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Adventure number one.......On Friday I got the runs after supping on some tasty ShiroWat, an Ethiopian bean sauce, as did my sup-mates.  Unlike them, it stayed with me. A day. Two days.  Peeing out of my butt, trying to balance toilet squirts with water gulps. On the morning of day two, my poop was rosy red and the pea was brown, suggesting blood all round.  This worried me.  Then on the evening of the second day, while skyping with my dad at the internet café, I fainted in my chair.  According to him, after mumbling incoherently my eyes rolled back, chin tilted up and I lurched back onto my chair, head flopped behind. What I was told was five seconds later, I opened my eyes to a half dozen faces peering down at me.  It was dream-like.  Someone asked if I was ok.  I said yes.  My headphones were still on, and my dad explained through them, “Noel, you just passed out!”   Then I got up and puked outside the café, partially on the side walk.  People gave me dirty looks, I think, assuming I was drunk, maybe.   Fortunately, one of the frequent torrential rains started a few minutes later and washed it away. So nothing anybody could get too worked up about.  Back in the café, my dad helped me figure out a plan of action.  I would taxi back to the school and then go to a hospital with the help of the teachers.  The woman at the counter graciously offered her help.  I asked for some water, and she hollered at the restaurant next door to get it.  After sipping, I paid the internet bill (a dollar for over two hours), opened my broken umbrella and walked out into the heavy rain.  A guy from the café followed me into the street, introducing himself as a trained psychologist. “Hello, I am a trained psychologist.” And helped me flag a cab.  He must have over heard me talking on skype about the pressures of my situation here because he mentioned something about fainting as a result of stress.   I have a feeling it had more to do with altitude and dehydration, but I’m no trained psychologist. Cab caught, I rode the three blocks back to my apartment.  I must have looked and sounded pretty awful because even the driver asked if I was okay.  Though he may have been prompted by the psychologist who traded words as I got into the cab. With so many dire and unmet needs around,  I’m pretty astounded by how supportive everyone was.  Being a member of the Farengi (foreigner) club may have helped I suppose, but it’s hard to deny that folks here are pretty big hearted.

At the school I woke up Ellen and Jen for help.  After, describing my symptoms, Jen reminded me that we had eaten beets for dinner the night before, which explained my red and brown excretions.  This relieved me greatly as did it Ellen, who had apparently freaked out in secret as well.  Frankly, I should have realized it sooner.  Maybe I can pin it on the dehydration.  With a call, Jen woke up our regular cabby B’rook, who graciously came over and drove us across town to the reputed Korean Hospital.   It was a long drive as he carefully navigated the car through periodic floodings across the road.   Finally we rolled up to the Emergency room door.  The inside of the hospital was sparse, cavernous and poorly lit.  There were maybe six other people sitting around.   Almost on arrival, a lone, plain-clothed receptionist/nurse sat me down in a chair by his desk and took my vitals.  To draw blood, he cleaned a razor and cut into my middle finger a couple times.  No painless blood draws here.  I was told to go into a small room next to the desk and wait for the doctor.  A minute later, a quiet, intense and unblinking young doc came in.  He asked about everything, patiently responded to my questions and gently prodded my stomach.  After a 15 minute visit, his thoroughness and professionalism averted my near-culture shock.  He sent me home with instructions to take a Cipro antibiotic that I had brought with me from Seattle.  All and all, the visit was many times faster than any American hospital emergency room visit I’ve ever had.  Still, it was one of the growing handful of moments I’ve brushed against culture shock.  Usually I'm pretty flexible in negotiating differences between places and cultures, and pride myself in needing little to get by with little.  This is especially true when traveling and packing light.  But in moments of dehydration, exhaustion and vulnerability, little differences can have a bigger impact.  I felt annoyed by superfluous things like the lack of office furnishings, or the plain clothes of the nurse.  I felt entitled to a well-furnished shiny hospital waiting room and a pin-prick blood draw. Also I’m noticing a difference between making a home in a place and traveling through it.  Somehow, it’s easier to expect more when I intend to stay for a while.  I’m sure I’ll adjust soon enough. Today I took it easy but continued to feel nauseous.  At least the Cipro has relieved the cramps.  Patience, Noel, patience.

Donkies chompin road side.  No Donk-herd in sight.  "Donkey" in Amharic: "AhHEEya."  An onomatopoeia if I ever heard un!

Stray dog finds a morsel. 

the cheap three-wheel cabs of Addis.  About a dollar to ride the distance from North Beacon hill to Broadway--few miles

the internet cafe I'm in presently and the same I passed out in is the door at the end of the brick pathway upon which Mr. red-pants stands.

The large nameless street which leads to the ILAE.  There's probably more than a hundred of those massive tan apartment buildings around here.  All recently built government housing awarded to lucky or connected families, from what I understand.  I'm unclear about this though.  The be-trunked satellite dish is one of many thousands that adorn said buildings, and everything else.