Of Lazarus & Drivers

"They've bought a car." Was that really what she said? The two women  listened as she continued talking, and she said it again: "They've bought a  car."

Previously Rahel had come regularly to this clinic (part of a social welfare  agency run by local Christians). But this was the first time the workers  there had seen her for quite a while. And they noticed a big change: she  was so much thinner and weaker than before. What had happened? Gradually  the story emerged. Rahel lived by begging, and would sit outside the house  of some foreigners living in her part of the city. They used to give her  food, sometimes a little money or old clothes, as they walked past her on  the way to the local shops or the taxi stop. But now the foreigners had  bought a car, and life had changed; they no longer walked regularly into the  local community. They would drive in and out of their gate, and hardly  notice Rahel any more as she sat beside the road.

Car culture is growing here, in spite of the awesome price of vehicles.  Near our home part of the new city Ring Road has just been completed. It's  good news for the few car owners, and reduces some of those asphyxiating  traffic jams. Good news, too, for eccentric foreigners who like to cycle;  after a few excruciating minutes on our local road, I find a stretch of  smooth, empty tarmac - great for a bit of morning exercise.

But for the large majority, the man, woman, child and donkey in the street,  the Ring Road seems to be less of a blessing. With its concrete central  reservation and steel railings, this triumph of western-style urban  discipline is a formidable barrier; it prevents people walking to school, to  work, to the shops or to fetch water. Footbridges have been promised, and  at last more are being built. Thankfully, human ingenuity is a fine thing;  young people vault the barriers, others make little steps with rocks, and  even older ladies manage to preserve some degree of dignity as they help  each other scramble over the concrete wall.

In this ancient culture, the roads have always belonged to the people, and  they still do. Even in the city, car drivers often have to weave a delicate  slalom through shifting ranks of people and animals. If a car hits a  pedestrian, the law is clear and simple: the driver is to blame, and must  pay the medical bills. I think maybe I prefer it this way; it slows drivers  down, and gives pedestrians some degree of confidence and authority. Cars  have not yet been allowed to bully the people off the road, like they have  done in UK. But as the roads are upgraded and the traffic moves faster,  will this continue?

For our first five months here, we grappled with the demands of using public  transport. It was sometimes fun, often hard work (especially with small  children). Then we bought a car. Now we too can sweep out past the Lazarus  sitting at our gate, partly insulated from the disturbing realities of the  world we live in as we gaze out of our little tin box like viewers watching  TV.

But Lazarus keeps reappearing. The traffic lights are working this week, so  we stop at a red light in the city centre. A lad with a rueful smile and  only one leg limps over and taps insistently on the car window; another  land-mine victim, eking out a perilous living amidst the choking fumes and  whirling wheels. I wind down the window, give him a few coins and try to  chat in my limited Amharic, to show at least some kind of respect for him as  a fellow human being. Somehow this guy sneaks through my emotional  defences, stirring afresh inside me that bewildering and disabling cocktail  of feelings: frustration, fear, compassion, guilt, anger...

At last the lights turn green.

(Bill and Sara Goodman Jan 2002) 

The Goodmans are Crosslinks' Mission Partners working in Ethiopia