Of the Novel City and Drunken Master

We had a short week in Awashbuni, having spent most of our time scouring Addis for a water pump and tubing. Recently I learned that "Addis," of the capital city Addis Ababa, means "new." Considering all the construction, all the incomplete buildings caged in hand-hewn scaffolding, Addis certainly is (and maybe always will be, if construction remains incomplete) new.

 

And "Ababa" means "flower." Legend says the founders of the city found a previously unknown flower in this mountainous region. So much for the origins of our floral metropolis.

 

With equipment bought, we returned to the countryside and flushed about seven barrels of water through the well. According to Joe, usually one can pour water and flush it out with gravity alone - but this is not a usual well. So we cheated, forcing the water down with the motorized pump. Even after that development, the well doesn't seem to produce water. This well fought our drilling for a full week. It may fight our development for just as long.

 

Fortunately, this is nothing new. The crippled farmer's well in Bolivia needed about a week of development too and now it works fine. This might only be a matter of endurance.

 

We returned to Addis to welcome a group who was flying in from the United States and to meet some other missionaries interested in well-drilling in another part of Ethiopia.

 

I look forward to returning to Awashbuni, however. We didn't even take the time to eat our usual meal at the Millennium Cafe in the nearby town, or get accosted outside the café by Drunken Master.

 

We met Drunken Master during our first week, while shopping the nearby town. Jeremy and I sat in the car and a man of about 50, with a goatee on his face and beer on his breath, came asking for money. He explained that Hillary would win 2008 American election, and after we refused as graciously as possible, he took an old parking ticket from the windshield and handed it to us.

"You are not above the law!" he said, and reached out an open hand. We did not give him money for the ticket, which must have fouled his mood. "I know Sicilian mafia! I will turn you to dust particle," he said.

After a moment or so without pay, he left to pick fights with others on the street. He did not succeed in that either.

During another trip, he addressed us as his "best friends," and asked money from Joe, who refused. "Do you want me to make a murder?" he said, apparently offering a service gained from his mafia acquaintance. Joe refused that request as well. Drunken Master has suggested more peaceable help as well, as when he tried to clean the mud off of Jeremy's jeans in front of more than 20 amused onlookers. It was an offer of humblest service. The Sicilians would be proud.