Money, Money, Money.

One of our loyal readers asked last week about what the deal was with purchasing expensive imported items from a government-operated store, so I thought I would take the opportunity to write about how our understanding of money expanded while we were living in Ethiopia.

The unit of currency in Ethiopia is the birr, from the Amharic word for “silver”; one birr is made up of 100 cents or centimes. Twenty years ago, the exchange rate was about six EB to the US dollar, so one birr was worth just less than seventeen US cents. As I write, the exchange rate is about twenty birr to the dollar, yikes! Which is exactly why the Ethiopian birr is considered a “soft” currency, as compared to a “hard” currency like the US dollar, the British pound, and the euro – globally traded currencies that are expected to maintain a relatively stable market value over the long term.

We Move In.

I mentioned a while ago that we spent our first few weeks in Ethiopia living at the SIM Guest House while we waited for our permanent home to become available. In early May, we made the move.

Our new home was a one-bedroom apartment on the third floor of a four story, 16-unit building that was occupied mostly by Ethiopian families. It would be an understatement to say that the building was architecturally undistinguished; made of concrete block, and painted an institutional dingy dark green, it would have fit into any Communist-bloc urban landscape.

License to Drive.

As volunteers, we could never have afforded to purchase and/or operate a vehicle from our own resources so it was a real bonus that FH/E had a vehicle that we were able to use. Our car was a 1980s-era Renault 9 sedan. Here it is, in all its glory:

 

This car had seen better days: it had mismatched headlights and dented fenders and faded upholstery. So it was the perfect vehicle for newbies navigating the chaotic streets of Addis Abeba, and we were grateful to have it. We eagerly embraced the responsibility of transporting ourselves around town.

Of course, before one can legally operate a motor vehicle, one must obtain a driver’s license in one’s country of residence. We had gone to the trouble of acquiring our international driver’s licenses from the AAA office in Eugene but those turned out to be useless in Ethiopia. So we needed to make a pilgrimage to the Ministry of Transportation.

In the western world we complain a lot about government agencies, and the DMV is one of our favorite targets. Our visit to the Ministry of Transportation was our first personal encounter with the soul-crushing bureaucracy that is (or was?) the Ethiopian government. Thankfully we had a navigator in the form of Messay, the ever-cheerful Logistics Officer for FH/E, who guided us patiently through the grinding gears and became one of our favorite people in the process.

You know how, at the DMV, there’s a little machine where you take a number, and then you sit down and wait for your number to be called? And you can read, or daydream, or fret about the time you think you’re wasting? In Ethiopia, once you got past the guard at the gate, it was a free-for-all. First you had to figure out which window you needed (thanks, Messay!) and then you joined the scrum in front of the window, elbowing and jockeying your way forward. Being a foreigner got you lots of stares but no preferential treatment. The clerk could decide at any moment that it was time for a tea break or lunch. Since it was rainy season, it might start to pour – did I mention, this was all outside? Finally you reached the window and presented your documents for scrutiny, and were directed to the next window. And the next.

You know how, at the DMV, there’s a little camera, and when you get your license they take a picture of you and stick it on your card? In Ethiopia, you had to provide your own picture, black-and-white, of particular dimensions, just like a passport photo. Which meant that before you could go to the Ministry of Transportation you had to find a photographer and have your picture taken (and bonus points if there was no hot water for a shower that morning). So: photograph, passport, Oregon driver’s license, international driver’s license, and Ethiopian ID card. And cash, of course. Hand them over and hope to see them again soon. (Not the cash).

It could have been worse: at least we didn’t have to take a road test to demonstrate our skills. By that time we hadn’t been behind the wheel in weeks and the mere thought of driving was intimidating enough. As it was, obtaining our licenses was an all-day process that wore us out with hurry-up-and-wait. But by the end of the day, we were street legal.

I have to confess that I have dragged my feet about writing this because I keep hoping to find our Ethiopian driver’s licenses and include a picture of them. A search of internet images indicates that the format has changed completely in the past twenty years. These days, an Ethiopian driver’s license is a computer-generated laminated card much like the one you get in the USA, but in those days it was a paper booklet printed entirely in Amharic with your photo stuck in there. It seemed so foreign and so official, and also, it in no way prepared us for the actual challenges of driving.

Wisely, Messay did not offer to let one of us drive back to the office that day.

We Get Around.

It’s hard for us to believe, but in 2015, Addis Abeba has a newly constructed light rail system that is due to open to the public at any moment now. Twenty years ago, public transportation in Ethiopia was much more random and haphazard.

The cheapest way to travel around town was via the government-operated Anbessa (Lion) Bus Service. The large red and yellow buses ran on routes throughout the city, with rides costing EB 0.10 (ten cents, equivalent to maybe two US pennies). The buses were crowded and unreliable and, rumor had it, a great place to have your pocket picked; we never once rode on the Anbessa bus. In retrospect I wish we had risked it, just for the experience.

The next level up was a shared taxi. These blue and white vehicles also ran on set routes but with a smaller number of passengers, and the price of the ride depended on how far you were going, maybe up to EB 1.00 (about 17 US cents). One could hail a shared taxi by standing on the side of the road and flagging one down, but there were also set transit stops where one could wait for a taxi going in the right direction; there was no timetable so it was imperative to plan ahead during busy commute times, as a full taxi would pass by without stopping.