Being in the third world is the closest I will get to being a celebrity. I'm chauffeured around in a big, modern car. People wave when it passes. When it stops, they flock to it, rushing towards me. They shout hellos and demands: "Madam! Cross/basket/scarf ! Only 10birr" or "Hullo! Pen/candy/money!" I brush past them, my head down, burdened by my popularity, and dart towards the gate, and then back towards the solace of the car, my driver quickly ushering me inside, escaping the throng, my tired eyes hidden behind the double walls of my sunglasses and tinted window.
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