 

There was a young boy, somewhere between 13 and 15, climbing the walls to retrieve more of the wooden crates from the shelves that sat directly below the rafters. As I took pictures, two men came quickly approaching and asked me to stop. I wasn’t given an explanation. I compiled without any further questions and that was the end of that. Bini, recognizing what happened, began to take pictures on his own phone. He knew that he wouldn’t draw the attention I did. 

As we continued through the market, men and women moved deftly through the crowds with large baskets of fruits and vegetables balanced nimbly on their heads and overloaded bags carried on their backs. Sidestepping and ducking these obstacles, with a grace that comes from complete awareness of surroundings, Bini haggled fiercely over the price and quality of the vegetables. It was a dance that would play out over and over throughout the morning. 

Very little is grown in Addis, most of the vegetables found in the market come from the Oromia region south of the city. The aging morning was filled with the sounds of commerce. Large open back trucks filled with green bananas from the outskirts of the city lined the tamped dirt road. Pickup trucks and cars were filled with bundles of colored vegetables. Wheat, lentils, and tef (the primary ingredient for injera) spilled out of large sacks. According to Bini, almost all of the produce of the city passes through this market including roughly 10,000 kilos of potatoes per day. 

With the growing unrest in the countryside, some of the supply lines have been slowed down. “A few weeks back, all of the prices doubled, some even tripled,” Bini said. “Now it’s starting to settle down.”

We were searching for the best price for potatoes. Stil layered in brown soil, the piles of tubers were stacked as high as my shoulders. Without my noticing, Bini had hired a small boy to help with the growing sacks of food he had purchased. A 50-kilo bag of potatoes was placed at the base the child’s neck, and he began to make his way through the crowd back to the drop point for the stash of vegetables Bini had collected. 

“How old was the kid you hired?” I asked.

“I don’t know, about 10?

“Strong kid.”

“Yeah, when you have no choice…” Bini trailed off.

As these children age, while working the various stalls of the market, many of them develop hunchbacks and large bulges in their chests from the constant heavy lifting. It is a common sight to see aged men doubled over as they still work the market stalls. It is not an easy life.

It is fasting season now, and Bini’s restaurant menu will change drastically. A country enveloped in worship, Ethiopia’s religious landscape is made up of mostly Orthodox Christian and Muslims. Those who strictly follow Ethiopian Orthodox Christianity observe fasting by abstaining from all animal products for 208 days out of the year. The majority of the faithful observe the 55 days Lenten fast leading up to Easter, Hudadi or the Abiy Tsom, as it is variously known. And even more just remove dairy and cattle meat from their diets. Fish will be the only non-vegan part of the chefs’ fasting menu. 

We descended down a dark ramp into the bowels of the building that housed the fish market. Following Eritrea’s secession from Ethiopia in 1993 and the consequent loss of its coastline, Ethiopia has only inland freshwater capture fisheries. The countries 4 major rivers and many lakes that provide increasingly in demand fish supplies. To accommodate the long distance, fish is frozen before it makes its way to Addis.

Next to the fish stalls are coffee shops, their tables spilling out into the only open space I had seen in hours. Men sat, drank and chatted while the women brewed, prepared and served. 

As we took our coffee, our conversation turned to the ongoing political turmoil. The US state department had just issued a travel warning. Outside of the limits of the city, the country was losing its collective mind. The government was begging increasingly strong measures of enforcement of curfews. As power and sanity go, so do oil and water. “We used to live together, now that sense is fading away, so it kind of gets you worried. I hope things can turn around and can be the same again.” Bini continued, “A lot of business is slowed down because of that.” The countryside was growing more discontent by the day and the frustration was turning to violence in some regions. Bini continued, “We are not getting it the worst, were not the ones. There are people living outside of Addis experiencing hard times due to what’s happening right now.”

It is hard to tell what was really happening. Bini explained, “You can not be one hundred percent sure of what’s going on because nobody is saying anything. The information you get is very exaggerated and the details you get from the government are not that clear, they’re not transparent about it. You can not be sure where we’re heading.”

It is impossible to make plans when doubts arise as to the soundness of the tenets your government. With no sense of stability; power outages and water failures, lack of internet and unpredictability of basic services, questions arise, and the future can seem uncertain. “Right now, We’re not making any plans, we are just trying to survive, see how things go. Waiting to see what happens, if this settles down or not”

As the morning settled into the afternoon, the market was slowing down and the radios were starting to fill the air with warm music. Our time here was coming to an end. Bini’s cousin met us with a minibus and the young kid loaded everything up. Bini paid him 60 Birr. As we were about to drive back to the restaurant, Bini slipped him another 10.

—

My apartment came with a roommate. Frank had presumably lived there for a while before I came in and caused all of this disruption. It was encouraging to be able to cook for someone who seemed to like everything I attempted. Frank was a mouse.

The neighborhood was in full swing by the time I made it down to street level. At the gates of the apartment compound, dogs and taxi drivers sat idly. They always had words for me as I passed and today was no different. I kept my headphones in. This is another nameless boulevard in Addis. The identifying marks are gone now, but this area used to be called Imperial Circle, my place, The Imperial Condominiums. Nearby, there was once a grand roundabout, complete with a 12 foot Bob Marley statue in its center, that has no been reduced to a set of traffic lights that only work when it suits them. 

The street facing, bottom floor of the apartment buildings are occupied by various woodworking, kitchen supplies, laundry, furniture and bakery shops. The small market, four floors beneath my window, sells basic cleaning supplies, some canned foods, grains and toiletries and has a small fruit stand at the foot of its door.

The denizens of this no-name set of blocks are the people I live with, at least those who can afford it. The less fortunate line the herringbone brick sidewalks with cardboard and blankets, taking the little shelter provided under the eucalyptus trees. Addis is growing faster than it has the resources to handle.

As people move from the countryside, they are restricted to the margins of modern and postindustrial economies. Dandelion societies, growing through the cracks; forced to survive in the shadow of a royal soap opera.

The world of the hungry and homeless can be hard to perceive. It would be easier to see things as a predator, in shades of effort. To be able to instantly weigh effort against reward; the lion basking in the sun until it is absolutely necessary to acquire prey.