“Leba, Leba!”

I decided to take Garren to the Mercato, the largest open air market in Africa. It is located right here in Addis Ababa, about 2 miles from where we are staying. It was Friday afternoon, July 14. So we set out, hopping aboard a mini-bus taxi, we eventually arrived at the Mercato.

We spent the next couple of hours wandering through the narrow crowded alleys, looking at the merchandise (everything including clothing, shoes, local cultural dress, wood carvings, spices, butter, electronics, jewelry and more). We bought a couple of things and then decided to head home. The Mercato is huge, and there are no signs or maps telling you how to get around. So we made our way toward home, asking people along the way if we were going in the right direction. We found a main road with taxis, and walked down that for a while. Everywhere the people look at us and yell “Furinje!” It is their word for foreigner. It comes from the word “French” and originated back when the French army was in Ethiopia. Now anyone who is a foreigner is a “Furinje.” As we were walking down one road, trying to find our way home, we saw a large mass of water covering the road. I took my digital camera out of my pocket and took a picture. As I was putting it back, we heard a group of guys yell “Furinje, digital camera, take my picture!” So of course, we thought it would be fun to take the local’s picture. They always like seeing themselves on the screen. So I held up the camera, and tried to tell the guys to stand still, but all of a sudden one of the guys, who was standing behind me, reached his hand over my right shoulder, grabbed the camera and began to run!

I impulsively turned and followed after him. I began yelling “Leba! Leba!” Leba means “thief.” I yelled and ran and pointed. There weren’t a lot of people around, but those that saw me just stared. I looked back to see what Garren was doing. He had made it safely half way across the street and was waiting for another car to pass. I turned and continued to chase the Leba. He turned down an alley, along with his two accomplices. Then down another slippery hill into a neighborhood. I stopped at this point and began asking if anyone had seen the man. An older gentleman came out of the shack He had been sitting in and spoke with me. He was the only one who knew any English. I told him what had happened, and he said he hadn’t seen anything. I said, “Look at all these people.” A large crowd had begun to gather. “Someone here saw him, someone here knows who it was.” I pulled out all the money I had in my pocket, about 70 Ethiopian Burr, which is about $9 US. I said, “I will pay a reward to whoever brings back my camera!” But nobody moved. The older gentleman asked if I had seen the police. No there were no police. The group that had gathered continued to discuss the situation while Garren and I stood hopelessly by. I waited, I again offered a reward, and one younger man looked at me and said in English “Relax.” Relax? I just had a $500 camera stolen, and nobody is doing anything. How am I supposed to relax? So I prayed “Jesus, please give me my camera back!”

Then I looked up and three federal policemen where coming down the alley towards me. One of them was carrying a semi-automatic machine gun. Their English was not good. But the man who had told me to relax began to explain to them what had happened. I think he must have seen it, because he seemed to be describing everything in detail. They were speaking Amharic, but I could tell what he was saying by his body language. Again, a long discussion took place. Garren and I just waited. I sat next to one of the federal guards, his name was Bertelou. He was very kind, but his English was nominal. I just wanted to know what was happening, what was the plan. He told me we would have to go to the police station and write a report. So we waited. Some more men showed up, and again my witness described for them what had happened. Again we waited. I found out later these men were undercover police. Now I felt a bit more relieved, although I never expected them to find the camera. Time was passing, and the camera would be long gone by now. The undercover agents began pulling children aside and asking them questions. There were probably about 30 children gathered around at this time. At one point, the police went down into the neighborhood to look around. The children had gathered around me and were asking for money. I said “Camera - money.” As if he understood, one boy took off running, but returned a few minutes later empty handed. Again I prayed, “Jesus, please give me that camera back!”

After about 45 minutes of discussion, we began our journey to the police station. We would walk about a mile through the streets of Addis Ababa. It must have been quite a sight. Two Furinji’s, three federal police, three undercover agents, and about five or six Ethiopians all walking together in a group. I looked up and noticed that one of the undercover agents had a man in handcuffs, and was leading him along. I asked Garren if he recognized the guy. He thought it was the one who had snatched the camera, but it was hard to remember. It had all happened so fast. As we were walking I looked at Garren and said, “Are you praying?” He said “Yes.”

We finally arrived at the police station. It was a run down house, with several guards with guns standing around. We went into the courtyard and sat down, with the man in handcuffs sitting down the alley, across from us. I kept looking at him, but he would not make eye contact. I still don’t even know if he was the one. We continued to wait. I sat with Garren and two young men who would be our witnesses. I tried to ask the one what was going on. He said “Relax.” So I did, and we waited. Eventually we were escorted indoors. The prisoner first, and then the rest of us. We were then left for a few minutes in a room: The man in handcuffs, Garren and myself, and one of the witnesses, with no police around at all! I was amazed, and a little nervous. I looked at the guy in cuffs and said “Do you know where the camera is?” He said something in Amharic, and my witness friend said, “He says he doesn’t speak any English.” As we waited a little bit longer, the witness was looking nervous as well. “This is dangerous” he said, to which I agreed.

The police came back in and took us down the hall to another room with a couple of desks, a bed and several chairs. We sat down, and we waited. I figured out that the man behind the desk was taking statements. Don’t think about an American police station as I describe this. If you have ever seen a movie where an American citizen is wrongly placed in a foreign jail, such as in Mexico or South America, you will have a better picture of the surroundings. The floor was worn out wood. The walls had plaster falling out all over the place. The window was broken, with large green wooden shutters on the outside. One single light bulb was hanging from the ceiling.

As we waited, I contemplated prayer. We are supposed to pray according to the will of God. But I have to be honest. Although in the back of my mind, I thought “Your will be done,” deep down inside I was thinking, ‘My will be done, Lord, please get my camera back.” I don’t understand prayer, although I try. I have seen prayer work, I have seen God do amazing things. But I still don’t understand how prayer works. Why does God care if I get my camera back? I don’t understand.

The police officer called the first witness to sit in front of the desk, as he handwrote a report of what had happened. Then the second witness. I continued my prayer about an hour into this process some more men came into the room. One of them got a phone call, and everyone seemed excited. The witness who spoke English looked at me, gave me the thumbs up sign, and said “They found the camera.” As confident as everyone sounded, I didn’t believe it. I could not believe that until I could see it for myself. The chance of seeing that camera again was very slim. “Jesus, please give me the camera back.” Again we waited. Then it was my turn to sign a statement. The officer worked on figuring out how to spell my name in Amharic, and asked me several demographical questions. Then he asked me for a local phone number and street address. I did not know either of these. He said, “Go straight home, and call me back at this number, so that we can contact you when we get the camera back.” He handed me a piece of paper with his cell phone number and the number for the police station. I signed the report (which was completely in Amharic, so I was going on faith that it said what I thought it said). Garren and I left, along with one of the witnesses who was going to help me get a taxi so I could get back to SIM Headquarters. The robbery had occured at about 3:30pm, and it was know 6:15pm. I knew Nancy must be quite concerned by this time, so I prayed that she would be at ease.

I made it back to the compound, and went straight to the room. Karen helped me find Leila, the short term coordinator, who speaks English and Amharic fluently. She graciously called the police officer back and told him who she was. After a few minutes she hung up the phone and said “They have your camera, we have to go back to the police station.”

I was floored, I didn’t know whether or not to get my hopes up, so I didn’t. Then I remembered, when we pray we should pray expectantly. Why ask for something, if we don’t think we will get it? I had been asking Jesus to get my camera back. But why did I still doubt? We arrived at the police station, went inside, and there on the desk was the camera! I picked it up and examined it. It was ours! I was speechless. There were the three undercover agents, and a new witness. Leila asked if they had caught the thief. He said no, they did not have the thief. He claimed that someone found the camera on the side of the street and brought it in. You can believe what you want, but I sure don’t believe that story. Then the officer asked if I was willing to compensate the witnesses, who had been very helpful, having spent their entire afternoon helping me to recover the camera. Of course I was happy to do that. But there was more. The police had to process the camera, so it would have to stay overnight, and I would have to return the next day to pick it up. So home we went, and Leila agreed to meet me at 7:45 the next morning so we could go pick up the camera.

The next morning, we arrived at the station, and the officer told us that the camera had been picked up and taken to the main police headquarters to be processed. So back into the taxi we went, across town to the police headquarters. Again, don’t think American Police Station. This was another run down building, with a courtyard in the middle. We found the office we needed, only to discover that the only man who could help us was out at a crime scene. He would be back by 10:00 am. So we waited. We waited until about 10:15, and sure enough, he showed up. Everyone was very helpful. I thanked the Lord again for answering my prayers. The police took a picture of the camera, and handed it to me. I put it right into my pocket, and off we went, back home with an amazing story to tell.