If you are looking for the most genuine Ethiopian experience then you need do no more than get on a bus. I have written previously about the joys of catching a bus in Ethiopia, but the fun really begins once you finally head off. This took longer than usual when I took my last bus ride from Gonder to the border with Sudan, as two large cages of chickens had to be loaded on to the roof of the bus and the rickety cages made this a full hour task, and it looked like it was going to take even longer when one of the porters tried to put the 10ft long cage on his back then climb up the ladder at the back of the bus - for a brief moment it looked like
Finally we hit the road, and it didn't take long before the most important item in the bus was put in to use - the vomit bag. Every Ethiopian bus, probably by law, carries a plastic bag of plastic bags, usually stored near the back door. When the roads get windy the bags get handed out to everyone, but in our case we were on some of the straightest roads in Ethiopia, which means the bus boy has to dash to the back of the bus grab a bag and get it to the ailing passenger before the vomit hits the floor. What the straight roads don't mean though is a vomit free trip, that is something that just doesn't happen. Despite trying hard not to look a few times I couldn't but peep as passenger gave a bag their best, tied it up at the top and threw it out the window (or on to the floor if they were feeling a little lazy) - the suspended solids in a pale yellow liquid glittering in the sun still makes me feel a little queasy. The preponderance of vomit may have a lot to do with the fact that there are about eighty people (two rows of three and two) crammed in to an ordinary bus AND no matter how hot or stuffy it becomes, all of the windows will be closed. Ethiopians believe that air coming in a window brings illness, so if you ever dare to open a window they give you the evil eye, tell you to close the window or come over and do it themselves.
Now, after about an hour on the pass roughly half of the eighty people had vomited, and roughly seventy five percent of these people had used a plastic bag. Meanwhile a good percentage of the passengers are also having a hack or a gob now and then straight on to the floor, which is where anything that anyone no longer wants - i.e. - all of the rubbish ends up. Adding to all of this is the dust that the bus kicks up as it motors along as none of the roads are paved. The piece de resistance of this concoction is the rancid smell that emanates from the women who lather on sheep and goat fat to keep their hair looking shiny.
So as we descended out of the hills in to the heat of the desert plains, and the sun began to cook the bus, the pungent mix human sweat, vomit, rancid animal fat mixing with clouds of dust in the seemingly ever diminishing small space of a bus with no fresh air at all, made me feel quite happy that I was finally leaving Ethiopia and its smelly, get up at 4.30am to catch 'em buses - but there was one small last piece of theatre to go.
As we had driven through the mountains every time we stopped the owner of the chickens would check that his charges were doing all right. As we hit the planes that marked the beginning of the border with Sudan the bus kicked up a few notches with hysterical results. We were careering along on a dusty road when suddenly three or four chickens were spotted out of the back windows of the bus falling from the roof, bouncing off the side of the bus and disappearing in to the cloud of dust that was following us. Eventually after plenty of shouting from all the passengers the driver realised what had happened and slammed on the brakes. When we stopped about half the passengers got out - half of those started chasing the chickens and the other half coached the first half - first on the best method of rounding up the chooks in 40 degree heat in the scrub, and then secondly on how to put the chooks back in the cages and then fix the cages. It kept me in stitches for half an hour, as I enjoyed the relief of breathing some fresh air for a change.
The last hour and a half of the journey was punctuated by two more of these stops, once when a couple of birds escaped and were running around on the roof, and twice more when some felt off the back of the bus. The last time the driver had had enough and didn't even bother stopping - so by now there are probably a whole packs of chickens running around crossing the Ethiopia-Sudan border without the appropriate passports.
A travel blog for the thinking clown who has drunk a little too much of the local tap water
Showing posts with label Ethiopia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ethiopia. Show all posts
Food, glorious food
Somehow I managed to stumble in to Ethiopia during Coptic Lent, during which almost the entire country fasts - abstaining from eating meat for forty days, turning the country in to a vegetarian paradise. I spent the six weeks I was there living off beyenit - fasting food, and was so impressed I even took a photo !!!
The main part of the Ethiopian diet, njera, a huge pancake made from tef, a grain a bit like wheat that only grows at altitude in Ethiopia and Eritrea. The standard (and almost exclusive dish in most places) involves njera as the plate and then a selection of varying goodies - ranging from your bog standard shiro (the paste in the middle made from spiced, lentil flour) , to spicy eggplant, fancy beetroot and a few more lentil dishes.
An unwanted Australian - beyherzaff - the tree from over the sea
Sometimes when you look out over the hills of Ethiopia, and the rest of Africa south of there, you could easily make the mistake of thinking you were in Australia - the hills are covered in that very recognisable green leaves, yellow flowers and white trunks of the eucalyptus tree.
In Ethiopia they are called beyherzaff - bey meaning sea and herzaff meaning branch or tree, and when I tell many locals where I am from they immediately tell me how King Menelik, the first king of united Ethiopia (and the grandfather of the divine Emperor Haile Selassie). Like in most East and Southern African countries they were brought to Africa from Australia at the turn of the century (in the other countries by the new colonists), to replace the rapidly deforested hills. In the perfect conditions of Africa, plenty of sun, water and good soil the eucalyptus grow like wildfire, to mangle a few metaphors. In the absence of any small marsupials to pick on the saplings, the trees grow straight and tall, rushing towards the sky at break neck speed. Since their introduction they have self seeded to cover large swathes of land, crowding out any indigenous trees that have been left, and often because of the more recent high levels of deforestation, they are the only trees that can be seen in many areas.
You would think that any tree is a good tree, but the eucalyptus is not native so it creates problems in its alien environment, deep roots steal the water from other trees and cause the water table to rise. Native animals and birds haven't adapted to use the eucalyptus, so like native trees they are pushed elsewhere by the unwanted Australian interloper.
In some areas, especially in Rwanda, people have wised up, and are now clearing the eucalyptus for firewood and replacing them with native species, but in most areas the antipodean import continues to spread its reach. Maybe they could send a few back to Australia.
In Ethiopia they are called beyherzaff - bey meaning sea and herzaff meaning branch or tree, and when I tell many locals where I am from they immediately tell me how King Menelik, the first king of united Ethiopia (and the grandfather of the divine Emperor Haile Selassie). Like in most East and Southern African countries they were brought to Africa from Australia at the turn of the century (in the other countries by the new colonists), to replace the rapidly deforested hills. In the perfect conditions of Africa, plenty of sun, water and good soil the eucalyptus grow like wildfire, to mangle a few metaphors. In the absence of any small marsupials to pick on the saplings, the trees grow straight and tall, rushing towards the sky at break neck speed. Since their introduction they have self seeded to cover large swathes of land, crowding out any indigenous trees that have been left, and often because of the more recent high levels of deforestation, they are the only trees that can be seen in many areas.
You would think that any tree is a good tree, but the eucalyptus is not native so it creates problems in its alien environment, deep roots steal the water from other trees and cause the water table to rise. Native animals and birds haven't adapted to use the eucalyptus, so like native trees they are pushed elsewhere by the unwanted Australian interloper.
In some areas, especially in Rwanda, people have wised up, and are now clearing the eucalyptus for firewood and replacing them with native species, but in most areas the antipodean import continues to spread its reach. Maybe they could send a few back to Australia.
Loiterer on a mission
Finally there is a purpose to the loitering - hmm perhaps that may be an oxymoron. Anyway, on a bus ride from Mekele to go to Debre Damo I met Teklab, an Eritrean refugee living in Ethiopia. (For those who don't know Eritrea fought a 3o year war of independence with Ethiopia that ended in 1991, and then they fought another war in 1997) Eritrea is afraid of another war and requires all its male citizens from 18 to 45 to do full time permanent military service, and requires a permit for its citizens to leave the country. Nonetheless, each month about 1000 refugees slip across the border to Ethiopia and 2500 go to Sudan.
Teklab left five years ago, and he is a lucky one, he has a residency permit to live and work in Ethiopia, most refugees end up in camps, where they are not allowed to work, and must remain in the camps, sometimes they are allowed out for a week at a time. When I met up with Teklab him in Shire where he lives, the mere mention of his sister and mother who still live in Eritrea almost killed the conversation - Teklab suddenly became very quiet and I could almost see in his eyes memories of better days flashing past. (Teklab can't return to Eritrea meaning he hasn't seen his sister or his mother since he left, it is not possible to call between the two countries because the lines have been cut, and emails are censored) Teklab became animated again when he got on to talking about freedom, the word Eritreans give for the end of the war and independence. He said "When freedom came in 1991" as if it had simply knocked on the door and had been allowed in, rather than a thirty year war in which Eritrea had no international allies. However for five or six years life was good, travel between the two countries was open to all families were reunited, and their was a post conflict economic boom in Eritrea - its economy grew faster than any other country in Africa. It seemed that the tough sacrifices the Struggle were over, and people in both countries looked forwarded to an even more promising future. Tragically it only lasted six years, before the two leaders launched another war between the two countries, ostensibly about control of some busted arse border town, but more about egos - egos which cost around 70,000 to 100,000 lives, and ruined the economies and lives of millions in both countries.
I met a few other unluckier refugees on a local bus. They had managed to get a two week pass out and had been to Addis, but they were now on their way back to the camp - a five hour bus ride, and then a ten kilometre walk. There is no real chance of escape as anybody travelling in Ethiopia, particularly around the border areas, has their papers checked so often that any refugee on the run would soon be caught. They told me about how Canada had declined to let them migrate so they were now going to try for Australia. They had been in the camp for five years, and spent most of their time doing nothing - they are not allowed to work, including even farming the land inside the camp, or study - people live off handouts from the UNHCR and aid agencies, so they have no income, and very little to do. I later rode on a bus through another camp, about a thousand or so ramshackle huts, distributed across a denuded hillside - black burnt soil and not a tree in sight. As in most places in Ethiopia, everything was covered in a thick layer of dust thrown up by passing cars, and whilst there was no fence, it looked worse than a prison.
Teklab convinced me to visit Eritrea, first by telling me the border was open, and secondly and more importantly by giving me a job - to carry a letter and photo across the border like an illicit postman.
Teklab left five years ago, and he is a lucky one, he has a residency permit to live and work in Ethiopia, most refugees end up in camps, where they are not allowed to work, and must remain in the camps, sometimes they are allowed out for a week at a time. When I met up with Teklab him in Shire where he lives, the mere mention of his sister and mother who still live in Eritrea almost killed the conversation - Teklab suddenly became very quiet and I could almost see in his eyes memories of better days flashing past. (Teklab can't return to Eritrea meaning he hasn't seen his sister or his mother since he left, it is not possible to call between the two countries because the lines have been cut, and emails are censored) Teklab became animated again when he got on to talking about freedom, the word Eritreans give for the end of the war and independence. He said "When freedom came in 1991" as if it had simply knocked on the door and had been allowed in, rather than a thirty year war in which Eritrea had no international allies. However for five or six years life was good, travel between the two countries was open to all families were reunited, and their was a post conflict economic boom in Eritrea - its economy grew faster than any other country in Africa. It seemed that the tough sacrifices the Struggle were over, and people in both countries looked forwarded to an even more promising future. Tragically it only lasted six years, before the two leaders launched another war between the two countries, ostensibly about control of some busted arse border town, but more about egos - egos which cost around 70,000 to 100,000 lives, and ruined the economies and lives of millions in both countries.
I met a few other unluckier refugees on a local bus. They had managed to get a two week pass out and had been to Addis, but they were now on their way back to the camp - a five hour bus ride, and then a ten kilometre walk. There is no real chance of escape as anybody travelling in Ethiopia, particularly around the border areas, has their papers checked so often that any refugee on the run would soon be caught. They told me about how Canada had declined to let them migrate so they were now going to try for Australia. They had been in the camp for five years, and spent most of their time doing nothing - they are not allowed to work, including even farming the land inside the camp, or study - people live off handouts from the UNHCR and aid agencies, so they have no income, and very little to do. I later rode on a bus through another camp, about a thousand or so ramshackle huts, distributed across a denuded hillside - black burnt soil and not a tree in sight. As in most places in Ethiopia, everything was covered in a thick layer of dust thrown up by passing cars, and whilst there was no fence, it looked worse than a prison.
Teklab convinced me to visit Eritrea, first by telling me the border was open, and secondly and more importantly by giving me a job - to carry a letter and photo across the border like an illicit postman.
Noise,blackouts and some castles in Africa
It is not that often that you find yourself in the middle of a blackout hoping that it continues but in Ethiopia things a a little unusual that way. For some reason hotels are normally always situated above, behind or in the worst cases, inside bars/restaurant/nightclubs. The action will usually start around nine in the evening, which means when you arrive at the hotel before that time you have no idea how busy, and loud, it will get.
The music is cranked up, and failing that, English football, or just
any sound at all, and this is Africa, so when any music is played on electronic equipment the volume must be turned up to eleven, so that almost everything is distorted beyond comprehension. There are many good things about Ethiopia, and I know the culture police may try to arrest me for saying this, but Ethiopian music is terrible, there appears to be no actual instruments - just badly synthesised approximations thereof, and most of the lyrics are screeched rather than sung. There also seems to be a limited range of choice, so that the same songs will be played five or six times each night. The racket makes conversation in the bar pointless and sleep nigh on impossible, even with ear plugs firmly fastened. So I hear you say, find a hotel that isn't a bar, well that doesn't work either, because inevitably somewhere within hearing range there will be a bar playing music at full volume. Contributing to this is also the way that Ethiopians tend to speak at the top of their voice, whatever the subject, location or time of day. As all buildings are made from cement and then lathered with tiles the booming voices echo throughout the building, so even when the music stops at 3am, there are still plenty of noises keeping you awake.
The one thing that offsets all of this is the tendency for the power to go out in most cities. In some places it is regular, from around 11 in the morning to 8 or 9 in the evening, in other places it is random, everything shuts off and there will be no power for a couple of hours. Travelling around to different cities it was difficult to say with any certainty when the power would go off or come on as locals tended to treat the question with disdain. So when the power went out or was out around bedtime, I found myself secretly hoping that it would stay that way until the morning time. No power meant no music which usually meant no customers, which meant no noise. Unfortunately a couple of times power returned at around 11 or midnight, the music would be cranked up, whether or not there were any customers, and I would go back to counting sheep in Amharic.
Oh yeah, there is also some old castle from the 14th and 15th century in Gonder too.
The music is cranked up, and failing that, English football, or just
any sound at all, and this is Africa, so when any music is played on electronic equipment the volume must be turned up to eleven, so that almost everything is distorted beyond comprehension. There are many good things about Ethiopia, and I know the culture police may try to arrest me for saying this, but Ethiopian music is terrible, there appears to be no actual instruments - just badly synthesised approximations thereof, and most of the lyrics are screeched rather than sung. There also seems to be a limited range of choice, so that the same songs will be played five or six times each night. The racket makes conversation in the bar pointless and sleep nigh on impossible, even with ear plugs firmly fastened. So I hear you say, find a hotel that isn't a bar, well that doesn't work either, because inevitably somewhere within hearing range there will be a bar playing music at full volume. Contributing to this is also the way that Ethiopians tend to speak at the top of their voice, whatever the subject, location or time of day. As all buildings are made from cement and then lathered with tiles the booming voices echo throughout the building, so even when the music stops at 3am, there are still plenty of noises keeping you awake.The one thing that offsets all of this is the tendency for the power to go out in most cities. In some places it is regular, from around 11 in the morning to 8 or 9 in the evening, in other places it is random, everything shuts off and there will be no power for a couple of hours. Travelling around to different cities it was difficult to say with any certainty when the power would go off or come on as locals tended to treat the question with disdain. So when the power went out or was out around bedtime, I found myself secretly hoping that it would stay that way until the morning time. No power meant no music which usually meant no customers, which meant no noise. Unfortunately a couple of times power returned at around 11 or midnight, the music would be cranked up, whether or not there were any customers, and I would go back to counting sheep in Amharic.
Oh yeah, there is also some old castle from the 14th and 15th century in Gonder too.
Arguing with God
Many Africans ask me why I visiting their country, or why I am travelling and the best answer I have is how I felt yesterday as I set out on a twenty two kilometre walk through some incredibly beautiful countryside to the monastery of Debre Damo. After coming down the wondrous engineering feat that is the road from Mekele to Axum, where the road serpentines down the hill, almost on top of itself and looking down I could see five or six passes of the road below me. We finally reached the bottom of the plateau after a nerve racking hour of descent, and then a couple of kilometres along I was dropped off at the turn off to the monastery - a small dirt road. To the horizon there were peaks everywhere, with a few ridge lines joining some peaks here and there. The sun was beating down, but with the breeze on my face my muscles started twinging and I was ready to go - ready to escape all the hassle that comes along with being stationery and embracing the freedom and the joy of movement.The walk proved to be as rewarding as I imagined. After a couple of kilometres on the track a few locals suggested I join them on a short cut, so we clambered up and over a hill, whereupon they left me to head out to the fields and pointed me in the direction I was to go. I dropped back down the side of the hill towards the river, spotting the road continuing on the top of the ridge line a couple of hundred metres up the side of the hill I had just come down. I reached the river bed, covered in rocks and about 150 metres across, but the water was not much more than a trickle a couple of metres wide. As I hopped across the rocks I met a few nuns who greeted me and pointed to the towering mountain in front of me and chuckled to themselves. Following their pointing figures I saw the monolith I was to climb rearing up in front of me, a circular hill that straight up for a couple of hundred of metres topped by a vertical rock face of at least a hundred metres, a natural fortress. I followed the river bank for a while and then followed the track as it headed up the hill. It was hard going with rocks strewn across the steep path and the mid day sun seemed to take particular pleasure scorching anything that was foolish enough to be out of the shade, leaving me covered in a damp layer of sweat. As I was going up I passed a number of locals coming down, all older men, dressed in their white robes. They all greeted me with a smile on their face and pointed up towards the monastery.
After about an hour of heavy going, I made it to the foot of the sheer rock face, and then skirted around the bottom looking for the only way up. After walking what seemed halfway around the cliff I stumbled across the way up and stood transfixed as I watched forty to fifty men, some who would have been well in to their sixties and seventies making their way down the fifty metre sheer cliff. Some of the men flew down, using only the thin rope made from goat skins, they did any modern day abseiler proud, leaning back so their body was perpendicul
ar with the cliff and walking and leaping backwards down to the bottom. A few of the less game ones tied themselves in to a harness (made of course from goatskin) and using the rope they were lowered down more slowly.
After about an hour of heavy going, I made it to the foot of the sheer rock face, and then skirted around the bottom looking for the only way up. After walking what seemed halfway around the cliff I stumbled across the way up and stood transfixed as I watched forty to fifty men, some who would have been well in to their sixties and seventies making their way down the fifty metre sheer cliff. Some of the men flew down, using only the thin rope made from goat skins, they did any modern day abseiler proud, leaning back so their body was perpendicul
ar with the cliff and walking and leaping backwards down to the bottom. A few of the less game ones tied themselves in to a harness (made of course from goatskin) and using the rope they were lowered down more slowly. After having seen the physical state of many of these men as they waited at the bottom I gave up any idea I had of wussing out and ambled over to where the ropes came down. Looking up I noticed that behind the small gate through which you entered there stood a gatekeeper dressed in his fancy robes. A kid on the ground befriended me, he told me to take my bag off, and to do the climb in bare feet. He then mentioned that it would cost me 100 Ethiopian Birr to get in and another 40 to be pulled up. (140 EB = $ 14) Now that doesn't sound like much money, except my daily budget for the six weeks spent in Ethiopia was $10, and the average Ethiopian earns about 500 Birr a month – yes per month. So 140 was quite a large sum. I checked my pockets to find that I had about 90Birr on me – I had been told it would cost me 50 to get in. I explained to the kid on the ground that was all I had, and he had a conversation with the gatekeeper, who then suddenly spouted some broken English - “Must pay 100, if not go away”. So I went and sat with the guys who had come down and ate my lunch whilst weighing up what I would do. Surely, I thought to myself if I impress upon him this is all the money I have he will let me in, it is a monastery after all.
So I return to the bottom of the ropes. Immediately he yells out,
“Give me 100 Birr.”
I explain that I only have 87 Birr
“Go away, you must pay”
At this point, probably due to the combination of having woken at 5am that morning, having spent 4 hours on a hot bus with Ethiopians refusing to open any windows whilst engaging in synchronised vomiting, then having walked around 11 kilometres and the rather irritating practice of Ethiopian Orthodox churches charging every time you even want to go near them, I confess to flying off the handle. I looked at the robed gatekeeper, and it made me wonder whether this was what it was like when we arrive at the pearly gates.
“Are you a church or a back ?” I yelled at him, but received no reply.
“What will you do if when you get to heaven it is like this – if you don't have enough money they won't let you in ? “
“No, give me 100” was his only reply, before he slipped behind the wall so I couldn't see him.
“Are you afraid ? Why are you hiding ?” I yelled up at the heavens, wondering whether even St Peter would be this tough.
“No”
I stood there and glared at him as sternly as possible but I think the distance and the superior position which he was in severely undermined the effectiveness of my stare. Eventually I walked away, sat down and had a twenty minute discussion with myself about whether I should give in and whether I really wanted to see the monastery anyway. Finally I decided that after all the effort to get there it would be a waste not to invest the extra dollar – I hunted around in my bag and found some extra money, I put everything I needed in my pockets, took off my shoes and headed over to the ropes. I decided that if sixty year olds could do it, so could I – and to save the extra four dollars I started climbing up the cliff without a harness. About 10 metres in the gatekeeper noticed and called out
“Give me 100 Birr”
Rather peeved by this point I found a resting place on the wall, and yelled back at him “I will give you your money, but how can I, there is no one here. Do you have any angels to send down to collect it ?”
After he appeared to recognise the practicality of the situation he stopped yelling and I got back to climbing. About halfway up my forearms were pounding, my hands were covered in sweat and my fingers were stuck in a grip refusing to straighten. I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. I kept going until I was about three quarters of the way up, but things were only getting worse. My hands were now shaking almost uncontrollably, my fingers and forearms were too tired to get a good grip on the rope, and I made the almost fatal mistake of looking down. I started thinking to myself, hmm you have put yourself at the risk of falling to a near certain death in order to save four bucks – nice work.
At this point the gatekeeper sensing perhaps that he could get the better of me started yelling at me to stop, and that he would get the harness. This was enough to give me the impetus to pull myself together, look up, ignore the soft voice in the back of my head telling me I couldn't do it, ignore the pain in my pain in my arms, and heave myself up the last part to the gate, and then scramble through to safety. And when I took my first step through the gate what was I greeted with – the gatekeeper demanding his 100Birr !!!
The place was in fact most impressive, like a little island oasis it was covered in green grass, with cows and goats wandering around. There were quite a number of houses, some very deep dams hewn out of the rock, and a couple of churches – one in the impressive monkey head style – made from a combination of stone and wood in alternating layers, with the stumps of the wooden beams sticking out like monkey heads. I wandered around for a while, admiring the incredible views, looking north I could see over the border in to Eritrea. I could see how this was the perfect place to hold out against the invading Arabs as they
swept across Ethiopia from the coastal plains, through the mountains and towards the southern cities – destroyi
ng all of the churches and monasteries on the way. Debre Damo was one of the few to hold out until the invaders were repelled.
I managed to wander in to the main church just as the chanting was drawing to a close, and the five or six priests wandered out of the secret part of the church and then did four or five laps of the church before heading back in to the part hidden by the curtain. I headed back towards the gate and the gatekeeper kept badgering me to give him more money – first for the climb up, then for having a camera, then for going down, and then in the end just for being.Unable to resist, I went and collected a few rocks and came back and made out to be paying him in rocks. Fortunately the way down was a lot easier than the way up, and I managed to make it without stopping.
So I return to the bottom of the ropes. Immediately he yells out,
“Give me 100 Birr.”
I explain that I only have 87 Birr
“Go away, you must pay”
At this point, probably due to the combination of having woken at 5am that morning, having spent 4 hours on a hot bus with Ethiopians refusing to open any windows whilst engaging in synchronised vomiting, then having walked around 11 kilometres and the rather irritating practice of Ethiopian Orthodox churches charging every time you even want to go near them, I confess to flying off the handle. I looked at the robed gatekeeper, and it made me wonder whether this was what it was like when we arrive at the pearly gates.
“Are you a church or a back ?” I yelled at him, but received no reply.
“What will you do if when you get to heaven it is like this – if you don't have enough money they won't let you in ? “
“No, give me 100” was his only reply, before he slipped behind the wall so I couldn't see him.
“Are you afraid ? Why are you hiding ?” I yelled up at the heavens, wondering whether even St Peter would be this tough.
“No”
I stood there and glared at him as sternly as possible but I think the distance and the superior position which he was in severely undermined the effectiveness of my stare. Eventually I walked away, sat down and had a twenty minute discussion with myself about whether I should give in and whether I really wanted to see the monastery anyway. Finally I decided that after all the effort to get there it would be a waste not to invest the extra dollar – I hunted around in my bag and found some extra money, I put everything I needed in my pockets, took off my shoes and headed over to the ropes. I decided that if sixty year olds could do it, so could I – and to save the extra four dollars I started climbing up the cliff without a harness. About 10 metres in the gatekeeper noticed and called out
“Give me 100 Birr”
Rather peeved by this point I found a resting place on the wall, and yelled back at him “I will give you your money, but how can I, there is no one here. Do you have any angels to send down to collect it ?”
After he appeared to recognise the practicality of the situation he stopped yelling and I got back to climbing. About halfway up my forearms were pounding, my hands were covered in sweat and my fingers were stuck in a grip refusing to straighten. I couldn't stop my hands from shaking. I kept going until I was about three quarters of the way up, but things were only getting worse. My hands were now shaking almost uncontrollably, my fingers and forearms were too tired to get a good grip on the rope, and I made the almost fatal mistake of looking down. I started thinking to myself, hmm you have put yourself at the risk of falling to a near certain death in order to save four bucks – nice work.
At this point the gatekeeper sensing perhaps that he could get the better of me started yelling at me to stop, and that he would get the harness. This was enough to give me the impetus to pull myself together, look up, ignore the soft voice in the back of my head telling me I couldn't do it, ignore the pain in my pain in my arms, and heave myself up the last part to the gate, and then scramble through to safety. And when I took my first step through the gate what was I greeted with – the gatekeeper demanding his 100Birr !!!
The place was in fact most impressive, like a little island oasis it was covered in green grass, with cows and goats wandering around. There were quite a number of houses, some very deep dams hewn out of the rock, and a couple of churches – one in the impressive monkey head style – made from a combination of stone and wood in alternating layers, with the stumps of the wooden beams sticking out like monkey heads. I wandered around for a while, admiring the incredible views, looking north I could see over the border in to Eritrea. I could see how this was the perfect place to hold out against the invading Arabs as they
swept across Ethiopia from the coastal plains, through the mountains and towards the southern cities – destroyi
ng all of the churches and monasteries on the way. Debre Damo was one of the few to hold out until the invaders were repelled.I managed to wander in to the main church just as the chanting was drawing to a close, and the five or six priests wandered out of the secret part of the church and then did four or five laps of the church before heading back in to the part hidden by the curtain. I headed back towards the gate and the gatekeeper kept badgering me to give him more money – first for the climb up, then for having a camera, then for going down, and then in the end just for being.Unable to resist, I went and collected a few rocks and came back and made out to be paying him in rocks. Fortunately the way down was a lot easier than the way up, and I managed to make it without stopping.
Where are the starving babies ?
So I am naive as the next person, riding on a bus through the middle of Ethiopia I find myself asking, where are the starving babies ?
The images that I associate most with Ethiopia are those from the famine in the 1980's, starving babies, with bloated stomachs, large bald heads covered in flies, large, blank eyes filled with the look of complete surrender to the inevitability of death staring at the camera, sitting under the burning sun, in the middle of the desert.
I look out the window and I see sheer mountain peaks, thin rocky ridge lines, steep flanks covered in ploughed terraces divided by stone walls, goats, cows and sheep grazing on the green grass and trees everywhere. I am yet to see any starving babies, instead I have been enjoying the tasty fare that traditional Ethiopian food has to offer, including plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables and my new staple - coffee.
I look around the bus trying to validate my preconceptions, I like to think of myself as relatively well informed - after all I did read an article in Kenya that the UN agency the WFP (World Food Program) said that nine million people were at risk of starving this year in Ethiopia, and I see Save the Children signs everywhere. Instead people are busy sending messages on their mobile phones, chewing chat, roasted barley and sugar cane - no starving babies here either.
The gap between the portrayal of Africa, and the reality of Africa seems to grow wider and wider the more time I spend here. The rare times that Africa makes it to the news are usually stories about natural disasters, famines or violence, and whether they occurred twenty years ago or yesterday, the sheer weight of the sum of negativity means the overall impression that we carry around with us is one of hopelessness and suffering. Even when these ideas run in to the wall of reality, I keep looking to try and prove the errant preconceptions I have. Perhaps confronting these myths also means confronting all of the other erroneous news that feeds the warped ideas of reality that we construct in our heads, and try to impose on the often resolutely stubborn reality. We know so little about the world despite being so interconnected and hearing and reading about it every day.
Can I have finally stumbled on a justification for wandering about the planet ?
Nonetheless, I will keep my eye out for some starving babies (Got to get my hug count up)
The images that I associate most with Ethiopia are those from the famine in the 1980's, starving babies, with bloated stomachs, large bald heads covered in flies, large, blank eyes filled with the look of complete surrender to the inevitability of death staring at the camera, sitting under the burning sun, in the middle of the desert.
I look out the window and I see sheer mountain peaks, thin rocky ridge lines, steep flanks covered in ploughed terraces divided by stone walls, goats, cows and sheep grazing on the green grass and trees everywhere. I am yet to see any starving babies, instead I have been enjoying the tasty fare that traditional Ethiopian food has to offer, including plenty of fresh fruit and vegetables and my new staple - coffee.
I look around the bus trying to validate my preconceptions, I like to think of myself as relatively well informed - after all I did read an article in Kenya that the UN agency the WFP (World Food Program) said that nine million people were at risk of starving this year in Ethiopia, and I see Save the Children signs everywhere. Instead people are busy sending messages on their mobile phones, chewing chat, roasted barley and sugar cane - no starving babies here either.
The gap between the portrayal of Africa, and the reality of Africa seems to grow wider and wider the more time I spend here. The rare times that Africa makes it to the news are usually stories about natural disasters, famines or violence, and whether they occurred twenty years ago or yesterday, the sheer weight of the sum of negativity means the overall impression that we carry around with us is one of hopelessness and suffering. Even when these ideas run in to the wall of reality, I keep looking to try and prove the errant preconceptions I have. Perhaps confronting these myths also means confronting all of the other erroneous news that feeds the warped ideas of reality that we construct in our heads, and try to impose on the often resolutely stubborn reality. We know so little about the world despite being so interconnected and hearing and reading about it every day.
Can I have finally stumbled on a justification for wandering about the planet ?
Nonetheless, I will keep my eye out for some starving babies (Got to get my hug count up)
Good question
On the way back from seeing the carved churches of Lalibela, I arrived
in Woldyia, a junction town which failed in it's sole purpose -
providing transport to get out of it. After a strange scene in which I
had a stand up argument with the six fingered bus boy (it was an extra
little pinky, tacked on the end of the hand, with nail and all. Once I
noticed it, it was almost impossible to stop my eyes from drifting down
to look at in brief, firvative glances, before quickly shifting my gaze
out of a mix of good manners and a sense of repulsion) about having to
pay for him to put my bag in the luggage compartment at the back. In the
end I wrenched the tool key from his hand, after threatening to take the
phone from his ear, opened the boot, got my bag and walked away. I kept
walking out of town, to some very surprised looks by locals. I stood by
the road for a while and very few cars past, but after twenty minutes or
so a ute stopped, and despite going only fifty kilometres, I through my
bag in the back and jumped in.
in Woldyia, a junction town which failed in it's sole purpose -
providing transport to get out of it. After a strange scene in which I
had a stand up argument with the six fingered bus boy (it was an extra
little pinky, tacked on the end of the hand, with nail and all. Once I
noticed it, it was almost impossible to stop my eyes from drifting down
to look at in brief, firvative glances, before quickly shifting my gaze
out of a mix of good manners and a sense of repulsion) about having to
pay for him to put my bag in the luggage compartment at the back. In the
end I wrenched the tool key from his hand, after threatening to take the
phone from his ear, opened the boot, got my bag and walked away. I kept
walking out of town, to some very surprised looks by locals. I stood by
the road for a while and very few cars past, but after twenty minutes or
so a ute stopped, and despite going only fifty kilometres, I through my
bag in the back and jumped in.
I was sharing the car with three other guys, two middle aged and one in
his late teens. Most people in Ethiopia can speak a fair amount of
English but they are usually too shy to try. As we drove along the
driver made some jokes in English about how the other two were
graduates, yet he was the only one willing to give talking in English a
shot. After about twenty minutes we reached a small town, stopped at a
bar, and the driver and one of the passengers got out. The other
passenger then started to ask me a few questions about where I was from,
where I had been in Ethiopia (the stone churches in Lalibela) and where
I was going in Ethiopia (the monasteries in Tigray). Inevitably we ended
up with the usual, what is your religion ? question.
"I have no religion" I told him, "I don't believe in God". He thought
about that for a while and then shot this curly one at me,
"You don't believe in Jesus and you don't have a church, so why do you
come to visit churches in Ethiopia ?"
I was floored by that one and have been trying to think of a good
comeback ever since.
The work of angels ?
The monolithic churches of Lalibela have to be seen to be believed. They are hidden away in the central mountains of Ethiopia, and reputed to have been built, or more accurately carved, in the 12th and 13th centuries by King Lalibela after his return from exile in Jerusalem. The churches were created as a refuge, and a site of pilgrimage - instead of risking the life threatening journey across the Muslim lands on the way to Jerusalem, Ethiopian Christians could instead travel to the new Jerusalem. The backdrop, of an endless series of steep valleys, thin ridge lines and mesas that stretch along the horizon in all directions is almost impressive as the churches. The churches themselves are carved in to the rock - that is, the workers started with a flat stretch of rock and carved down 10 to 15 metres in to it, eking out a large hole in the ground with churches that are carved - rather than built - from the same rock, in the middle of the hole.
As our guide led us around the churches he explained that they were built supposedly in the space of 23 years, following the plans that were divinely revealed to King Lalibela, in a dream in which the designs were shown to him. They were all started and finished at the same time, and in order to complete the work so quickly at night angels would appear and work until morning when the mere mortals returned to work.
The angel story, told in all earnest by the guide, was what got my incredulity meter going - but I must admit it had been emitting
some weird noises ever since I arrived in Ethiopia. The foundation of Ethiopia is based on the Queen of Sheba story. Supposedly Queen Sheba (allegedly an Ethiopian, but the Yemenis claim her as well) headed off to Jerusalem, and had a little dalliance with King Solomon to whom she bore a child. Her entourage then headed back to Ethiopia after nicking the Ark of the Covenant (what Moses got when God gave him the Ten Commandments on Mt Sinai and what Indiana Jones found somewhere in the desert near the Pyramids) The original ark is apparently in Axum in the north of Ethiopia, and is the Ethiopian Coptic Churches most holy site. However put your cameras away because it is hidden away and nobody is allowed to see it - apparently you will instantly turn to flames if you do. All churches in Ethiopia have a copy of the covenant, but again they are behind curtains and nobody is allowed to see it. As an English guy I met asked, is there a factory where these replicas are produced, and how can you produce a replica if you can't see the original.So there is the work of angels, the Ark of the Covenant, and each of the thirteen churches in Lalibela also has its own cross, found in the waters surrounding each church and supposedly made from perfect gold -whatever that is. (Curiously one of them was stolen by a local and sold to a Belgian collector back in the '80s, clearly the divine cross doesn't cause blindness)
Needless to say, as with most religious beliefs, not much really stands up to close scrutiny - if the churches are the work of angels surely they would be perfect, so why the cracks and collapsed buildings - requiring some rather dodgy Italian concreting in the 1930's to hold them up, why do the divinely created crosses show flaws and some rust. I guess this helps explain the rather prodigious use of curtains. And the curtains were the start of the problem.
Being in a group of rather sceptical Westerners only encouraged further scepticism, and it appeared that the guide was growing tired under our barrage of questions. It all came to a head in a rather bizarre conversation with the guardian priest at one of the churches. To a rather innocuous question as to the practicalities of some supposed miracle the priest admonished us for inquiring too far, stating that it was not right to know all of the mysteries, and that even seeking to know was blasphemous and a lack of respect. Suddenly it all felt a little like the Wizard of Oz, all smoke, mirrors and curtains, mysteries and magic spell - but no questions allowed. Yet you just know that at some point somebody will come along and tug at the curtain to reveal the real truth. Rather than a deep, meaningful or spiritual experience, it feels more like a game of hide and seek, explaining the miraculous using God or angels as a kind of patch when things get a little tricky.
In the end all the dodgy stories, curtains, and don't look heres kind of ruined the experience, it was hard not to look at the incredible buildings without thinking about ridiculous stories of angels and crosses appearing from the deep.
The work of angels
The monolithic churches of Lalibela have to be seen to be believed. Hidden away in the central mountains of Ethiopia, and reputed to have been built in the 12th or 13th century by King Lalibela after his return from exile in Jerusalem.The churches were carved as a refuge, and a site of pilgrimage - instead of risking the life threatening journey across the Muslim lands on the way to Jerusalem, Ethiopian Christians could instead travel to the new Jerusalem. The churches are set against an incredibly beautiful back drop of an endless series of steep valleys, thin ridge lines and mesas that stretch along the horizon in all directions. The churches themselves are carved in to the rock - that is, the workers started with a flat stretch of rock and carved down 10 to 15 metres in to it, eking out a large hole in the ground with churches that are carved - rather than built - from the same rock, in the middle of the hole. Unfortunately photos don't really do justice, to the size, intricacy of the work and the unique nature of buildings that are carved rather than built.
As our guide led us around the churches he explained that they were built supposedly in the space of 23 years, following the plans that were divinely revealed to King Lalibella. They were all started and finished at the same time, and apparently at night angels would appear and work until morning when the mere mortals returned to work. The angel story, told in all earnest by the guide, was what got my incredulity meter going, but Ethiopian history is filled with stories that would give a Sceptics Association years of joy. The founding myth of Ethiopia, that Queen Sheba (reputedly an Ethiopian, although there is no historical evidence that she ever existed) headed off to Jerusalem, had a little dalliance with King Solomon to whom she bore a child, then headed back to Ethiopia after nicking the Ark of the Covenant (what Moses got when God gave him the Ten Commandments on Mt Sinai) The original ark is apparently in Axum in the north of Ethiopia but nobody is allowed to see it – apparently if you do you will burst in to a ball of flames. All churches in Ethiopia have a copy of the covenant, but again they are behind curtains and nobody is allowed to see it. Also each of the churches in Lalibella has its own cross, found in the waters surrounding each church and supposedly made from perfect gold.
After hearing all of these stories one's curiosity is peeked – it is difficult for an enquiring mind, to say nothing of a cheeky atheist's mind, not to start questioning things – especially when they are hidden away behind curtains. Particularly when there is no cogent reason for the curtains – if God revealed the rules to live by to Moses you would think that God would have wanted that everybody got to see these rules so they knew what they were supposed to do. And if angels really did help build the churches why are the churches now cracking and falling apart, surely the work of angels must be divinely perfect ? And why did the angels just work at night – they could have saved the workers a lot of effort and worked during the day as well ? And wouldn't the workers have organised in to a union and demanded that the scabs (angels who surely wouldn't have been paid) be excluded from working on the project ? If the crosses are divinely created can when test them to see their composition ?
Needless to say not many of these questions went down very well and everything reached a head with a bizarre conversation with one of the priests who guard the churches. When the Czech guy who was in our group asked a priest a seemingly innocuous question, the priest admonished him for inquiring too far, and said that it was not right for us to know all of the mysteries of God. He said that seeking to know is a lack of respect and that asking questions is blasphemous. He then told us all to leave.
Suddenly it all felt a little like the Wizard of Oz, all smoke, mirrors and curtains, no questions allowed. When questions are asked about why things can't be seen, or what the hidden things contain, no cogent explanations are ever presented. It feels like a game of hide and seek – every time you ask a question that reveals an inconsistency a new supernatural, and therefore unexplainable, answer is invented.
Those with faith, and religions in particular seem to think that any uncertainty arising from an inability to explain things has to be covered up and hidden away – as though if you find out that they don't have the answer then the whole system of belief will collapse - at some point somebody will come along and tug at the curtain to reveal the real truth. In the end the experience was ruined by these ridiculous explanations, in fact every time I entered a church or even saw an Orthodox priest from then on I couldn't help but think about the silly game they seemed to be playing. For me
the supernatural and fantastical explanations undermine the meaningful work that is created as an offering to God. It is wondrous enough to think that people alone created these buildings eight or nine hundred years ago there is no need for angels.
As our guide led us around the churches he explained that they were built supposedly in the space of 23 years, following the plans that were divinely revealed to King Lalibella. They were all started and finished at the same time, and apparently at night angels would appear and work until morning when the mere mortals returned to work. The angel story, told in all earnest by the guide, was what got my incredulity meter going, but Ethiopian history is filled with stories that would give a Sceptics Association years of joy. The founding myth of Ethiopia, that Queen Sheba (reputedly an Ethiopian, although there is no historical evidence that she ever existed) headed off to Jerusalem, had a little dalliance with King Solomon to whom she bore a child, then headed back to Ethiopia after nicking the Ark of the Covenant (what Moses got when God gave him the Ten Commandments on Mt Sinai) The original ark is apparently in Axum in the north of Ethiopia but nobody is allowed to see it – apparently if you do you will burst in to a ball of flames. All churches in Ethiopia have a copy of the covenant, but again they are behind curtains and nobody is allowed to see it. Also each of the churches in Lalibella has its own cross, found in the waters surrounding each church and supposedly made from perfect gold.
After hearing all of these stories one's curiosity is peeked – it is difficult for an enquiring mind, to say nothing of a cheeky atheist's mind, not to start questioning things – especially when they are hidden away behind curtains. Particularly when there is no cogent reason for the curtains – if God revealed the rules to live by to Moses you would think that God would have wanted that everybody got to see these rules so they knew what they were supposed to do. And if angels really did help build the churches why are the churches now cracking and falling apart, surely the work of angels must be divinely perfect ? And why did the angels just work at night – they could have saved the workers a lot of effort and worked during the day as well ? And wouldn't the workers have organised in to a union and demanded that the scabs (angels who surely wouldn't have been paid) be excluded from working on the project ? If the crosses are divinely created can when test them to see their composition ?
Needless to say not many of these questions went down very well and everything reached a head with a bizarre conversation with one of the priests who guard the churches. When the Czech guy who was in our group asked a priest a seemingly innocuous question, the priest admonished him for inquiring too far, and said that it was not right for us to know all of the mysteries of God. He said that seeking to know is a lack of respect and that asking questions is blasphemous. He then told us all to leave.
Suddenly it all felt a little like the Wizard of Oz, all smoke, mirrors and curtains, no questions allowed. When questions are asked about why things can't be seen, or what the hidden things contain, no cogent explanations are ever presented. It feels like a game of hide and seek – every time you ask a question that reveals an inconsistency a new supernatural, and therefore unexplainable, answer is invented.
Those with faith, and religions in particular seem to think that any uncertainty arising from an inability to explain things has to be covered up and hidden away – as though if you find out that they don't have the answer then the whole system of belief will collapse - at some point somebody will come along and tug at the curtain to reveal the real truth. In the end the experience was ruined by these ridiculous explanations, in fact every time I entered a church or even saw an Orthodox priest from then on I couldn't help but think about the silly game they seemed to be playing. For me
the supernatural and fantastical explanations undermine the meaningful work that is created as an offering to God. It is wondrous enough to think that people alone created these buildings eight or nine hundred years ago there is no need for angels.
Harar and a bad day
Harar is a Muslim oasis in an Orthodox Christian nation. It was the fortified city, situated on the flat coastal plain and completely surrounded by 10 ft high walls. Inside the walls the city is filled with seemingly endless narrow alleyways - there are a few roads on which cars can fit - otherwise it is walking or donkey only. It was used as a base for the trade that came from the interior and was sent on to the Arabian peninsula - principally slaves and ivory, and until as late as 1850 it was the major market in the Horn of Africa. Later the trade included chat or qat, the plant that is chewed by people across the Arab world for its narcotic effects. It is the fourth holiest city in Islam, as Muslims that were persecuted on the Arabian peninsula fled there, and until well in to the 18th century non-Muslims (Europeans) were not allowed within the city walls. By the late 1800's the city had been conquered by the Ethiopian (Christian) king and history quickly set about forgetting Harar. Trade dried up, the market shrank to almost nothing, its high white walls began falling apart, most of the gates are gone, and the city has expanded outside of the walls in to the surrounding hills. A few tourists visit now and then, the principal attraction are the hyena feeding men.
After being in Ethiopia for around ten days and thought I was starting to adjust to the strange and different place that it is.However on my second day in Harar it was too much. I couldn't take the fact that there is no public space in which as a farenji I could escape the glare of the Ethiopians - staring at me out of sheer curiosity, resentment or more commonly as a walking wallet. As I walk the street people constantly yell out "Farenji" or "You, you, you" - it is hard to work out what to say in reply to this. If I stop to look at something a crowd soon gathers, which usually makes matters worse as people egg each other on to see how close they can get to the farenji. The more daring or linguistically skilled go on to "Where are you from ? Where are you going?, whilst the seemingly endless packs of touts will go through the list of things they have to sell me, a city tour, some chat, a coffee ceremony, see the hyenas. I have lost count of the number of times I have had to tell them I have already done all of these. There are also beggars sprinkled across the city, usually occupying large chunks of the footpath, and when they see a farenji you can almost hear the cash register ching-chinging in there ears.
The city, like most in Ethiopia, is quite filthy - dirty, dirty streets covered in a thick dust, mixed with animal and human shit - both seem free to go wherever they like. There are plastic bags, discarded usually rotting food and anything that people don't want thrown and then blown everywhere. The air is filled with diesel fumes, most vehicles appear to wear thick black smoke coming out of the exhaust pipe as a badge of honour. Combined with the decrepit old town, and a sense of a grander past the whole place is suffocating.
Yesterday I reached boiling point - as I walked down the street I wanted to shout out loud - Leave me alone - I just want to walk around and be left alone. I suddenly felt very physically and emotionally tired - despite it being only 9 in the morning. I retreated to my room, and spent all day reading, sleeping and relaxing, with the door closed on the world. I did however venture out for the star attraction of Harar - the hyena feeding.
Men have been feeding hyenas just after dusk outside the gates of Harar for around five hundred years. Hyenas are rumoured to have mythical powers, and each year in September a porridge is prepared and set out for them - if they eat it the year will bring good things, if not locals start preparing for a bad year. More prosaically keeping the hyenas well fed and happy stops them from attacking livestock, or coming inside the city walls for snacks of the human variety.
I wandered down to one of the two remaining places, to watch the spectacle of a man pulling scraps of meat out of container and holding them on a stick as hyenas cautiously approached, and then lunged for the meat. A tour bus arrived and faced its high beams directly on the the seated hyena feeder - making the whole thing a little like a circus show (If you want you can feed the hyenas yourself, even holding the stick in your mouth) Hyenas are incredible animals - looking like a mix between a cat and dog, spotted like a giraffe, their mangy fur is pulled tightly over their bulk like a stuffed animal, and they have large, muscled forearms which are longer than the back legs giving them a strange, loping gait. In the darkness they softly howled, more like a screech than a bark, and then they would lope in to the light, after being called by the feeder using a low growl. (Supposedly the feeders know each hyena by name and can communicate with them)
After ten minutes I was a little over the bright lights and the spectacle of the group of young American tourists each having their turn to get photos of themselves, so I started heading back in to the city. This being Ethiopia though of course I couldn't be left alone, first I was threatened if I didn't pay some money to the touts surrounding the hyena man - supposedly for the meat, but considering the pack of tourists that argument didn't hold much water. Then once that argument was finished I was followed by a few of the touts wanting to sell me this and that. I scurried off back to my room as quickly as I could - the day ending much as it had begun.
After being in Ethiopia for around ten days and thought I was starting to adjust to the strange and different place that it is.However on my second day in Harar it was too much. I couldn't take the fact that there is no public space in which as a farenji I could escape the glare of the Ethiopians - staring at me out of sheer curiosity, resentment or more commonly as a walking wallet. As I walk the street people constantly yell out "Farenji" or "You, you, you" - it is hard to work out what to say in reply to this. If I stop to look at something a crowd soon gathers, which usually makes matters worse as people egg each other on to see how close they can get to the farenji. The more daring or linguistically skilled go on to "Where are you from ? Where are you going?, whilst the seemingly endless packs of touts will go through the list of things they have to sell me, a city tour, some chat, a coffee ceremony, see the hyenas. I have lost count of the number of times I have had to tell them I have already done all of these. There are also beggars sprinkled across the city, usually occupying large chunks of the footpath, and when they see a farenji you can almost hear the cash register ching-chinging in there ears.
The city, like most in Ethiopia, is quite filthy - dirty, dirty streets covered in a thick dust, mixed with animal and human shit - both seem free to go wherever they like. There are plastic bags, discarded usually rotting food and anything that people don't want thrown and then blown everywhere. The air is filled with diesel fumes, most vehicles appear to wear thick black smoke coming out of the exhaust pipe as a badge of honour. Combined with the decrepit old town, and a sense of a grander past the whole place is suffocating.
Yesterday I reached boiling point - as I walked down the street I wanted to shout out loud - Leave me alone - I just want to walk around and be left alone. I suddenly felt very physically and emotionally tired - despite it being only 9 in the morning. I retreated to my room, and spent all day reading, sleeping and relaxing, with the door closed on the world. I did however venture out for the star attraction of Harar - the hyena feeding.
Men have been feeding hyenas just after dusk outside the gates of Harar for around five hundred years. Hyenas are rumoured to have mythical powers, and each year in September a porridge is prepared and set out for them - if they eat it the year will bring good things, if not locals start preparing for a bad year. More prosaically keeping the hyenas well fed and happy stops them from attacking livestock, or coming inside the city walls for snacks of the human variety.
I wandered down to one of the two remaining places, to watch the spectacle of a man pulling scraps of meat out of container and holding them on a stick as hyenas cautiously approached, and then lunged for the meat. A tour bus arrived and faced its high beams directly on the the seated hyena feeder - making the whole thing a little like a circus show (If you want you can feed the hyenas yourself, even holding the stick in your mouth) Hyenas are incredible animals - looking like a mix between a cat and dog, spotted like a giraffe, their mangy fur is pulled tightly over their bulk like a stuffed animal, and they have large, muscled forearms which are longer than the back legs giving them a strange, loping gait. In the darkness they softly howled, more like a screech than a bark, and then they would lope in to the light, after being called by the feeder using a low growl. (Supposedly the feeders know each hyena by name and can communicate with them)
After ten minutes I was a little over the bright lights and the spectacle of the group of young American tourists each having their turn to get photos of themselves, so I started heading back in to the city. This being Ethiopia though of course I couldn't be left alone, first I was threatened if I didn't pay some money to the touts surrounding the hyena man - supposedly for the meat, but considering the pack of tourists that argument didn't hold much water. Then once that argument was finished I was followed by a few of the touts wanting to sell me this and that. I scurried off back to my room as quickly as I could - the day ending much as it had begun.
Ethiopia - a land unto itself
Ethiopia truly is different, something you notice everyday. As soon as you cross the border you go back six hours and about 8 years - they use the old Gregorian calendar, and the clock starts ticking at 6am rather than 12am. The people are different to the mixed Arab-Africans of Kenya and Tanzania, and the tribal and bantu peoples of Kenya, Uganda, and the more Arabic peoples of Sudan and Somalia. They have their own language Amharic (actually several), with its own script. They have their own religion, Ethiopian Orthodox, based on a story about the Queen of Sheba and the stealing of the Ark of the Covenant from Jerusalem. They have their own food, a great mix of desert simplicity and Italian flair. Almost all of the music they listen to is in their own language - three weeks without hearing any American R&B or pop rubbish - what a relief. The countryside is distinct - mountains, mountains and more mountains. And they have some very peculiar habits - everyone seems to like to piss and shit in the streets !!
Hardening of the heart
Ethiopia has a culture of begging, and the heat of the blowtorch is focused on tourists. Addis Abbaba as the capital and largest city is filled with beggars, and you can't walk anywhere without passing a few beggars sitting on the footpath or being chased by a few kids, or having a hand thrust in the window of the minibus. And whilst you can give some money to a few people there is a limit and in most cases you end up saying no far more than you give.
You start to find yourself doing strange things, crossing the road to avoid a beggar, pretending to be engrossed in the clouds in the sky to avoid catching the eye of a beggar, or developing suspect theories about to whom you should give and then be forced to make evaluations about the worthiness of beggars – he doesn't look that bad or why should I give her anything if she has three kids.
The whole process though leads to a hardening of the heart, you can feel sympathy seeping out of you as you continually say no, and have to walk past people who are struggling to survive. When you are confronted repeatedly by such poverty it is much more difficult to forget about it and pretend it doesn't exist. And yet at the end of each day you feel like your heart is slowly turning to stone as you failed to help so many people to whom what for you is almost nothing to them is another day of life. I fear eventually that I will become so insensitive to it that the heart will stop feeling.
You start to find yourself doing strange things, crossing the road to avoid a beggar, pretending to be engrossed in the clouds in the sky to avoid catching the eye of a beggar, or developing suspect theories about to whom you should give and then be forced to make evaluations about the worthiness of beggars – he doesn't look that bad or why should I give her anything if she has three kids.
The whole process though leads to a hardening of the heart, you can feel sympathy seeping out of you as you continually say no, and have to walk past people who are struggling to survive. When you are confronted repeatedly by such poverty it is much more difficult to forget about it and pretend it doesn't exist. And yet at the end of each day you feel like your heart is slowly turning to stone as you failed to help so many people to whom what for you is almost nothing to them is another day of life. I fear eventually that I will become so insensitive to it that the heart will stop feeling.
Training to catch a bus (Ethiopia, 13/03/09)
Having found a hotel some fifty or so metres from the bus station the night before, and having been told I would need to be at the gate to the bus station at five am, I stumbled out of the hotel at five on the dot at was soon at the gate of the bus station, a huge empty, open space the size of a couple of football fields, still blanketed in almost complete darkness. I made my way to where the security guard the night before had indicated that the buses to Robe left from and where two buses where parked. As I approached the buses I noticed that there were a number of people milling around, and that further off on the other side of the station there were a collection of other buses and groups of people milling around. There didn't seem to be much going on, so I stood around trying not to fall asleep on my feet. After about ten minutes the blinding lights of an approaching bus illuminated how many people were actually waiting, and as the bus drew nearer everybody started to madly dash about - one group groping at the side of the bus and following it as it manoeuvred in to position, whilst another seemed to be forming some sort of line. By the time the bus came to a stop the two groups had converged - and when the official looking blue lab coat attired bus boy - with the appropriate laminated ID card draped around his neck appeared the crowd fell in to a queue at his direction, about twenty metres away from the bus. Having learnt the lesson long ago that white man can't queue (at least not with Africans) I stood back and watched the action unfold. After a fair amount of jostling the bus boy then started to allow people to get on the bus - but in a way that reminded me of old PLO training videos that I had seen somewhere. The bus boy allowed about ten people at a time to proceed, and in the dim pre-dawn light as the lucky passengers half ran and half scuttled the twenty metres to the bus, the shawls, woolly hats and turbans combined with the bags under their arms that looked like automatic weapons, made it look like a Hamas run training session. When they arrived at the bus door the jam of people slowed things down as people clambered aboard. Once on the bus they rushed back and forth, looking a little like a line of ants, reserving their seats, and stowing their luggage in any place they could find, above or below the seats. This went on until the bus was notionally full - about sixty to seventy people - without really making a dent in the length of the queue. A few locals were standing around with me asking where I was going, one explained that there weren't many buses to Robe, and as the first one was already full people were rushing to get on this one. At that point I decided that if there was a transport shortage then it would be inappropriate to steal a seat from a local, and despite the monumental effort of getting up before five am, I would change my plan and head straight up to Addis. I continued to stand around though pondering whether I had actually made a decision. I then noticed that what I had perceived as a relatively orderly boarding of the bus was anything but - people were not getting on, and more strangely, off the bus with some frequency, destroying any sense of order. After watching a few Johnny-come-latelys insinuate their way on to the bus, my bemusement at the whole process was starting to crack the feeble sense of reality that I was grasping at five thirty in the morning.
Then the bus boy approached me, confirmed that I was going to Robe, said "Come on" and half pulled me towards the bus. He took my bag off me, and then allocated me a seat right down the back of the bus, so everyone already on the bus could stare at me as I walked bus. The strange thing is that there was absolutely no animosity in their faces, despite them having ran, queued and then fought their way on to the bus, they seemed to just accept that the farengi would be allocated a seat as well. Having seen locals arrive after me and still get a seat my guilt waned, when my fellow passengers started welcoming me and talking to me in their broken English, I felt it would now be rude to get off the bus. As the sun began to rise and the first light of the morning lit up the bus station, I noticed that people were still chasing buses and queuing, as we set off on our journey, and I wondered how many of them would make it to where they wanted to go that day.
Then the bus boy approached me, confirmed that I was going to Robe, said "Come on" and half pulled me towards the bus. He took my bag off me, and then allocated me a seat right down the back of the bus, so everyone already on the bus could stare at me as I walked bus. The strange thing is that there was absolutely no animosity in their faces, despite them having ran, queued and then fought their way on to the bus, they seemed to just accept that the farengi would be allocated a seat as well. Having seen locals arrive after me and still get a seat my guilt waned, when my fellow passengers started welcoming me and talking to me in their broken English, I felt it would now be rude to get off the bus. As the sun began to rise and the first light of the morning lit up the bus station, I noticed that people were still chasing buses and queuing, as we set off on our journey, and I wondered how many of them would make it to where they wanted to go that day.
A trip to Ethiopian coffee nirvana
After a largely unsuccessful day of attempted travel; I learnt my lesson that in Ethiopia buses go early in the morning, or not at all, I returned to the small town of Yabelo late in the afternoon, and thought I should treat myself. After asking around I found a place that served up macchiatos; almost everywhere in Ethiopia serves good percolated coffee, but the really good places also dish out macchiatos for ten cents, so good that they would make Italian coffee buffs green with envy.
The café was set back off the street, with a tree shaded courtyard, and three small rooms behind it. I entered inside to find a middle aged woman with a tray of cups and a jika (a small, portable metal fireplace using charcoal) with a coffee pot on the coals. Sitting next to her was her teenage sun, diligently folding toilet paper in to serviettes. Using my newly acquired Amharic, I asked for and was served my frothing macchiato - a short glass, filled with dark coffee in the bottom half, and a top half of milk wafting about on top of the coffee. Coffee originally comes from Ethiopia, and is treated very seriously, even in the dumpiest dives - this cup was superb - the bitter taste of the strong coffee perfectly balanced with the sweetness of a teaspoon or two of sugar and the smoothness of the milk.
Only when I finished the macchiato did things begin to get serious, and the coffee ritual kicked things up a few notches. Mama, the coffee master, had added a series of teaspoons of finely ground coffee and water to the pot and set it on the coals to simmer. Everything was done in a slow and deliberative way, Mama probably having done in thousands of times before. It was late in the afternoon and the dim and dusty room was only lit by a few bright rays of soft golden sunshine streaming in through the doorway; when Mama threw a handful of itan (scented bark) on the fire the room filled with thick, delicious sweet and spicy smelling smoke, drifting across the room, the sunlight reflecting of it. The earthenware pot on the fire was black and shaped like a gourd - bulbous at the bottom, a small, thin spout jutting out at a 45 degree angle, a curving handle joining the bottom and the long, narrow neck, with a thin red cork capping the top.
Whilst the room filled with smoke, and the pot boiled away Mama busied herself preparing the cups, six small squat white porcelain cups that sat in two rows of three on a small serving stand. She poured water in to one, and then from each cup in to the next until the last cup from which the water was tipped out in to a waiting container. She repeated this a few times until she was satisfied that the water coming out of the final cup was clean enough. I was joined by a couple of local guys, one in a hat with the Ethiopian colours in a band, and another older guy carrying some mops and brooms - attracted no doubt by the scent of coffee and itan.
Mama had removed the cork from the pot a few times, and swished the liquid inside about a bit. Once she had cleaned the cups, the pot seemed to have boiled long enough and she removed it and sat it on a large crocheted ring that was sitting next to the cups stand. A younger guy appeared from out of the kitchen with a stand shaped like a large wine glass containing glowing red coals, on to which Mama through some more itan, and the room again filled with smoke. Whilst she was waiting for the coffee to cool, she placed a teaspoon of sugar in to each cup. The pouring part required first a splash of coffee between the cups on the serving board and then Mama poured the thick, black liquid in to each of the cups. The young guy appeared again from the kitchen with a small saucer to put the cup on, and a teaspoon, and then served my the coffee.
With all of the room looking at me as a took my first sip, and the taste was incredible, a thick, smooth taste, layered with alternating bitterness and sweetness from the coffee and sugar. The burnt taste of roasted coffee mixed with the spicy, ginger like taste of the itan. There was literally a party in my mouth and all my taste buds had been invited - and shown up in their Sunday best; the ceremonyalising of the whole process seemed to add that extra layer of delight that was hard to suppress. Four years after discovering the joy of Ethiopian coffee, I had finally reached my coffee heaven. I savoured the moment for a while, etching the taste and the surroundings - particularly the light and the smell, in to my unreliable memory - hoping that one day the mere waft of ground roasted coffee beans would take me back to my Ethiopian coffee nirvana.
And the cost of the fare to get there - a whopping two and a half Bir - twenty five cents !
Post script:
To round out the day, I later returned to the café for dinner and was served an incredibly tasty dish that goes by the name of atkilt - a plate consisting of a mix of spicy beetroot salad, grated carrot salad, steamed veggies, a pesto like sauce made from greens, a biting tomato salad, surrounding a fluffy grain with the consistency of couscous, served with njera, Ethiopian thin, fluffy savoury pancakes and
accompanied with a sugo - a dark, thick, smoky chilli sauce, that set the whole meal on fire.
One day in and I am starting to wonder will I ever leave Ethiopia ?
The café was set back off the street, with a tree shaded courtyard, and three small rooms behind it. I entered inside to find a middle aged woman with a tray of cups and a jika (a small, portable metal fireplace using charcoal) with a coffee pot on the coals. Sitting next to her was her teenage sun, diligently folding toilet paper in to serviettes. Using my newly acquired Amharic, I asked for and was served my frothing macchiato - a short glass, filled with dark coffee in the bottom half, and a top half of milk wafting about on top of the coffee. Coffee originally comes from Ethiopia, and is treated very seriously, even in the dumpiest dives - this cup was superb - the bitter taste of the strong coffee perfectly balanced with the sweetness of a teaspoon or two of sugar and the smoothness of the milk.
Only when I finished the macchiato did things begin to get serious, and the coffee ritual kicked things up a few notches. Mama, the coffee master, had added a series of teaspoons of finely ground coffee and water to the pot and set it on the coals to simmer. Everything was done in a slow and deliberative way, Mama probably having done in thousands of times before. It was late in the afternoon and the dim and dusty room was only lit by a few bright rays of soft golden sunshine streaming in through the doorway; when Mama threw a handful of itan (scented bark) on the fire the room filled with thick, delicious sweet and spicy smelling smoke, drifting across the room, the sunlight reflecting of it. The earthenware pot on the fire was black and shaped like a gourd - bulbous at the bottom, a small, thin spout jutting out at a 45 degree angle, a curving handle joining the bottom and the long, narrow neck, with a thin red cork capping the top.
Whilst the room filled with smoke, and the pot boiled away Mama busied herself preparing the cups, six small squat white porcelain cups that sat in two rows of three on a small serving stand. She poured water in to one, and then from each cup in to the next until the last cup from which the water was tipped out in to a waiting container. She repeated this a few times until she was satisfied that the water coming out of the final cup was clean enough. I was joined by a couple of local guys, one in a hat with the Ethiopian colours in a band, and another older guy carrying some mops and brooms - attracted no doubt by the scent of coffee and itan.
Mama had removed the cork from the pot a few times, and swished the liquid inside about a bit. Once she had cleaned the cups, the pot seemed to have boiled long enough and she removed it and sat it on a large crocheted ring that was sitting next to the cups stand. A younger guy appeared from out of the kitchen with a stand shaped like a large wine glass containing glowing red coals, on to which Mama through some more itan, and the room again filled with smoke. Whilst she was waiting for the coffee to cool, she placed a teaspoon of sugar in to each cup. The pouring part required first a splash of coffee between the cups on the serving board and then Mama poured the thick, black liquid in to each of the cups. The young guy appeared again from the kitchen with a small saucer to put the cup on, and a teaspoon, and then served my the coffee.
With all of the room looking at me as a took my first sip, and the taste was incredible, a thick, smooth taste, layered with alternating bitterness and sweetness from the coffee and sugar. The burnt taste of roasted coffee mixed with the spicy, ginger like taste of the itan. There was literally a party in my mouth and all my taste buds had been invited - and shown up in their Sunday best; the ceremonyalising of the whole process seemed to add that extra layer of delight that was hard to suppress. Four years after discovering the joy of Ethiopian coffee, I had finally reached my coffee heaven. I savoured the moment for a while, etching the taste and the surroundings - particularly the light and the smell, in to my unreliable memory - hoping that one day the mere waft of ground roasted coffee beans would take me back to my Ethiopian coffee nirvana.
And the cost of the fare to get there - a whopping two and a half Bir - twenty five cents !
Post script:
To round out the day, I later returned to the café for dinner and was served an incredibly tasty dish that goes by the name of atkilt - a plate consisting of a mix of spicy beetroot salad, grated carrot salad, steamed veggies, a pesto like sauce made from greens, a biting tomato salad, surrounding a fluffy grain with the consistency of couscous, served with njera, Ethiopian thin, fluffy savoury pancakes and
accompanied with a sugo - a dark, thick, smoky chilli sauce, that set the whole meal on fire.
One day in and I am starting to wonder will I ever leave Ethiopia ?
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