I was supposed to write a great book. Everyone was counting on it. I’d raised the money to travel to seven African countries and I’d told everyone I would write a book about it. All I had to do was sit my ass down and write the book.

So after traveling, I started writing. I even got an agent in New York and a book deal with a solid publishing house in Lagos. The inspiration was heavy on me and I produced what I thought were two amazing chapters. And then, nothing. I tried to write. My agent asked to see some more chapters. The Lagos people gave me a six month deadline to complete the book. I felt guilty for not writing after receiving over $10000 in travel donations. But even guilt had stopped being a strong motivator.

Bottom line was, I simply didn’t want to write anymore. I just didn’t like the book I was writing even if the agents and publishers liked it. Of course no one was forcing me to write this way, but after submitting the first two chapters, I could sense that the book I was writing and the book they were expecting were as similar as Koreans to Papua New Guineans. Yes, I’d titled the book Solving Africa but let’s be serious, were they really hoping I’d provide solutions to Africa’s problems? All I wanted to do was jabber on aimlessly about my travels around Africa. Sure, I’d slide gems of wisdom in there if they somehow lost their way and strayed onto the page but it seemed I was expected to tell fun stories and come up with ideas based on my many interviews with young Africans. If I kept trying to write that great book, I would end up not writing at all.

So to save myself from becoming an utter failure (my biggest fear in life), I’m going to write another book. Of course I’m secretly harboring hopes that I’ll write brilliant stuff and become wildly successful. But this time, I’m working hard to keep my neuroses at bay. I’ll just keep writing as stuff about the trip comes to mind. I’ve also decided to write from my blackberry. If it feels like I’m sending a text message, I might actually keep writing. It seems to have worked this far.

So let’s talk about this new book. It won’t have pithy nuggets of wisdom. It will probably be riddled with very lame attempts at humor. It will be honest. It will be short. It won’t be heavily researched to show you just how much I know about the countries I visited. Everything you read in these pages will be what I learned on the trip. Disclaimer: I’m a big wuss. I didn’t go after any major adventures. I don’t drink much if ever so clubs and bars aren’t my scene. I am desperately extroverted (under the right circumstances) and I love hanging out with sober people. I consider a good conversation quite intoxicating and will gladly forgo sleep, food, or other such prudence if a good conversation is at stake. So, you will find that several scenes in this book consist of people talking. Fortunately or unfortunately, there will be a lot of me doing the talking. If you’ve already tired of hearing me talk, now would be a good time to put down this book. If you’ve decided to stick it out here’s a map of the next hundred or so pages: I’ll tell you how I decided to go on a trip around Africa; how I got the money to do it; and some of the best stuff I learned from visiting Tunisia, Ethiopia, Kenya, South Africa, Senegal, Ghana and Nigeria. In that order.

Here goes….

I am pleased to announce that Solving Africa will be published in Nigeria by Kachifo Limited. They publish some of Nigeria’s best authors, and it’s an honor to sign my first-ever book deal with them. Manuscript due in 6months. Yikes!

Jr.

Many people have asked me what they can do now that fundraising is over and the writing of the book has begun and I think I finally have an answer.

To each person who sees that ordinary individuals have the potential to transform a village, city, country or continent, I’m inviting you to be part of what I’m loosely calling the Solving Africa movement.

The goal of this movement is to mobilize young Africans and their friends to get involved in:
1. thinking up,
2. launching,
3. and executing

fantastic projects in their villages, cities, and countries.

It’s been over a year since Solving Africa went live and in that time, I’ve met a bevy of entrepreneurs, development professionals and skilled idealists from around the world interested in creating a new African dream.

I think it’s possible that if one thousand people, say Cameroonians, decided to start hospitals that adhered to international standards and treated the diseases most common to their people, these 1000 individuals would have essentially transformed the healthcare sector of their country. Yes, there are many variables and unknowns. This is how a country is changed – one daring individual effort after the other – now let’s make each of these daring individual efforts a reality. Imagine what would happen if there were many daring individual efforts going on in sync. I’d say that’s what we call transformation. No, it won’t be easy. But nothing worthwhile has ever been. Remember I warned that I am an unapologetic idealist.

What is your Solving Africa initiative and how can our growing network of entrepreneurs, development professionals and eager-to-work idealists help you do it?

So how will you “Solve Africa”?

I met these guys in Accra and I’m glad to announce that their first game for iPhones is now available for download at the App Store. Go to the link below to see their game.

http://itunes.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewSoftware?id=333224219&mt=8

I’ve begun approaching agents with three sample chapters and a book proposal. This is one of the scarier parts of the process because there’s a lot of waiting and hoping involved. How this is supposed to work is that I find an agent, who then knows which publishers to approach with my book idea. The publisher then funds the remaining part of the writing which will give me time to do any further research necessary and cut down on my hours doing other things to focus on completing the book. Once I turn in a completed manuscript, it’s another back and forth editing process before a published book is on the shelves.

So, if you guys know of any agents or are friends with any publishers looking to sign new authors, you know where to send them. Thanks for the support you’ve given so far. It’s the start of a long finishing process. In the meantime, Solving Africa Snippets and videos will return – I can’t yet say exactly when – but they will return. Just as soon as I clone myself. I think.

It’s over an hour’s bus ride to Alembank, the suburb seven kilometers outside Addis Ababa where the Gurmus live. There are three options for public transportation in Addis. Contract taxis are typically sedans for-hire. These will take you anywhere. It’s standard policy not to have a standard fare on these. Be ready to negotiate. The 15-seater mini buses, often referred to as taxis, are the cheapest way to get around. They have fixed prices for defined routes within the city. No talking necessary. Finally, there are huge 56-passenger midi buses that ply to and from suburbs such as Alembank. All public transportation vehicles except the 56-seaters are painted blue and white. The 56-seaters are more like 80-seaters after the conductor is done loading the bus. Midi buses only run during rush hour – weekdays from six to eleven in the morning and four to seven at night. To get to Alembank, Adu and I caught a bus from Olympia road to Mexico Square. At Mexico, we could find buses going directly to Alembank.

I’d expected to ride in nervous silence for our journey home, but Adu was a great bus companion. We hit it off from the start.
“You’ve been in Addis a whole two days,” she said, “and you didn’t call. You have to explain yourself to my mom.”
“Hope she’s not mad.”
“She is.”
“So what do I do now?”
“Nothing. Eat a lot. What do you think of Addis so far?”
“I really like it,” I answered.

Of all the countries on my itinerary, I was most excited to visit Ethiopia. I’d imagined what an African country allowed to develop without western intervention would have looked like. It is the only African nation, besides Liberia, that wasn’t colonized. Liberia had been a settlement for former slaves from England. And unlike the written texts, Nsibidi from Nigeria and Adinkra from Ghana, which never developed past a few symbols, Ethiopians had preserved and developed the Amharic text so well that they even had computer keyboards that typed Amharic characters. I caught myself staring at little things like traffic plates and store signs simply to observe the characters. Everything was in Amharic first, then in English. English hadn’t supplanted the native tongue as it had in Nigeria. It was normal growing up to consider native languages as inferior. They were banned at school and a proper command of the English language was prized much more than fluently speaking Igbo, Hausa or Yoruba. It was also way cooler to have an English surname than a Nigerian one. But as I grew socially conscious, I began giving native languages equal footing as European ones. Equality was where I’d stopped, but Ethiopia took that a step further. Here, Amharic was superior. There was a clear sense of national pride and identity that was foreign. That I envied.

“Does everyone speak Amharic, even the little kids?”
“They have to,” she said. “Some people speak Tigrinya or Orominya but Amharic is the official language.”
From Olympia road, we passed through Meskel Square.
“Meskel means cross,” Adu said. “You see the decorations? That’s because we celebrated the new millennium. The year 2000 in the Ethiopian calendar started on September 12, 2007.”
“You guys even have your own calendar,” I said, “why is it slower?”
“It’s not slower,” she corrected. “The rest of the world miscalculated Jesus’ actual birth by seven years.”

The Ethiopian calendar is the main calendar used here. It has twelve months of thirty days and recognizes leap years by assigning an extra day to the thirteenth month, which ordinarily has only five days. The New Year, Maskaram, corresponds to September 11 or 12 on the regular calendar.

“You noticed that even our time is different right? The day begins at 6AM. When it’s seven in the morning, Ethiopians say it’s one o’clock. At noon, we say it’s six o’clock,” she said. “What else have you discovered?”

I told her that the day before, Bruk stopped by my room at the pensione to see if I was up for visiting a client of his. A graduate of computer science, Bruk worked for ModernETH, a computer-outsourcing firm owned by an Ethiopian who lived in California. Bruk also provided computer help to people around the city, people like Dr. Addis, a geotechnical engineer with whom we had lunch that day. Dr. Addis returned from the U.K. in 2005 to start Addis Geosystems, a geological explorations and mining company. He was that uncle we all wish we had – smart, well traveled and doesn’t think you’re crazy for gallivanting around Africa instead of keeping a stable job in New York City. He was also full of intriguing information.

“Addis Ababa is on a highland,” he’d said, “some parts as high as 4000m above sea level. That’s one of the reasons why there are a lot of long distance runners from this part of the world.”

In a week, he’d be traveling to Lake Tana, Ethiopia’s largest lake. His company was working with a team from the University of Wales to study the Lake’s history by analyzing soil samples as deep as 300 feet. Lake Tana is the source of the Blue Nile, which provides most of the water that eventually reaches Egypt. Before making its way through Egypt and into the Mediterranean, the Blue Nile joins the White Nile in Sudan and together they make the famous Nile River.

“Ethiopia is sometimes called the Water Tower of Africa,” he continued. “All rivers flow down from here. There is huge hydropower potential here. This country could capitalize on the natural strength of its location and become the go-to place for all things hydro-energy in Africa.” Dr. Addis was my kind of guy, I told Adu. He still dreamed big.

We finally got to Alembank but the most exciting part of the trip was yet to begin. “We’ll have to take a gari to get to the house,” she said.
“What’s a gari?”
“That.”
She was pointing at horse-drawn carriage shuttling past us. I stepped back and smiled nervously.

She started laughing. “It’s about a ten-minute walk from here to the house,” she said. “We have your suitcase, your backpack and your guitar. This will be much faster for us.”

Adu called one of the gari drivers over and I got a good look at what she was proposing. Calling them carriages was an overstatement. The gari was essentially a raffia sack fastened onto a wobbly bamboo frame with nails protruding off of it. Adu didn’t seem to weigh anything, still, I couldn’t see how something so fragile could support all 190-pounds of me and my luggage too.
“What is it? Are you scared?” She asked.

Me? Scared? Not really. Maybe a little.

“Let’s do it,” I answered. “It’ll be fun.”

There was some mild yelling involved – all on my part. There were also several declarations of our impending doom. I was sure the raffia sack would give way and a rusted nail would impale me as I fell through to the muddy path beneath us. I was not some European seeking a thrill in the wilds of the jungle. This wasn’t supposed to be some expedition through Africa. I did not need some clichéd authentic experience – CNN and BBC are full of that stuff. No. The Solving Africa trip was meant to show me the good life but here I was about to be ground to a pulp in Ethiopia.

The ride went fine.

We did not die.

Mild yelling is definitely not a good first impression to leave with a pretty girl. (Click here to see and hear what it’s like to ride a gari.)

When we got to the Gurmus front gate, the only visible damage was mud splatter – Adu and I were polka dotted with it. And the gari driver, a young boy of about fifteen, seemed too self satisfied that I had to wonder if he’d given us a bumpier ride than usual.

Baka.
That’s the Amharic word for enough. Needed that word the last 12 days since being here with the Gurmus, but Uncle, Mr. Gurmu, only just taught it to me yesterday. I’m almost convinced he did it on purpose. Waited until yesterday at dinner, my last night with them, to teach me how to prevent Auntie, his wife, from loading ever increasing doses of injera and doro wot onto my plate.
I’ve learned many other words in my time here. Amasa genalo. That means thank you. Denadirk. That’s how you say good morning to a guy. To a girl, it’s denadosh. Waraj al’le. Very important. It’s your signal to the bus driver that you’re getting off. Jallo means let’s go. Adu, the youngest in the house often said that to me right before we headed out each morning. She, off to school at Addis Ababa University, and I, to the headquarters of the African Union, where I spent the bulk of my time in Addis. Bantano means only you. I learned that from a song. Loved it so much I had to learn to play it on my guitar before leaving. But of all the things I learned, I needed baka the most.
“Junior, what is that? You haven’t eaten anything.”
“Auntie, thank you. I’m really full.”
“What? No. Here, have more injera. Is that tea enough for you? Hamelma! Please bring more juice. Food for Junior. I have eggs, I’ll go and boil them.”
“Trust me, Auntie. There’s no space left.”
“Shhh. Ok, here, just this much.” Regardless of my response, there’d be a third or fourth round of food plopped on my plate.
She prepared a feast every night. There was always injera, the spongy, flat pancakes on which everything in Ethiopia is served and with which everything is eaten. Made from the dough of teff grains, the flat little bugger knocks you out in a matter of minutes. The sauces changed each night. Sometimes, it was doro wot containing boiled eggs and tender bits of chicken all stewed in a red pepper sauce. Sometimes it was shiro, a paste made from chickpeas and butter. But beef alecha, sautéed with ginger, garlic and curry was by far my favorite.
It’s as if she’d promised herself that I’d leave her house plumpier than I’d entered it. And I didn’t know how to convince her that I wasn’t being overly polite but falling slowly into a food coma. Protest was futile. In her mind, I simply hadn’t eaten anything until there was nothing left on the table. So I ate.
It’s my last day here. In a few minutes, Uncle and I will be taking a bus to Bole Medhaniyalem. We’ve had breakfast. Fir-fir, fried eggs, bread, lemon juice, and tea. Again, Auntie wants to pack me a lunch box. This time I’m ready for her.
“Baka, Aunty. Baka.” She smiles, and lays the serving dish back on the table. “So he told you.”
I met the Gurmus through Felix, a friend from my church in New York. Felix had attended Middlebury College with the Gurmus’ second son, Yared. The first time I met Uncle, I’d been waiting in his living room for almost three hours on a Sunday afternoon. Yared’s youngest sister, Adu, had come to get me from the run down motel where I’d stayed for two days after getting to Addis Ababa.
“We’ve been expecting you,” she said. “My mom said you were coming in on Friday, why didn’t you call?”
I didn’t call because I didn’t know who they were and wasn’t exactly jumping at the prospect of staying with complete strangers. I’d never met Yared, never even spoken to him on the phone. All I knew of him was the emails he’d forwarded through Felix, giving me his parents’ and sister’s numbers with a note to call them the minute I landed in Addis. I figured I’d find a cheap guesthouse and call them when I got settled. Bad idea. I got into Addis Ababa on the 23rd, the same day when all of Africa’s ministers and heads of state were pouring in for the African Union’s Summit on Development and Infrastructure. I’d found a guesthouse online for $35 per night. This was three days earlier. By the time I called again, there were no rooms left. My other contact in Ethiopia was Bruk Haile, the childhood friend of the only Ethiopian I knew in the U.S. After having exchanged multiple emails over several weeks, I’d felt a bit more connected to him than I did to Yared’s family. So I asked Bruk to meet me at the airport. We hired a taxi and began what became an afternoon long search for a hotel. Most places were booked three weeks through. Places with available rooms had the curious practice of quoting one price to Bruk, but changing their minds when they realized it would be a foreigner and not the Ethiopian staying there. He said that was normal. I asked no questions. The search became long, hot, and inconveniencing enough that when we arrived at the Midi Pensione (pronounced pen see on), I was only too happy to unload my bags, exchange cash and get room keys. The place cost $21 per night: 220 Ethiopian Birr. It was on Olympia road, one street away from Bole road, which is the city’s main artery. And compared to the $50 or $60 per night at other places, I thought I was getting a good deal. It wasn’t until Bruk left and I’d set my stuff down that I understood just what a pension was.
The view got progressively worse from top to bottom. Above eye level, there was a construction crane next to a freshly painted 12-storey office complex. At eye level there was a partially completed structure. The brown rust of the steel reinforcements had begun staining the unpainted outer walls of the building, leaving the uncompleted building resembling a crumbling layer cake. Rusting shacks supported by the hotel’s fence formed the final layer below eye level.
The room was pretty bare too. But on the dresser beside the bed, there was a brown pack of what looked like hot cocoa mix. I thought it was really nice of the motel to have that. I picked up the pack and started reading. That’s when I realized that “chocolate sensation” had absolutely nothing to do with hot cocoa. And the little circles on the pack that had looked like the aerial view of teacups, were actually condoms. That was when I really noticed just how sparsely furnished the room was. A bed, a table, a chair. That was it. Maybe it was the thready sheets that looked like they hadn’t been changed in generations, maybe it was the torn and moldy shower courtain hanging in the rusting bathroom, maybe it was the used, crunchy, multicolored towel hanging from a pipe connected to the toilet, or maybe it was a combination of all these thing that clued me in to the ghastly truth: a pensione services one night stands. I’d just signed up for two nights of sleeping on a bed that who knows what has occured repeatedly with who knows whom. My suspicion was confirmed later that evening when an Ethiopian gasped, “Heh! a pensione? How did you end up there?” I tried to man up. I made a quasi bed sheet from the shirts and pants in my suitcase. Using the blanket was out of the question so I slept in my jeans, a jacket and my shoes. I did this for two nights. Then finally, dreading spending another night in that room, I called the Gurmus. I didn’t tell Adu any of this when she asked why I hadn’t called. I was too grateful for the prospect of clean sheets and real hot cocoa.

Ending the night with 747 words written. How you guys been?

Check out his project’s website: http://movingwindmills.org/

When you’re done, watch this video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=arD374MFk4w

Now imagine if more people around the continent went looking for their own answers, you think they’d have time for all this brainless fighting mess? Nah, I think not.

Here’s to more WIlliam Kamkwambas. Cheers buddy.

I’ve been thinking of sustainability for the idea behind this project and here are some of the things I’m coming up with. I’d appreciate your input on next steps for the Solving Africa Project.

Get other people from here to travel to see Africa for themselves. This could be a yearly two-month stint, where Africans and African Americans from the US can raise their own funds, meet some of the key people I met, and write a testimonial of what visiting Africa meant for them. If planned properly, this could turn into a television show aired on MNET Africa or local TV station around the continent. Seasons 1 through whatever.

Also, I could launch Solving Africa Partners where people desiring to go home can connect either with jobs at home or with the support necessary to make their small scale endeavors (schools, hospitals, business ideas) successful. Solving Africa would be the consultants or middlemen making connections for people to repopulate the continent with expertise either permanently or in project-long stints. Meaning some could relocate permanently, while others could come and work to set up businesses or services and return to their former lives after things are up and running – an arrangement of anywhere from 6-24 months.

It might also be a smart idea to have university campus visits to discuss what I did and what I learned while doing it. This could also serve as a call to action for young people who have ideas not to sit on them because they’re missing out on joining forces with other creative young Africans wanting to create a new African dream.

These are just some thoughts. I might be way off base here or suffering from sever megalomania. Either way, lemme know.