Having become more than familiar with the nightly pest of mosquitos, I've become something of a conoisseur of mosquito netting. My discerning eye goes beyond simply checking for holes or tears, but judges whether the set-up actually provides an impenitrable barrier from all flying guests from the top to the bottom.
A key part of this impenitrability is that the net is hung properly, not draped over a space that may already contain mosquitos, and walking into my Stone Town hotel room on Zanzibar Island, I instantly saw a problem. The lovely four-poster bed had a cube-shaped mosquito net drapped around it reaching down to the floor, but left (for how long???) completely open on one side.
Huh, I thought, looking at the wide-open-and-likely-already-contaminated space inside my bed, it really wouldn't be that big a trick for something - say, a malarial mosquito - to fly in there.
Prophetic words.
10:00 p.m.: I am currently sitting on my four-poster bed, protectively enclosed inside my cavernous mosquito netting. There are at least three mosquitos and one bird in here with me.
Admittedly, the bird currently has the lion's share of my attention.
He's a small brown sparrow, he's very frightened, and I've spent the greater part of an hour this evening trying to catch him or otherwise get him out of any one of the three large wide-open windows in our room, without success.
I actually believed, until about five minutes ago, that I had finally succeeded in this endeavor through a clever plan involving my bed, the curtain, and most of my mosquito net.
I settled down to enjoy my mosquitoy bed for the night.
Then we heard a sudden frantic flapping of wings, and realized he was actually under my bed, inside the floor-length netting. In a twinkling he was flapping and clawing his way up the inside of the netting in a desperate bid for freedom, only to end up in the main [enclosed] part of my bed. He landed finally on part of the bedpost. I've taken his picture but don't really know what else to do. If I leave the netting open for him the mosquitos will come in. It's kind of late, and I'd like to go to bed. I don't really mind him in here, and in fact it's kind of a relief because at least in here he's safe from the whirring ceiling fan above us that has threatened to slice his high-flying feathery body to bits all evening.
10:30 p.m.: After spending the last half hour in calm acceptance that I would be bedding down with a bird, it occurred to me that birds have to eat a lot. And frequently. And that my bird-bedmate might be hungry. If I kept him trapped overnight, how hungry would he be in the morning?
Then I wondered how long he had already been trapped inside our wide-open-window prison of a room.
Then I began to worry whether there was a nest of baby sparrows somewhere, waiting hungrily for him or her, potentially at the brink of starvation (how often do baby birds need to eat??).
I renewed with horrified zeal my trapping efforts.
Armed with a wastebasket, I chased the terrified bird in slow pursuit around the inside of my four-poster-bed-tent. I relied heavily on the same tactics I would use for a spider, though the bird's three-dimensional flight plan definitely increased the challenge involved. Small bird, small flying space, big trash can... it was only a matter of time.
Once safely netted inside the wastebasket with a mosquito-netting lid, I maneuvered the whole thing around the edge of my bed until it was next to the window. The next bit was tricky. Pushing the whole thing physically beyond the windowsill, I gave a quick tug at the netting - swish, and voila- the bird was free to fly.
Which it didn't.
The wastebasket actually seemed to be quite comfortable.
I was not a very accomodating host, however, and rapped the trash can a couple times until it finally flew out the window. SUCCESS!!! I congratulated myself. I AM A CHAMPION OF BIRDERS!!
I then settled back down (a third time) for a good night's sleep.
11:00 p.m.: Not ten minutes after the Great Liberation, I heard a familiar flapping of wings outside. Perhaps offended by the graceless manner in which I booted him outside, my bird has come back. He is currently perched on the windowsill. I think he wants back in here. I kind of want to bang my head against the wall, but frankly.. I'm just going go to sleep. Bonne nuit, birdbrain..
Tuesday, March 31
Monday, March 30
Porky the Pig and [the limits of] the Tailors' Talents
One of the most amazing institutions of quotidian African life has to be the Street Tailor.
This man (or woman) sets himself up by a curb or along one of the myriad alleyways of the town market, perched behind his trusty sewing machine. He might be an accessory to a larger clothing shop, or part of an informal fraternity of tailors all lined up along the same alleyway. He might have a table piled high with spare cloth next to him and more bolts behind to paw through, or simply one cardboard box of mending scraps at his feet. He might be an old man, a young woman, or even an adolescent boy. One quality, however, is invariable: he is good, and he is fast.
Long desiring to add a pocket to my favorite Shari'a-friendly skirt to make it travel-friendly as well, I finally accepted David's urging and visited one of these venerable masters of the cloth in Gedarref, Sudan. The fifteen-minute experience ranks among the most successful errands of my life, and I wear that skirt almost every other day.
It was with no hesitation, therefore, that I sought out the services of the talented tailors in Mombasa when I accidentally ripped my favorite brown pants. (I had perhaps enjoyed Ethiopian fare a bit TOO heartily; my wardrobe has become noticeably tighter. The pants in question were ripped in four places, all in that high-risk derriere area.) No matter though; a few Kenyan shillings and a quick patch put them back together again.
... Until four days and one country later when, in an Arusha hotel room, I abruptly fell on my rear. It seems not even the best efforts of Africa's seamstresses could stave off forever the consequences of indulging one too many times in chickpea-butter shiro, and the loud rip that trumpeted from the seat of my pants rendered explanation to David entirely unnecessarily. (Though he did inquire as to how I had so suddenly come to be sitting on the floor). The nickname "Kenya-kimbo" revealed itself to me as possessing new relevance for my present state, and by the time I finished laughing, I had already resolved upon the only rational course of action. From my ignoble sprawl on the floor, still chortling, I declared to David,
"Looks like Porker needs to lose some weight!"
This man (or woman) sets himself up by a curb or along one of the myriad alleyways of the town market, perched behind his trusty sewing machine. He might be an accessory to a larger clothing shop, or part of an informal fraternity of tailors all lined up along the same alleyway. He might have a table piled high with spare cloth next to him and more bolts behind to paw through, or simply one cardboard box of mending scraps at his feet. He might be an old man, a young woman, or even an adolescent boy. One quality, however, is invariable: he is good, and he is fast.
Long desiring to add a pocket to my favorite Shari'a-friendly skirt to make it travel-friendly as well, I finally accepted David's urging and visited one of these venerable masters of the cloth in Gedarref, Sudan. The fifteen-minute experience ranks among the most successful errands of my life, and I wear that skirt almost every other day.
It was with no hesitation, therefore, that I sought out the services of the talented tailors in Mombasa when I accidentally ripped my favorite brown pants. (I had perhaps enjoyed Ethiopian fare a bit TOO heartily; my wardrobe has become noticeably tighter. The pants in question were ripped in four places, all in that high-risk derriere area.) No matter though; a few Kenyan shillings and a quick patch put them back together again.
... Until four days and one country later when, in an Arusha hotel room, I abruptly fell on my rear. It seems not even the best efforts of Africa's seamstresses could stave off forever the consequences of indulging one too many times in chickpea-butter shiro, and the loud rip that trumpeted from the seat of my pants rendered explanation to David entirely unnecessarily. (Though he did inquire as to how I had so suddenly come to be sitting on the floor). The nickname "Kenya-kimbo" revealed itself to me as possessing new relevance for my present state, and by the time I finished laughing, I had already resolved upon the only rational course of action. From my ignoble sprawl on the floor, still chortling, I declared to David,
"Looks like Porker needs to lose some weight!"
Sunday, March 29
Tanzania
Coming into the Swahili coast, the first thing you notice is the change in air. The ocean humidity, which by midday would have both David and I wringing enough sweat out of our handkerchiefs to plant an orchid in the desert, was at 10 p.m. just as soft as a velvet blanket caressing your skin. We drove through the still-lit industrial section of Mombasa, factories lining water that looked in the dark like black frosted glass.
The calm, frozen cityscape came to life the next day with all the vigour of a typical tourist town, but marked by that confluence of cultures that I came to recognize as characteristic of the Swahili coast. Indian restaurants competing with Chinese joints; the latest Bollywood tunes blasting alongside African pop; niqab'ed women sharing the streets with half-naked tourists. To what extent the mix represents a blend or a clash I leave to sociologists and others more fit to analyze, but I would safely admit I have my own suspicions about certain areas - namely Zanzibar Island off the coast of Tanzania. Though the predominantly Muslim (they claim 96%) island's fortunes are heavily tied to the industry of attracting and pleasing tourists, the acceptance of local authority does not extend much beyond this economic aspect. I will feel no surprise if something very big goes down on Zanzibar in the next ten years.
The rest of the coast, while exhibiting less startling discrepancies, is nonetheless definitively cosmopolitan. For David, this worldly "outward-looking" quality sets the Swahili coast apart from other African cultures, which sometimes seem interested in just one type of food, just one genre of music, just one lifestyle.
For me, the cultural blend is exemplified by the northern coast city of Tanga, where I donned a shirt and shorts before tentatively wading into the Indian Ocean waters along the male-dominated beach. My fears of immodesty were incontrovertibly proven invalid within the hour, however, with the arrival of two young local women old enough to know exactly what they were doing who chose to do their flirting, splashing and general co-ed water cavorting wearing much less than I. (One of them was topless.) The beach experience was followed with the best
lassi I have ever tasted, and we finished off the night outside the hotel room, watching lighted fishing boats floating on the dark waters.
It's a strange mix, but one that is wholeheartedly enjoyable. (And not because of the topless beach. But heterosexual males are of course free to disagree..)
Friday, March 27
JAMBO and Goodbye
What a wonderful country to relax in...! Kenya feels somehow more Western, and even American, than any other African country I’ve been to – even the francophone Djibouti, which feels European at times but never American. In Kenya, it’s almost like being back in the States. Cars are everywhere, as are the resulting traffic jams; signs are in English as often as they are anything else; women stride past on the sidewalks in tank tops and big sunglasses, clutching purses that could have come from Target. The monopoly on sports jerseys that soccer and Man-United enjoy just about everywhere else is smashed here by the Lakers and the Red Sox. Even the sheep actually look just like American sheep, big white fluffy things with normal short tails! I've also seen my first frighteningly overweight locals, though perhaps it doesn't do my country well to add that to the list of similarities between this country and my own. But at times I almost forgot I was in Africa at all and felt like I was right back home!
(It probably doesn’t help that pictures of the American president are just about everywhere – even more ubiquitous in shops and hotels than the, ahem, “encouraged” official photos of Kenya’s own “Beloved President Kibaki.”)
My impression is probably also unfairly colored by the fact that I’ve spent the past couple months in countries with much less of an American cultural imprint; what I notice here is not the goat wandering along the crumbling curb but the fact that he’s right next to a parked Ford (!!!).
People: VERY friendly
Kenyans are a delight to meet, a delight to talk to, and generally just delightful. They joke easily and lightheartedly, but will treat with gravity the more serious questions you ask them about their government, the political situation, or the low tourist inflow.
Going to America is a fairly popular theme among those I spoke with, and I got my fair share of romatic green-card bids. Artificial inflation to my ego aside, the male attention has at a couple points become a little inconvenient/ uncomfortable, so I have decided to truncate my singlehood indefinitely for the remainder of the trip. I have invented a delightful, charming, and attentive boyfriend to whom I am incontrovertibly faithful. I'm taking suggestions for what to call him. Wally? Niels? I've always kind of liked the name Freidrich.
Food: Swahili-Western
I didn’t notice as much of an insulated, separate diet here as I have in previous countries; eating Western food seems to be fairly common, joined with a diet of Swahili food common to the several countries along the eastern coast. A staple of this involves either ugali or fufu, a white substance made from maize (I think), rolled into balls and dipped into delicious sauces. Influence of Southeast Asian cooking is also felt, especially along the coast with curry and rice dishes.
There is a certain culinary culture around the consumption of nyama choma, cheap roasted meat that is standard fare for good hole-in-the-wall’s or street food. There is also a return to fried
breads, with chapatti – a fried pancake, samosas, tandoor – thin flat fried bread, and doughnuts/ beignets. Nothing like the Somalian breakfast crêpe, though.
Worst thing eaten: With the texture of dry chicken, softness of leather and flavour of old fish, I now understand why crocodiles are farmed for their skin and not their flesh.
Best thing eaten: At the same restaurant that served croc, I had an absolutely delicious and delicately spiced slice of – and I hate to say it – lamb.
New Hygienic Lows:
My general day-to-day state is now regularly defined by a filthiness which, if permitted to develop to much greater complexity, could legitimately be said to be award-winning.
Thankfully, however, I have the impression that I have plateaued.
At least I hope so.
Government-directed memos I’d like to write:
To the Kenyan Roads Authority: A Friendly Suggestion
PERHAPS it would be a better use of your limited resources and time to either build or fix any of the major thoroughfares connecting the largest cities of the nation, instead of pouring both in generous abundance into the conscientious construction of triple-set speedbumps on those precious few highways on which you could actually consider going over 50 kmph.
Sincerely
A Bruised Bus Passenger
New Words Learned: I’m likely going to have to combine this section with Tanzania, but for now I’ll admit that a week in Swahili-speaking territory has not produced much in the way of Kenyan fluency. So many people speak English, I have thus far just slipped through that colonial loophole, and got by with an enthusiastic JAMBO!!!
A few others worth knowing: Karibu - welcome, Ahsante - thanks, and, if you’re me, ekisuu (Borana)/ chekitha (Akambo)/ sesefu (Central Swahili) /kwi-kwi (Southern Swahili). They all mean the same thing. A prize to whomever can guess what.
Telling Phrases: I am privy to one of those singular moments made memorable by their rarity in which Disney actually got something right. It’s true. Everyone here actually does say “Hakuna matata.” (It means – sing it with me now – No worries…)
Classic quote: David and I briefly split forces in coastal Mombasa to do various errands, meaning that I ended up wandering the old tourist-shop-lined alleyways around Fort Jesus – yes, you read that right, Fort Jesus... praise God! and pass my gun.. - on my own. Hakuna matata though, cos all the (male) shopkeepers were very chipper and welcoming. I had nothing to buy, but enjoyed wandering around the shop of three friendly dudes, until I suddenly saw this amazing little trinket that I loved. The senior shopkeeper, in pricing it, told me he would give me a lower price since I was "Kenya-kimbo", using the slang term for foreigners who live in Kenya for a long time. Confused, I asked for its English translation; the men consulted in Swahili a moment before the youngest confided to me with the air of one giving me a huge compliment, "Kimbo means cooking fat!"
My shocked face set off the other two into fits of laughter, as the speaker flustered to explain something about living in Kenya and thus consuming Kenyan cooking fat. I didn't even bother to listen, and laughed along with the others. I am a walking portrait of Kenyan cooking fat! Awesome.
Worst Experience: As David has more than once noticed, I tend to have very vivid and convincing dreams. I have occasionally even allowed their false reality to blend in illogical ways with the reality of wandering around Africa, which frankly isn't always all that different. The morning after having a very strange dream in which I was inexplicably pregnant and even more inexplicably happy about it, David and I boarded a bus that proceeded to jolt us out of our senses for the next four hours. The repeated blows to my stomach soon caused an excruciating abdominal pain, giving rise to the most horrifyingly hideous feeling that I was having an immaculate miscarriage. I felt like a murderer.
Jokes about my unlikely candidacy for the next immaculate conception aside -- pregnant women reading this: please do not take local transport in Africa.
Best Experience: Our fantastic safari in Ethiopia's rift valley wasn't enough for us, so we embarked on another short jaunt through Nakuru National Park in central Kenya for some lovely rhinoceros, antelope, giraffe, zebra, and water buffalo sightings. We were sure we'd be too late to see the hippos, though, so it was with great excitement we chanced upon one lying right by the road in a shallow creek. Our clever driver idled our tiny sedan up close and we left all the doors open to allow for a speedy retreat should the hippo notice us. We then commenced the extremely dangerous and stupid endeavor of sneaking right up to where it was so I could take a picture. I got some seriously awesome pictures of its cranky little face before a French family with at least four kids showed up a bit down the road. Wanting to share our good fortune, we waved to them, indicating extreme silence with hand motions, and eagerly beckoned them over. Comprehending instantly, they began to tip-toe their way over to where we were until there were something like ten of us creeping about within about three meters of this thousand-something-pound hippo and getting closer all the time.
Of course the inevitable happened.
The hippo noticed us, and charged out of the water with a violence remarkable for an animal with such girth. The ten of us fled for our lives back towards the sedan, independently blessing the driver for leaving the doors open. I briefly panicked about whether we could fit everyone in the car. Mostly, however, I was more preoccupied with this painful moment of truth, in which I was forced to choose - in a split second, no less! - between several extremely attractive courses of action: taking advantage of such a unique opportunity to get a close-up photo of a charging hippo - !!! - or, because I am not without a bit of a cruel sense of humour, photographing instead the hilarious scene created by the scattering troupe of spectators - French people running in every direction - the ten-year-old halfway out of the park before she slowed down enough to look back.
In the end I defaulted on both magnificent photographic opportunities, and chose instead the third option: to flee with the others and save my life. But DANG, either of those photos woulda been amazing...
Could I live here? Easily. Laidback, friendly and fun, Kenyans are the kind of people you want to surround yourself with all the time. As far as living abroad goes, though, it wouldn’t be much of a challenge, and the marriage-proposal-based bids at American citizenship would probably get old. Friedrich and I would probably have to get married.
(It probably doesn’t help that pictures of the American president are just about everywhere – even more ubiquitous in shops and hotels than the, ahem, “encouraged” official photos of Kenya’s own “Beloved President Kibaki.”)
My impression is probably also unfairly colored by the fact that I’ve spent the past couple months in countries with much less of an American cultural imprint; what I notice here is not the goat wandering along the crumbling curb but the fact that he’s right next to a parked Ford (!!!).
People: VERY friendly
Kenyans are a delight to meet, a delight to talk to, and generally just delightful. They joke easily and lightheartedly, but will treat with gravity the more serious questions you ask them about their government, the political situation, or the low tourist inflow.
Going to America is a fairly popular theme among those I spoke with, and I got my fair share of romatic green-card bids. Artificial inflation to my ego aside, the male attention has at a couple points become a little inconvenient/ uncomfortable, so I have decided to truncate my singlehood indefinitely for the remainder of the trip. I have invented a delightful, charming, and attentive boyfriend to whom I am incontrovertibly faithful. I'm taking suggestions for what to call him. Wally? Niels? I've always kind of liked the name Freidrich.
Food: Swahili-Western
I didn’t notice as much of an insulated, separate diet here as I have in previous countries; eating Western food seems to be fairly common, joined with a diet of Swahili food common to the several countries along the eastern coast. A staple of this involves either ugali or fufu, a white substance made from maize (I think), rolled into balls and dipped into delicious sauces. Influence of Southeast Asian cooking is also felt, especially along the coast with curry and rice dishes.
There is a certain culinary culture around the consumption of nyama choma, cheap roasted meat that is standard fare for good hole-in-the-wall’s or street food. There is also a return to fried
breads, with chapatti – a fried pancake, samosas, tandoor – thin flat fried bread, and doughnuts/ beignets. Nothing like the Somalian breakfast crêpe, though.
Worst thing eaten: With the texture of dry chicken, softness of leather and flavour of old fish, I now understand why crocodiles are farmed for their skin and not their flesh.
Best thing eaten: At the same restaurant that served croc, I had an absolutely delicious and delicately spiced slice of – and I hate to say it – lamb.
New Hygienic Lows:
My general day-to-day state is now regularly defined by a filthiness which, if permitted to develop to much greater complexity, could legitimately be said to be award-winning.
Thankfully, however, I have the impression that I have plateaued.
At least I hope so.
Government-directed memos I’d like to write:
To the Kenyan Roads Authority: A Friendly Suggestion
PERHAPS it would be a better use of your limited resources and time to either build or fix any of the major thoroughfares connecting the largest cities of the nation, instead of pouring both in generous abundance into the conscientious construction of triple-set speedbumps on those precious few highways on which you could actually consider going over 50 kmph.
Sincerely
A Bruised Bus Passenger
New Words Learned: I’m likely going to have to combine this section with Tanzania, but for now I’ll admit that a week in Swahili-speaking territory has not produced much in the way of Kenyan fluency. So many people speak English, I have thus far just slipped through that colonial loophole, and got by with an enthusiastic JAMBO!!!
A few others worth knowing: Karibu - welcome, Ahsante - thanks, and, if you’re me, ekisuu (Borana)/ chekitha (Akambo)/ sesefu (Central Swahili) /kwi-kwi (Southern Swahili). They all mean the same thing. A prize to whomever can guess what.
Telling Phrases: I am privy to one of those singular moments made memorable by their rarity in which Disney actually got something right. It’s true. Everyone here actually does say “Hakuna matata.” (It means – sing it with me now – No worries…)
Classic quote: David and I briefly split forces in coastal Mombasa to do various errands, meaning that I ended up wandering the old tourist-shop-lined alleyways around Fort Jesus – yes, you read that right, Fort Jesus... praise God! and pass my gun.. - on my own. Hakuna matata though, cos all the (male) shopkeepers were very chipper and welcoming. I had nothing to buy, but enjoyed wandering around the shop of three friendly dudes, until I suddenly saw this amazing little trinket that I loved. The senior shopkeeper, in pricing it, told me he would give me a lower price since I was "Kenya-kimbo", using the slang term for foreigners who live in Kenya for a long time. Confused, I asked for its English translation; the men consulted in Swahili a moment before the youngest confided to me with the air of one giving me a huge compliment, "Kimbo means cooking fat!"
My shocked face set off the other two into fits of laughter, as the speaker flustered to explain something about living in Kenya and thus consuming Kenyan cooking fat. I didn't even bother to listen, and laughed along with the others. I am a walking portrait of Kenyan cooking fat! Awesome.
Worst Experience: As David has more than once noticed, I tend to have very vivid and convincing dreams. I have occasionally even allowed their false reality to blend in illogical ways with the reality of wandering around Africa, which frankly isn't always all that different. The morning after having a very strange dream in which I was inexplicably pregnant and even more inexplicably happy about it, David and I boarded a bus that proceeded to jolt us out of our senses for the next four hours. The repeated blows to my stomach soon caused an excruciating abdominal pain, giving rise to the most horrifyingly hideous feeling that I was having an immaculate miscarriage. I felt like a murderer.
Jokes about my unlikely candidacy for the next immaculate conception aside -- pregnant women reading this: please do not take local transport in Africa.
Best Experience: Our fantastic safari in Ethiopia's rift valley wasn't enough for us, so we embarked on another short jaunt through Nakuru National Park in central Kenya for some lovely rhinoceros, antelope, giraffe, zebra, and water buffalo sightings. We were sure we'd be too late to see the hippos, though, so it was with great excitement we chanced upon one lying right by the road in a shallow creek. Our clever driver idled our tiny sedan up close and we left all the doors open to allow for a speedy retreat should the hippo notice us. We then commenced the extremely dangerous and stupid endeavor of sneaking right up to where it was so I could take a picture. I got some seriously awesome pictures of its cranky little face before a French family with at least four kids showed up a bit down the road. Wanting to share our good fortune, we waved to them, indicating extreme silence with hand motions, and eagerly beckoned them over. Comprehending instantly, they began to tip-toe their way over to where we were until there were something like ten of us creeping about within about three meters of this thousand-something-pound hippo and getting closer all the time.
Of course the inevitable happened.
The hippo noticed us, and charged out of the water with a violence remarkable for an animal with such girth. The ten of us fled for our lives back towards the sedan, independently blessing the driver for leaving the doors open. I briefly panicked about whether we could fit everyone in the car. Mostly, however, I was more preoccupied with this painful moment of truth, in which I was forced to choose - in a split second, no less! - between several extremely attractive courses of action: taking advantage of such a unique opportunity to get a close-up photo of a charging hippo - !!! - or, because I am not without a bit of a cruel sense of humour, photographing instead the hilarious scene created by the scattering troupe of spectators - French people running in every direction - the ten-year-old halfway out of the park before she slowed down enough to look back.
In the end I defaulted on both magnificent photographic opportunities, and chose instead the third option: to flee with the others and save my life. But DANG, either of those photos woulda been amazing...
Could I live here? Easily. Laidback, friendly and fun, Kenyans are the kind of people you want to surround yourself with all the time. As far as living abroad goes, though, it wouldn’t be much of a challenge, and the marriage-proposal-based bids at American citizenship would probably get old. Friedrich and I would probably have to get married.
Wednesday, March 25
Feelin' HOT
I am continually amazed by the young, handsome, and otherwise pleasant young men here who hit on me in my current state.This ain't modesty on my part.
Anyone who's read certain of my former blog posts should be equally amazed. I am a walking wreck from my matted, two-toned hair down to my repulsive feet. I accept and, dare I say, even embrace this current state as a temporary and highly informative dive into the depths of hygienic sin, but it does leave me with a certain amount of vague confusion when a gent makes a pass at me. Really, a flat incomprehension at their interest. Sir, are you aware that I smell? I only just manage to stop myself from blurting this question out in all seriousness. Are your olfactory senses even passably functional?
In Kenya, a lot of this has likely grown out of national friendliness, and an especially high interest just now in the United States of Obama (as Kenyans would have it). This I understand and accept. I may look like a walking fast-lane to Green-Card Heaven. But even allowing for that, how do I explain the eager young man who told me exactly how many cows he's going to give my father for me, and who (when I raised the potentially problematic issue of cattle transport to the United States) insisted that we would stay in Kenya and tend these cows together??
I have thought a great deal about this mystery (I am blessed with an abundance of free time inside buses), and can only find two possible explanations; first, that African men are simply curious about what it'd be like to date/etc a foreigner, and are willing to make a pass at any opportunity that comes along (no matter how otherwise unappealing). Perhaps, however, this theory does not give enough credit to the discerning dating tastes of the average African male (for which I admit I have little respect). Thus my second theory, based on the fact that the locals think I'm a walking cash cow. In asking me out, these chaps are perhaps in the market for a sugar momma, or at least a good time at whatever posh hotel they think I'll be staying at. (They think. HAR HAR HAR. )
Either way, I'm willing to bet that, unlike in my own country, it is not my hair, face, or the shape of my rump that has attracted their attention, but my dirty, dusty, sunburned, bug-bitten but still appreciably pale skin that is responsible.
Of course, it is also possible that my courters actually can't smell me, and not for any fault of their nose - just that my own stench isn't (yet) strong enough to be detected over their own overpowering cologne. In a competitive stink-a-thon, some of these fellas might actually beat me for discernible scent radius - but of course they wouldn't even come close for complexity of flavor.
(It's nice to be first in something.)
Sunday, March 22
The Altruistic Sniper
For the my entire life, I have suffered from what I insist is just an instinctive, healthy fear of mosquitoes.
Others have occasionally scolded me for this, suggesting that the panic I feel upon discovery of a mosquito in my premises, and my successive frantic failed efforts to permanently eliminate it from existence, represent an irrational and excessive reaction. They present as evidence the opinion that one little mosquito bite isn't so bad, and it might not even bite you anyway. It's not going to kill you or anything, they say.
The fools.
Here in Africa, where mosquitoes actually can kill me, I have funneled my lifelong fear into a calculating and coldly effective agenda of mosquito extermination, sniper-style. And to PETA and other well-intentioned righteous lunatics at large, I maintain that this is self-defense, pure and simple: the mosquitoes are bloodthirsty predators, and I refuse to be prey.
In fact, I would take it a step farther, and enjoin all humankind to stand by me in what could become a global crusade against the flying evil. Think about it. They prey on all of us, yet hardly anything eats them. They spawn in the thousands, yet we're the only species on Earth that can kill them. Basically, it's up to us humans - we have a responsiblity to the rest of the planet - to control the dangerous and burgeoning population of these harbingers of doom, disease, and destruction. Eschew barriers of race, class, and sexual orientation, for mosquitoes are a pest to all!
This endeavor has made me realize I could have been quite a good sniper. I have the dedication, the patience, the concentration and occasionally the reflexes necessary for a personalized kill. I have perfected my choice of weapons, and refined my battle techniques. And in the interest of promoting mosquito extermination efforts worldwide, I will lay out all my secrets here in infinite detail for those brave enough to take up the task.
First, I arm myself with a damp, medium-sized towel. Face towel-size will do, or a small bath towel. The dampness is key, as it increases weight and therefore whipping speed, not to mention manageability. Plus, there's an added sticky factor that helps prevent their wily escape upon contact.
Second, don't forget your armor. Even if you do manage to kill them all, it would be sheer foolishness to go into battle with excessive amounts of exposed skin - unless you plan to use your own body as bait. (A valid technique, but unfortunately not one I'm terribly fond of. I just end up slapping the shit out of myself.)
The next challenge is to harden your nerves against that old panic-inducing whine that indicates you are within striking range of an as-yet-unlocated attacker. I have learned to use this same sound - infamous as psychological warfare - against my foes. In a room of total silence, even a distant mosquito will betray its movements with that terribly faint but - to the vigilant ear - just perceptible high-pitched hum.
Finally, the waiting. This is difficult, but represents the single most important step in the process, as it allows you to catch the mosquito at the only vulnerable point of its cursed life - when it's resting on something pale or white. To facilitate this situation, try removing or consolidating other furniture/ posessions to maximize white surface space in the room, and then memorize any random dark marks on the walls or ceiling. Also recognize and become familiar with treacherously soft surfaces in the room - drapes are the worst - and try to get them out of the way. Killing a mosquito on those things is almost impossible, even for the talented.
You're ready. Get your towel. Don your armor. Listen for the hum. Track the invader and wait until it lands, and then SMACK! whip that thing against the wall. It will be large enough that the required hand-eye coordination is minimal, and fast enough that even as it flies up to flee with its miserable life and bite you mercilessly while you sleep, it will be caught in the impending folds of the towel. These techniques are battle-tested; you can trust me.
My dedication and rigorous training led inevitably to what became an ultimate battle between the forces of good and evil in my hotel room one night. Armed with my trusty, slightly damp towel, I stalked a horde of assailants around a 12 square meter room for an hour and a half, resting only to flick the bodies off my towel and into the toilet. By the end, 22 of Satan's soldiers lay slain about the room. The white-tiled bathroom was the scene of a massacre, where the bodies lay in piles. Tired, scarred, but victorious, I hung up my weaponry and armor and crawled into my snug BugBivy3000, zipping myself safe from midnight retribution.
It was a good night.
Others have occasionally scolded me for this, suggesting that the panic I feel upon discovery of a mosquito in my premises, and my successive frantic failed efforts to permanently eliminate it from existence, represent an irrational and excessive reaction. They present as evidence the opinion that one little mosquito bite isn't so bad, and it might not even bite you anyway. It's not going to kill you or anything, they say.
The fools.
Here in Africa, where mosquitoes actually can kill me, I have funneled my lifelong fear into a calculating and coldly effective agenda of mosquito extermination, sniper-style. And to PETA and other well-intentioned righteous lunatics at large, I maintain that this is self-defense, pure and simple: the mosquitoes are bloodthirsty predators, and I refuse to be prey.
In fact, I would take it a step farther, and enjoin all humankind to stand by me in what could become a global crusade against the flying evil. Think about it. They prey on all of us, yet hardly anything eats them. They spawn in the thousands, yet we're the only species on Earth that can kill them. Basically, it's up to us humans - we have a responsiblity to the rest of the planet - to control the dangerous and burgeoning population of these harbingers of doom, disease, and destruction. Eschew barriers of race, class, and sexual orientation, for mosquitoes are a pest to all!
This endeavor has made me realize I could have been quite a good sniper. I have the dedication, the patience, the concentration and occasionally the reflexes necessary for a personalized kill. I have perfected my choice of weapons, and refined my battle techniques. And in the interest of promoting mosquito extermination efforts worldwide, I will lay out all my secrets here in infinite detail for those brave enough to take up the task.
First, I arm myself with a damp, medium-sized towel. Face towel-size will do, or a small bath towel. The dampness is key, as it increases weight and therefore whipping speed, not to mention manageability. Plus, there's an added sticky factor that helps prevent their wily escape upon contact.
Second, don't forget your armor. Even if you do manage to kill them all, it would be sheer foolishness to go into battle with excessive amounts of exposed skin - unless you plan to use your own body as bait. (A valid technique, but unfortunately not one I'm terribly fond of. I just end up slapping the shit out of myself.)
The next challenge is to harden your nerves against that old panic-inducing whine that indicates you are within striking range of an as-yet-unlocated attacker. I have learned to use this same sound - infamous as psychological warfare - against my foes. In a room of total silence, even a distant mosquito will betray its movements with that terribly faint but - to the vigilant ear - just perceptible high-pitched hum.
Finally, the waiting. This is difficult, but represents the single most important step in the process, as it allows you to catch the mosquito at the only vulnerable point of its cursed life - when it's resting on something pale or white. To facilitate this situation, try removing or consolidating other furniture/ posessions to maximize white surface space in the room, and then memorize any random dark marks on the walls or ceiling. Also recognize and become familiar with treacherously soft surfaces in the room - drapes are the worst - and try to get them out of the way. Killing a mosquito on those things is almost impossible, even for the talented.
You're ready. Get your towel. Don your armor. Listen for the hum. Track the invader and wait until it lands, and then SMACK! whip that thing against the wall. It will be large enough that the required hand-eye coordination is minimal, and fast enough that even as it flies up to flee with its miserable life and bite you mercilessly while you sleep, it will be caught in the impending folds of the towel. These techniques are battle-tested; you can trust me.
My dedication and rigorous training led inevitably to what became an ultimate battle between the forces of good and evil in my hotel room one night. Armed with my trusty, slightly damp towel, I stalked a horde of assailants around a 12 square meter room for an hour and a half, resting only to flick the bodies off my towel and into the toilet. By the end, 22 of Satan's soldiers lay slain about the room. The white-tiled bathroom was the scene of a massacre, where the bodies lay in piles. Tired, scarred, but victorious, I hung up my weaponry and armor and crawled into my snug BugBivy3000, zipping myself safe from midnight retribution.
It was a good night.
Thursday, March 19
The Smile of Africa
Once upon a time, I heard this corny promotion for some African nation's tourism industry. Near as I can tell, the televised ad went something along the lines of: "[Our Country's Name]... The Smile of Africa!"
Well, within fifteen minutes of traversing the gate separating the Ethiopian half of Moyale from the Kenyan half, I remembered that silly ad and thought to myself: That's gotta be Kenya.
Corny, but true. I defy anyone to come here, look about themselves for a minute or two, and tell me I'm wrong. Am I in Texas or something?? Everyone's smiling at me when we make eye contact.. for no reason.. and after Ethiopia, it's bizarre.
The wave of smiles washed over David and I like impossibly warm sunlight in winter, and we stumbled about in its rays, eyes blinking furiously, unable to properly interpret our surroundings.
For me, this confusion manifested itself in an unfortunate (and, I hope my friends will admit, uncharacteristic) rudeness to the first friendly Kenyans who fell in step with us to ask jovially, "Hey, how are ya! where ya from?" Still in Ethiopian mode, I greeted their welcoming smiles with cold suspicion and curt, one-word responses, waiting for the student sob story or the demand for a guiding fee, abruptly startled when they easily gave up interest at the obvious lack of mine. In Ethiopia, such sudden "new friends" would follow you for blocks, never letting go until fully persuaded that you weren't going to give them money, no matter how creative their rationale. (Or a pen.)
Not so here, and alarmed at how easily I terminated my first few encounters, I began to tentatively meet the gaze of some of these "friendly strangers". Could it be..? Sure enough, curious and amiable expressions met my eye, and excited welcomes met my responses. I think I'm going to like it here.
Tourism industry nothing- they're just broadcasting the national attitude! Kenya... The Smile of Africa.
Well, within fifteen minutes of traversing the gate separating the Ethiopian half of Moyale from the Kenyan half, I remembered that silly ad and thought to myself: That's gotta be Kenya.
Corny, but true. I defy anyone to come here, look about themselves for a minute or two, and tell me I'm wrong. Am I in Texas or something?? Everyone's smiling at me when we make eye contact.. for no reason.. and after Ethiopia, it's bizarre.
The wave of smiles washed over David and I like impossibly warm sunlight in winter, and we stumbled about in its rays, eyes blinking furiously, unable to properly interpret our surroundings.
For me, this confusion manifested itself in an unfortunate (and, I hope my friends will admit, uncharacteristic) rudeness to the first friendly Kenyans who fell in step with us to ask jovially, "Hey, how are ya! where ya from?" Still in Ethiopian mode, I greeted their welcoming smiles with cold suspicion and curt, one-word responses, waiting for the student sob story or the demand for a guiding fee, abruptly startled when they easily gave up interest at the obvious lack of mine. In Ethiopia, such sudden "new friends" would follow you for blocks, never letting go until fully persuaded that you weren't going to give them money, no matter how creative their rationale. (Or a pen.)
Not so here, and alarmed at how easily I terminated my first few encounters, I began to tentatively meet the gaze of some of these "friendly strangers". Could it be..? Sure enough, curious and amiable expressions met my eye, and excited welcomes met my responses. I think I'm going to like it here.
Tourism industry nothing- they're just broadcasting the national attitude! Kenya... The Smile of Africa.
Wednesday, March 18
THERE IS ONE PAVED ROAD OUT OF ETHIOPIA...
... and David and I took it with relish.
(I feel comfortable making this statement given that I have now crossed through all of the open borders in the country, and none of them without bruises on my butt and dust up my nose.)
Satisfaction in the smooth exit aside, I have really enjoyed Ethiopia, and summarizing all the various experiences I've had over the four weeks we've spent here is not an easy task. But I will try..
Ethiopian Money:
Minted in paper denominations of 1 Birr (USD $0.09), 5 Birr (blue), 10 (maroony brown), 50 (pale orange), and the lovely 100 Birr (jungle green). In general the bills are in far better shape than those of the Sudan, though the 1 Birr bills are usually of a hue closer to black than to their original white. (Acquisition of a brand new 1-Birr bill is actually the only way I learned what color they originally are.)
The coins, on the other hand, are often quite brilliantly shiny new. There is a large silver coin (0.50 Birr), a small silver coin (0.25), a large gold (0.10) and a small gold (0.05). I spent about two and a half weeks hunting for the theoretically necessary 0.01-Birr coin, but eventually gave up after repeated restaurant bill-roundings to the nearest 0.05. I despaired of ever finding this coin, which would be worth less than one-tenth of an American cent, until the magical day when David presented me with a whole fistful of them. They look and feel just like the one-yen coins we used to have as bingo chips in class (it was cheaper), and are worth almost as much.
I must say, I'm relatively impressed with the state of the money - the bills are newish and, other than the 1-Birr, mostly intact, and the coins are in great shape. In lieu of my own theories on why Sudanese money was in such poor shape, David has postulated that it reflects the confidence of the populace in their government. To him, it indicates simply that banks- the authority by which unacceptable money is filtered out of circulation- do not enjoy full patronage among the populace.
I suppose he's probably right.
People:
After the Sudan, the first thing I noticed about Ethiopia is that there are simply a heck of a lot more women around. It's probably only a normal amount, but it was an amazing sight after the pseudo-Sharia states of the Sudan.
The second thing I noticed (also a contrast) was their hair. Beautifully styled in dozens of ways, braided, straightened, curled, beaded, half-veiled, or plaited along the scalp, it's absolutely stunning to look at. (And the way the women carry themselves, you can tell they know it too.)
This is another part of the national psyche that I respect and admire: Ethiopians do tend to have a noticeable pride in themselves, their ethnic identity, and their homeland (though they might not always identify this last as Ethiopia). And they have a lot to be proud of; no matter where you go within these borders, their country is stunning, historically rich, and fascinatingly diverse.
Other than that.. I will be honest. It's hard for me to fairly assess the Ethiopian character, since the national attitude towards foreigners (faranji) is disdainful, openly mocking, or opportunistic. There were of course cases of Ethiopians who were friendly and kind, and who treated us with respect (especially in Tigray or the ethnically Somalian regions), but we always felt lucky to find them. Sadly, such people were soon made harder to find by the defensive attitude both David and I adopted to protect ourselves: suspicion by default of anyone who approached us, bordering on downright hostility if they proved to be tenacious accompaniment. Many well-meaning, curious, but shy Ethiopians could have been put off by that. And so our international understanding deteriorates with each new foreigner instead of improving, as foreigners carry away stories of being mobbed and scammed, and locals hold memories of tourist coldness and hostility. It's not an easy problem to solve, but I think re-assessing the way we think about NGOs and the implementation of foreign aid could be one place to start.
It's like a tight spiral staircase, international charity is.. a theoretically beautiful concept, and one I support whole-hearedly, but one that is not without serious implementation challenges. And if you're not careful in how you construct it, it's going to end up hurting the very people it's meant to serve.
Best Scam: So many of our early-morning bus-rides end up with us waiting to depart in a poorly-lit gravel parking lot with a beautiful blanket of stars overhead. I have always loved stargazing, and never miss a chance to stand around like an idiot, head back and mouth open, staring up, to piece together the few shapes I know in the sky.
Doing this in Shashamene, I ignored my usual orbiting contingent of hopeful scam artists, until one demanded my attention with a highly creative ploy: noticing my gaze, he pointed at the sky and then at me and brusquely declared, "NO BUSINESS!" He then stuck out his hand and intimated in the worst of English that as a foreigner, I owed him payment for enjoying so fully 'his' night sky.
I can't actually call this a "worst experience" 'cos it frankly made me laugh my pants off.. which I shamelessly (though not literally) did right in the face of the enterprising star-businessman. And David did, too, when I told him.
Best Experience: In rural Wukro, we met Bereket, a guy employed by the awesome Tigray Tourism Commission to lead us up into the rock mountains of the countryside, ascending to the area's famous centuries-old, rock-hewn churches. The churches, amazing though they were, ended up playing second fiddle (for me anyway) to the incredible view obtained from the top of these cliffs - it looked just like New Mexico! - and the delightful experience of clambering around on them in the fresh air, enjoying the unfeigned, jovial banter of my first Ethiopian friend.
Could I live here? My experience living in Ethiopia would probably be a very challenging and very rewarding one, and while I do think I would ultimately end up loving the country, I think I probably would leave it for the same reason I sadly left Japan - I would never, ever, truly be welcomed as belonging.
(I feel comfortable making this statement given that I have now crossed through all of the open borders in the country, and none of them without bruises on my butt and dust up my nose.)
Satisfaction in the smooth exit aside, I have really enjoyed Ethiopia, and summarizing all the various experiences I've had over the four weeks we've spent here is not an easy task. But I will try..
Most Important thing first, The Food: MARVELOUS
Ethiopian food is, in a word, MARVELOUS. Generally, meals consist of a saucy type of dish, perhaps meaty or soupy, served directly or in a small round dish atop a huge (no, really) crepe-like pancake called injera. The courses are often spiced deliciously with red berbere, and on "fasting" (non-meat) days, you get to eat the just-as-delicious vegetarian "fasting food".
A few of the usual suspects:
Shiro - absolutely delicious yellow-orange chickpea-butter puree, often served as a fasting alternative (tegabino) but sometimes served with meat (bozena shiro). MAGNIFICENT.
Wat - a sort of tasty stew with hunks of meat, the most common being doro wat (chicken). Rarely ordered by me because the meat comes still on the bone, and you have to use your fingers to grip the slippy, saucy flesh and rip it off. Let's not talk about the state my hands are usually in when I'm eating. (Though I must give the Ethiopians credit, more than almost anyone else they provide you with a chance to wash your hands before eating.) Also popular is the extremely spicy kai wat.
Tibs - bite-sized hunks of pan-fried meat, usually lamb, served in a red berbere sauce. usually spicy, but sometimes a bit tough. David and I concurred, this was our least-favorite dish.
Injera - the bread it's all served on. About two feet wide (the edges are often folded in when it has to fit on a normal dinner plate) and 8mm thick, injera doesn't have much of a taste but soaks up other flavors wonderfully. To eat the gooey main dishes, just use your right hand to rip off some injera, scoop up some goodness with it and cram the whole tasty bundle into your mouth.
Maharaberoisvxneubweolmijr (spelling approximated) - this m-word dish is the best idea ever, and roughly translates to "a little bit of everything". Your injera will come heaped with little piles of all sorts of goodness, some spicy, some not, perhaps also little piles of raw veg to much on, and disgusting purple beets that you can feed to David, quick before they stain and taint all the rest of your food.
Western food, especially Italian food, is also widely available, and has been very smoothly integrated into local cuisine. I have several times seen Ethiopians scooping up tomato-sauce spaghetti with handfuls of injera. Unfortunately, Western food seems to dominate the dessert menu, having replaced whatever national sweets tradition may have once existed, and I have despaired of ever finding something like a truly "Ethiopian" treat.
Best Thing Eaten: Shiro, whether tegabino or bozena, was generally the best part of my life any time it happened.
Best Thing Drunk: delicious coffee, locally grown and freshly ground, served floating on a half-cup sea of hot milk and topped high with white foam in the national drink Ethiopians inexplicably call a macchiato.
Worst Thing Eaten: Most of the desserts I tirelessly forced upon myself in a desperate search for a good Ethiopian dessert are serious contenders for this prize, but ultimately I gotta pick a local winner: the juice. Infallibly, when Ethiopians think of juice, they think of.. avocado puree. I couldn't make this up. Stir that into your fresh papaya juice with a squeeze of lime. FOUL.
Ethiopian Money:
Minted in paper denominations of 1 Birr (USD $0.09), 5 Birr (blue), 10 (maroony brown), 50 (pale orange), and the lovely 100 Birr (jungle green). In general the bills are in far better shape than those of the Sudan, though the 1 Birr bills are usually of a hue closer to black than to their original white. (Acquisition of a brand new 1-Birr bill is actually the only way I learned what color they originally are.)
The coins, on the other hand, are often quite brilliantly shiny new. There is a large silver coin (0.50 Birr), a small silver coin (0.25), a large gold (0.10) and a small gold (0.05). I spent about two and a half weeks hunting for the theoretically necessary 0.01-Birr coin, but eventually gave up after repeated restaurant bill-roundings to the nearest 0.05. I despaired of ever finding this coin, which would be worth less than one-tenth of an American cent, until the magical day when David presented me with a whole fistful of them. They look and feel just like the one-yen coins we used to have as bingo chips in class (it was cheaper), and are worth almost as much.
I must say, I'm relatively impressed with the state of the money - the bills are newish and, other than the 1-Birr, mostly intact, and the coins are in great shape. In lieu of my own theories on why Sudanese money was in such poor shape, David has postulated that it reflects the confidence of the populace in their government. To him, it indicates simply that banks- the authority by which unacceptable money is filtered out of circulation- do not enjoy full patronage among the populace.
I suppose he's probably right.
New Hygienic Lows:
In Ethiopia, we saw toilet seats again. It was a pretty exciting moment (see post on my brief stint in the high life), but it led inevitably to another crack in my cleanliness facade..
Up until this point in my life, I was psychologically unable to perch upon a toilet seat that did not belong to myself, family, or a close friend. I cannot justify this rationally; it's simply a fact that I learned to deal with.
At least in the case with clean facilities, I no longer suffer from this handicap.
Music:
Unfortunately.. I did not find myself falling for the pop scene.
Ethiopian pop music tends to feature the same single synchopated but relatively uncreative beat, offered in two speeds, repeated without variety for the full ten-minute duration of every single Ethiopian pop song.
The singing, if you could call it that, seems to consist of the vocalist wildly flinging his or her voice rapidly around a series of far-flung notes. In the case of female singers, it deteriorates to a frantic, high-pitched shrieking that, when blasted at maximum volume in your ears continuously for more than a few hours trapped in a stuffy bus, makes your thoughts run along dangerous lines.
Our feelings for and impression of Ethiopian pop coalesced into one single extremely popular Teddy Afro song. David and I heard this song many dozens of times while here, and upon hearing it "one last time" on the morning of our last day, we both smiled that we would never hear it again.
Stupid fools we were, for we did not anticipate that in our last four hours before actually crossing the Kenyan border, we would hear it four more times. We both swore that it was actually still playing in the streets behind us as we walked out.
Thankfully, Ethiopian music, though faithfully and fervently loved by Ethiopians, enjoys little popularity elsewhere. I can't imagine why..
Up until this point in my life, I was psychologically unable to perch upon a toilet seat that did not belong to myself, family, or a close friend. I cannot justify this rationally; it's simply a fact that I learned to deal with.
At least in the case with clean facilities, I no longer suffer from this handicap.
Music:
Unfortunately.. I did not find myself falling for the pop scene.
Ethiopian pop music tends to feature the same single synchopated but relatively uncreative beat, offered in two speeds, repeated without variety for the full ten-minute duration of every single Ethiopian pop song.
The singing, if you could call it that, seems to consist of the vocalist wildly flinging his or her voice rapidly around a series of far-flung notes. In the case of female singers, it deteriorates to a frantic, high-pitched shrieking that, when blasted at maximum volume in your ears continuously for more than a few hours trapped in a stuffy bus, makes your thoughts run along dangerous lines.
Our feelings for and impression of Ethiopian pop coalesced into one single extremely popular Teddy Afro song. David and I heard this song many dozens of times while here, and upon hearing it "one last time" on the morning of our last day, we both smiled that we would never hear it again.
Stupid fools we were, for we did not anticipate that in our last four hours before actually crossing the Kenyan border, we would hear it four more times. We both swore that it was actually still playing in the streets behind us as we walked out.
Thankfully, Ethiopian music, though faithfully and fervently loved by Ethiopians, enjoys little popularity elsewhere. I can't imagine why..
After the Sudan, the first thing I noticed about Ethiopia is that there are simply a heck of a lot more women around. It's probably only a normal amount, but it was an amazing sight after the pseudo-Sharia states of the Sudan.
The second thing I noticed (also a contrast) was their hair. Beautifully styled in dozens of ways, braided, straightened, curled, beaded, half-veiled, or plaited along the scalp, it's absolutely stunning to look at. (And the way the women carry themselves, you can tell they know it too.)
This is another part of the national psyche that I respect and admire: Ethiopians do tend to have a noticeable pride in themselves, their ethnic identity, and their homeland (though they might not always identify this last as Ethiopia). And they have a lot to be proud of; no matter where you go within these borders, their country is stunning, historically rich, and fascinatingly diverse.
Other than that.. I will be honest. It's hard for me to fairly assess the Ethiopian character, since the national attitude towards foreigners (faranji) is disdainful, openly mocking, or opportunistic. There were of course cases of Ethiopians who were friendly and kind, and who treated us with respect (especially in Tigray or the ethnically Somalian regions), but we always felt lucky to find them. Sadly, such people were soon made harder to find by the defensive attitude both David and I adopted to protect ourselves: suspicion by default of anyone who approached us, bordering on downright hostility if they proved to be tenacious accompaniment. Many well-meaning, curious, but shy Ethiopians could have been put off by that. And so our international understanding deteriorates with each new foreigner instead of improving, as foreigners carry away stories of being mobbed and scammed, and locals hold memories of tourist coldness and hostility. It's not an easy problem to solve, but I think re-assessing the way we think about NGOs and the implementation of foreign aid could be one place to start.
It's like a tight spiral staircase, international charity is.. a theoretically beautiful concept, and one I support whole-hearedly, but one that is not without serious implementation challenges. And if you're not careful in how you construct it, it's going to end up hurting the very people it's meant to serve.
New Words Learned: Amharic (with a touch of Tigrayan and Oromo)
I made some progress with Amharic and really enjoyed using it at every opportunity, though unfortunately I didn't get very much past the "survival Amharic" level. Tigrayan, while fun to hear, offered several sounds reminiscent of Arabic that I could never manage to produce from my own throat.
Telling phrases: I hate to say it, but "bakachu HIDOU!" (Please leave us alone) came in handy more than once.
(It was necessary for me to learn 'hiccup' in a variety of local languages. Sikuta, hikta, nahuda, higo, and ekisuu managed to imprint themselves decently enough that I can remember them all, but unfortunately not well enough for me to always get the right word in the right region.)
Doing this in Shashamene, I ignored my usual orbiting contingent of hopeful scam artists, until one demanded my attention with a highly creative ploy: noticing my gaze, he pointed at the sky and then at me and brusquely declared, "NO BUSINESS!" He then stuck out his hand and intimated in the worst of English that as a foreigner, I owed him payment for enjoying so fully 'his' night sky.
I can't actually call this a "worst experience" 'cos it frankly made me laugh my pants off.. which I shamelessly (though not literally) did right in the face of the enterprising star-businessman. And David did, too, when I told him.
Best Experience: In rural Wukro, we met Bereket, a guy employed by the awesome Tigray Tourism Commission to lead us up into the rock mountains of the countryside, ascending to the area's famous centuries-old, rock-hewn churches. The churches, amazing though they were, ended up playing second fiddle (for me anyway) to the incredible view obtained from the top of these cliffs - it looked just like New Mexico! - and the delightful experience of clambering around on them in the fresh air, enjoying the unfeigned, jovial banter of my first Ethiopian friend.
Could I live here? My experience living in Ethiopia would probably be a very challenging and very rewarding one, and while I do think I would ultimately end up loving the country, I think I probably would leave it for the same reason I sadly left Japan - I would never, ever, truly be welcomed as belonging.
Classic Quote: Here in Ethiopia, in many ways the most challenging country so far, David and I have often encountered an entrenched, unquestioned lack of understanding between the locals and tourists who come here. The expectation of pens, the impression of coldness, the false ulterior friendliness.. all are indicative and causal of the strange barrier that has risen so often here to prevent genuine affection between people of different cultures.
One odd phrase came to symbolize this mutual misunderstanding for me: celebrating my birthday with a drink all around, David and I were both surprised to hear the locals cheerfully toast me in unison, "Welcome the Dead!"
I politely toasted back and sipped my wine, working up the courage to ask a moment later why in the world this would be an appropriate birthday phrase.
"Welcome the dead?" They had no idea what I was talking about. They had actually only been wishing me a Happy Birthday.. Melkani Lidet.
Mikele Lidet.. Welcome the Dead, indeed.
One odd phrase came to symbolize this mutual misunderstanding for me: celebrating my birthday with a drink all around, David and I were both surprised to hear the locals cheerfully toast me in unison, "Welcome the Dead!"
I politely toasted back and sipped my wine, working up the courage to ask a moment later why in the world this would be an appropriate birthday phrase.
"Welcome the dead?" They had no idea what I was talking about. They had actually only been wishing me a Happy Birthday.. Melkani Lidet.
Mikele Lidet.. Welcome the Dead, indeed.
Monday, March 16
24 ! ! !
(February 26th, 2009)
I spent my 21st birthday wandering the streets of Venice on the last day of Carnivale, en masque, ultimately getting serenaded by a flock of large, drunk Italian chickens.
The next year, though less of a Kodak moment, was no less joyous as I spent it in Texas’s best medical center getting the MRI that would prove my four-year-long (now six) hiccupping stint is not, in fact, indicative of a brain tumor.
Birthday 23, though I wasn’t expecting anything, turned out to be just as delightful, as my entire elementary school threw me surprise birthday celebrations, complete with Ingrish renditions of Haapi Baasudei from every staff, teacher, and child (and awesome homemade cards).
Given such a run of luck with birthdays, I hardly could have expected anything special from this year, but again I was wrong – and David truly made it memorable. From seeing my first zebra herds – UP CLOSE! – on white savannah grasses and managing to sneak past at least a dozen crocs in Lake Chamo of Ethiopia’s rift valley, to photographing pelicans, storks, herons, and eagles fishing and almost inciting a hippo charge, I’d be hard-pressed to say it didn’t set a new high for birthdays.
Even better, of course, was that the crocs didn’t decide to try out American flesh instead of pelican; that the hippo decided we weren’t worth the energy after his first warning leap; and that the huge tse-tse flies buzzing about us all day landed elsewhere than on me. In other words, that I successfully survived 24 complete years of seriously fantastic living on this planet. And to prove that survival effort (for which my parents do not give me nearly enough credit), here are 24 ways in which we have skirted probably-fine-but-potentially-really-unpleasant situations so far on this trip, such that I am alive.. to see my 24th.
1) avoiding the infamous Nile River parasites
2) not alarming or annoying the trigger-happy military guards outside Bashir’s palace in the capital
3) battling off in a four-day war the triple-attack eye/throat/stomach virus
4) extricating ourselves on the Day of Rage from the sudden angry mob in Omdurman
5) not getting bitten by the wild and possibly rabid dogs that charged us in the Kareima desert (they were chased away with rocks by locals)
6) sustaining 140 bug bites in a single night with no lasting infection
7) slipping under the radar of the ICC backlash in the Sudan that, despite the BBC’s warnings, didn’t result in nasty foreigner-targeted violence (for us, anyway)
8) keeping a cool head and a tight grip during the great Shihedi fistfight of the 18-year-old male population
9) not sliding off the seriously slippery rocks in my slippy flip-flops at the bottom of Tis Isat, the Smoking Waterfall and the source of the Blue Nile
10) managing with a great force of will to retain all of my body parts (and most of my things) in the 4 a.m. Lalibela bus-crush
11) walking away from the Great Bump of the Dire Dawa border bus that almost rearranged my spine
12) just barely managing to keep my footing on the sheer rock-faces we scaled to reach the Tirayan rock-hewn monasteries (or, more honestly, timing my fall so that when it happened, someone else was there to grab my hand)
13) not having to spend the night of February 10th out on the streets of Djibouti
14) getting hopelessly stuck in deep Somalian desert sand, but not without rescue in the form of the next LandRover
15) religiously using Purell to ward off Hepatitis for the first three weeks of this trip (during which my innoculation was not yet effective.. oops)
16) meeting only with the crappiest of aims from the glass-bottle-hurling kids in Berbera
17) not chancing upon the occasional suicide bomber or other interesting fanatical militant during our time in the Somaliland
18) feeding a half-wild Harar hyena mouth-to-mouth for the sake of a picture and David's amusement
19) not tipping over or crashing (miraculously enough) in any one of a number of crazy bush-taxi rides
20) not angering the defensive, nursing warthog upon whose den we stumbled in Bale Mountain National Park
21) remembering with remarkable reliability to take my malaria pill every Tuesday
22) not catching the malevolently squinting eye of the preying crocodiles of Lake Chamo as they floated by us in their deceptively innocent log-like way
23) quickly getting away from (and thus losing the interest of) the angry hippos who started to charge us
AND no. 24) surviving the last, the smallest, and probably the most serious threat yet of the trip, the huge black and yellow tse-tse flies who buzzed around us all day on my birthday, innocent bugs infamous for their coma-inducing and occasionally fatal bite.
Yessir, we have survived all these (and more).. and I'm officially 24 !
I spent my 21st birthday wandering the streets of Venice on the last day of Carnivale, en masque, ultimately getting serenaded by a flock of large, drunk Italian chickens.
The next year, though less of a Kodak moment, was no less joyous as I spent it in Texas’s best medical center getting the MRI that would prove my four-year-long (now six) hiccupping stint is not, in fact, indicative of a brain tumor.
Birthday 23, though I wasn’t expecting anything, turned out to be just as delightful, as my entire elementary school threw me surprise birthday celebrations, complete with Ingrish renditions of Haapi Baasudei from every staff, teacher, and child (and awesome homemade cards).
Given such a run of luck with birthdays, I hardly could have expected anything special from this year, but again I was wrong – and David truly made it memorable. From seeing my first zebra herds – UP CLOSE! – on white savannah grasses and managing to sneak past at least a dozen crocs in Lake Chamo of Ethiopia’s rift valley, to photographing pelicans, storks, herons, and eagles fishing and almost inciting a hippo charge, I’d be hard-pressed to say it didn’t set a new high for birthdays.
Even better, of course, was that the crocs didn’t decide to try out American flesh instead of pelican; that the hippo decided we weren’t worth the energy after his first warning leap; and that the huge tse-tse flies buzzing about us all day landed elsewhere than on me. In other words, that I successfully survived 24 complete years of seriously fantastic living on this planet. And to prove that survival effort (for which my parents do not give me nearly enough credit), here are 24 ways in which we have skirted probably-fine-but-potentially-really-unpleasant situations so far on this trip, such that I am alive.. to see my 24th.
1) avoiding the infamous Nile River parasites
2) not alarming or annoying the trigger-happy military guards outside Bashir’s palace in the capital
3) battling off in a four-day war the triple-attack eye/throat/stomach virus
4) extricating ourselves on the Day of Rage from the sudden angry mob in Omdurman
5) not getting bitten by the wild and possibly rabid dogs that charged us in the Kareima desert (they were chased away with rocks by locals)
6) sustaining 140 bug bites in a single night with no lasting infection
7) slipping under the radar of the ICC backlash in the Sudan that, despite the BBC’s warnings, didn’t result in nasty foreigner-targeted violence (for us, anyway)
8) keeping a cool head and a tight grip during the great Shihedi fistfight of the 18-year-old male population
9) not sliding off the seriously slippery rocks in my slippy flip-flops at the bottom of Tis Isat, the Smoking Waterfall and the source of the Blue Nile
10) managing with a great force of will to retain all of my body parts (and most of my things) in the 4 a.m. Lalibela bus-crush
11) walking away from the Great Bump of the Dire Dawa border bus that almost rearranged my spine
12) just barely managing to keep my footing on the sheer rock-faces we scaled to reach the Tirayan rock-hewn monasteries (or, more honestly, timing my fall so that when it happened, someone else was there to grab my hand)
13) not having to spend the night of February 10th out on the streets of Djibouti
14) getting hopelessly stuck in deep Somalian desert sand, but not without rescue in the form of the next LandRover
15) religiously using Purell to ward off Hepatitis for the first three weeks of this trip (during which my innoculation was not yet effective.. oops)
16) meeting only with the crappiest of aims from the glass-bottle-hurling kids in Berbera
17) not chancing upon the occasional suicide bomber or other interesting fanatical militant during our time in the Somaliland
18) feeding a half-wild Harar hyena mouth-to-mouth for the sake of a picture and David's amusement
19) not tipping over or crashing (miraculously enough) in any one of a number of crazy bush-taxi rides
20) not angering the defensive, nursing warthog upon whose den we stumbled in Bale Mountain National Park
21) remembering with remarkable reliability to take my malaria pill every Tuesday
22) not catching the malevolently squinting eye of the preying crocodiles of Lake Chamo as they floated by us in their deceptively innocent log-like way
23) quickly getting away from (and thus losing the interest of) the angry hippos who started to charge us
AND no. 24) surviving the last, the smallest, and probably the most serious threat yet of the trip, the huge black and yellow tse-tse flies who buzzed around us all day on my birthday, innocent bugs infamous for their coma-inducing and occasionally fatal bite.
Yessir, we have survived all these (and more).. and I'm officially 24 !
Sunday, March 15
The Other Ethiopia
Re-entering Ethiopia from the Somaliland land border, I admit I sighed a bit with anticipation at what awaited me. After a week of respite, I still wasn't ready for the screams of FARANJI!!! MONEY!!! and throngs of adults- older than I am- insisting that my 23-year-old self is responsible for their family's maintenance. I will admit it, I gritted my teeth on that border a bit.
But I was wrong.
Upon arrival in Jijiga, in the eastern and culturally more Somalian area, David and I did our usual scheme where one of us goes unburdened to locate and arrange a cheap hotel, and one guards le baggage. I was on guard duty at the corner of two streets, and soon enough attracted the attention of a boy. He held out his hand to me repeatedly, asking for money, so wholly undeterred by my lack of interest and my polite refusals that I tried my old trick and began to sing. So I stood there with our stuff, leaning on David's bag and singing the French national anthem, while he kept me company with his hand out, chiming in with his refrain of "money.. money, money." A typical scene.
But not for long. Within moments a man ran up to the boy, grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him bodily away a few meters to lecture him very seriously in Somali. I was shocked. I stopped singing and, jaw half-open in mid-Allons, started staring instead.
Then the most fantastic thing happened.
Still angry, the man came back to lecture me, just as severely and in just the same tone he had used with the boy,
"DON'T give him money!! If you do, this will become our CULTURE!!"
I wanted to marry him.
Unfortunately he was less interested in me, and stalked proudly away.
I gazed fondly after.
It wasn't just him, either: a few minutes later I acquired another beggar boy, and soon after he too was scolded and chased away, this time by two passing woman. I couldn't believe it. Could it be a coincidence?? It was at this point that I realized that there had been no crowds of would-be scammers around me; I had not been beseeched by adults for money; in fact, few people were really paying me much attention at all. Was I in the right country?
Amazing but true. Throughout the rest of our time in that region, we experienced remarkably less begging and con-artistry than is normal for the northern, touristy regions, and I even managed to create delightful (if fleeting) friendships with various women shopkeepers and sweet-sellers in the marketplace. (Mostly just because I knew the Somalian word for 'thank you' and 'hiccup'.) Still, this was an Ethiopia I had not expected, an Ethiopia I would have foolishly denied.. but an Ethiopia that very much deserves to be included.
So, I would now like to make an addendum to my previous impressions, and specify that they do not accurately represent Ethiopia as a whole. While I would bet my hijab that many visitors to Amhara, Tigray, or the capital have felt as I have, it must be said that another Ethiopia does exist.
But I was wrong.
Upon arrival in Jijiga, in the eastern and culturally more Somalian area, David and I did our usual scheme where one of us goes unburdened to locate and arrange a cheap hotel, and one guards le baggage. I was on guard duty at the corner of two streets, and soon enough attracted the attention of a boy. He held out his hand to me repeatedly, asking for money, so wholly undeterred by my lack of interest and my polite refusals that I tried my old trick and began to sing. So I stood there with our stuff, leaning on David's bag and singing the French national anthem, while he kept me company with his hand out, chiming in with his refrain of "money.. money, money." A typical scene.
But not for long. Within moments a man ran up to the boy, grabbed him by the arm, and hauled him bodily away a few meters to lecture him very seriously in Somali. I was shocked. I stopped singing and, jaw half-open in mid-Allons, started staring instead.
Then the most fantastic thing happened.
Still angry, the man came back to lecture me, just as severely and in just the same tone he had used with the boy,
"DON'T give him money!! If you do, this will become our CULTURE!!"
I wanted to marry him.
Unfortunately he was less interested in me, and stalked proudly away.
I gazed fondly after.
It wasn't just him, either: a few minutes later I acquired another beggar boy, and soon after he too was scolded and chased away, this time by two passing woman. I couldn't believe it. Could it be a coincidence?? It was at this point that I realized that there had been no crowds of would-be scammers around me; I had not been beseeched by adults for money; in fact, few people were really paying me much attention at all. Was I in the right country?
Amazing but true. Throughout the rest of our time in that region, we experienced remarkably less begging and con-artistry than is normal for the northern, touristy regions, and I even managed to create delightful (if fleeting) friendships with various women shopkeepers and sweet-sellers in the marketplace. (Mostly just because I knew the Somalian word for 'thank you' and 'hiccup'.) Still, this was an Ethiopia I had not expected, an Ethiopia I would have foolishly denied.. but an Ethiopia that very much deserves to be included.
So, I would now like to make an addendum to my previous impressions, and specify that they do not accurately represent Ethiopia as a whole. While I would bet my hijab that many visitors to Amhara, Tigray, or the capital have felt as I have, it must be said that another Ethiopia does exist.
Friday, March 13
My Favorite Almost-Country
Drumroll please... and I present to you, my beloved (for you are beloved) readers.... TADA! Somaliland!!! Is it a country? Depends who you ask!! Is it long for this world?? One can only hope...
The People
I have only three words to say about this: I. Love. Somalilanders. They have an attitude that is at once laidback and enthusiastic. Don't ask me to explain this.
The People
I have only three words to say about this: I. Love. Somalilanders. They have an attitude that is at once laidback and enthusiastic. Don't ask me to explain this.
About foreigners, Somalilanders are exuberantly curious, often shamelessly so, and they greeted our appearance in their almost-country with overwhelming delight. (And assurances of how safe it was, followed by admonishments that we weren't travelling with a body of armed guards.) This delight and curiosity, especially from women, was at times so energetic as to make me (the bold Westerner) a bit SHY - as when a group of giggling women my own age screamed and busted out camera phones to snap my picture. Suddenly and inexplicably horrified, I whirled around and covered my face with the edge of my black hijab (well, actually it's only dark, dark brown - the black was a bit sombre for me). They were not deterred in the slightest, and chased me for several blocks, catching me as I walked out of shops or dashing around in front of me, phones held aloft, to get that shot, until I finally gave up and, laughing, stood still so they could come up and get an un-blurry close-up. (David permitted himself to be photographed as well.)
The 'curiosity' actually extended a bit further with him - several modestly-veiled and (in theory) conservative Muslim women came right up to David when I wasn't around and informed him outright, "I would like to know you!"
Hmmm...
Food: Spicy but Plain
Unfortunately, the country's exciting security situation and fun national attitude does not extend so far as their palette, and I found Somalian food to be rather dull. Rice and spaghetti are basically the staple of very meal we had, and the toppings varied very little. Typically, camel meat with some vegetable shreds and oil. The camel meat provided the only variability, in its degrees of toughness.
Like the Sudan, there was also plenty of fried street food on offer: doughnuts, dough balls, triangle-shaped samosas, and my favorite, a rich, almost scone-flavored dense cake fried to a thick, brown crispy and vaguely sweet crust. Good anytime, fabulous when piping hot.
Worst Thing Eaten: the third time I had the same rice-veg-camel meat dish, it was served upon a platter that had apparently been cleansed exclusively with sand. It was very much noticeable.
Best Thing Eaten: Despite the boring mains, Somalians have hit upon the perfect food for breakfast. They prepare a large, thin, slightly tough pancake for breakfast, a perfect flavor mix between Ethiopian injera and a French crepe, which is delicious alone and even better with a sprinkling of sugar. After the first sampling, I insisted we have them every morning.
New Linguistic Horizons: Somaliland was basically an Arabic refresher, though I did manage to get a sparse smattering of Somali thrown in there. Mostly pleasantries (and the local word for hiccup). However I am also lazy, and failing to get Somalian numbers straight in my head, I just became quick to ask before every price negotiation, "Tat kallim bil Arabi?"
Telling phrases: I managed to imprint one new phrase into my mind upon our belated afternoon arrival that first day: "WaandaaLanahay" - "I'M TIRED."
Money (or, my brief stint as a high-roller)
Given that Somaliland is technically a pseudo-legal country, the money printed and circulated by the government kind of feels like play-money. And it's worth almost as much!
The bill of choice here is the lovely blue 500-Shilling note, the king of all Somali denominations (of which there are three). This juggernaut, which crowds out the lesser yellow 100-shilling note and puny orange 50-shilling note so effectively that they are hard to find for a money-fiend like me, is worth roughly US$0.08. Given that prices are not actually THAT ridiculously low, paying for a hotel room, a meal, even a candy bar requires a stack of bills as thick as your hand. Immediately after exchanging money the first time, David and I retreated to the privacy of our hotel to sort of our stacks. Sitting on the bed with piles of rubber-banded bills scattered around me, I felt deliciously like a money launderer.
(Pathetically, this is the closest I've ever come to organized crime.)
I was crushed to realize that no coins are minted here at all. But honestly, how could they be? Surely it would cost more than four-tenths of a cent for the metal to make even a 25-shilling piece...
Classic Quote: Arriving in Hargeisa that first afternoon, after the Wild Night Ride of No Sleep that became the Never-ending Sleepless Day Ride Until 2 p.m., the only thing David or I cared about was a nap. For whatever reason, I made it into my bed quicker (a rare feat), leaving it his responsibility to turn out the light when he came back from the bathroom. He failed to do this, heading straight for his bed, prompting the snarling remark from me that can only be read as indicative of my extreme fatigue: "You didn't turn out the light, you stinking waste of flesh."
Food: Spicy but Plain
Unfortunately, the country's exciting security situation and fun national attitude does not extend so far as their palette, and I found Somalian food to be rather dull. Rice and spaghetti are basically the staple of very meal we had, and the toppings varied very little. Typically, camel meat with some vegetable shreds and oil. The camel meat provided the only variability, in its degrees of toughness.
Like the Sudan, there was also plenty of fried street food on offer: doughnuts, dough balls, triangle-shaped samosas, and my favorite, a rich, almost scone-flavored dense cake fried to a thick, brown crispy and vaguely sweet crust. Good anytime, fabulous when piping hot.
Worst Thing Eaten: the third time I had the same rice-veg-camel meat dish, it was served upon a platter that had apparently been cleansed exclusively with sand. It was very much noticeable.
Best Thing Eaten: Despite the boring mains, Somalians have hit upon the perfect food for breakfast. They prepare a large, thin, slightly tough pancake for breakfast, a perfect flavor mix between Ethiopian injera and a French crepe, which is delicious alone and even better with a sprinkling of sugar. After the first sampling, I insisted we have them every morning.
New Linguistic Horizons: Somaliland was basically an Arabic refresher, though I did manage to get a sparse smattering of Somali thrown in there. Mostly pleasantries (and the local word for hiccup). However I am also lazy, and failing to get Somalian numbers straight in my head, I just became quick to ask before every price negotiation, "Tat kallim bil Arabi?"
Telling phrases: I managed to imprint one new phrase into my mind upon our belated afternoon arrival that first day: "WaandaaLanahay" - "I'M TIRED."
Money (or, my brief stint as a high-roller)
Given that Somaliland is technically a pseudo-legal country, the money printed and circulated by the government kind of feels like play-money. And it's worth almost as much!
The bill of choice here is the lovely blue 500-Shilling note, the king of all Somali denominations (of which there are three). This juggernaut, which crowds out the lesser yellow 100-shilling note and puny orange 50-shilling note so effectively that they are hard to find for a money-fiend like me, is worth roughly US$0.08. Given that prices are not actually THAT ridiculously low, paying for a hotel room, a meal, even a candy bar requires a stack of bills as thick as your hand. Immediately after exchanging money the first time, David and I retreated to the privacy of our hotel to sort of our stacks. Sitting on the bed with piles of rubber-banded bills scattered around me, I felt deliciously like a money launderer.
(Pathetically, this is the closest I've ever come to organized crime.)
I was crushed to realize that no coins are minted here at all. But honestly, how could they be? Surely it would cost more than four-tenths of a cent for the metal to make even a 25-shilling piece...
Classic Quote: Arriving in Hargeisa that first afternoon, after the Wild Night Ride of No Sleep that became the Never-ending Sleepless Day Ride Until 2 p.m., the only thing David or I cared about was a nap. For whatever reason, I made it into my bed quicker (a rare feat), leaving it his responsibility to turn out the light when he came back from the bathroom. He failed to do this, heading straight for his bed, prompting the snarling remark from me that can only be read as indicative of my extreme fatigue: "You didn't turn out the light, you stinking waste of flesh."
(If it redeems the gentleness of my personality at all: although I intended to unleash my verbal attack with a straight scowl, I wasn't quite cranky enough and only got as far as "stinking waste" before I began to giggle.)
New Hygienic Lows: I no longer suffer qualms about walking on bathroom floors in my bare feet, though I try not to because it's embarassing how I leave footprints on the tile.
Worst Experience: The oddly aggressive children of Somaliland are perhaps only compensating for their parents' extreme peaceableness (and don't forget democratic values), but we have several times had some alarming encounters with them and their weapons of choice, rocks. (Though if a glass bottle is at hand, that will do as well.)
The worst of these was a little girl with a fistful of money who demanded unabashedly that we give her more. When we refused she followed us, ultimately launching a swift pickpocket attempt on my backpack. She snatched a plastic bag from the side, and and held it up triumphantly at me with enraging insolence as she started to dash away.
The joke was on her, however, as she realized a moment later, hurling the bag viciously at me upon the discovery that it was empty. I doubt it soothed her rage that the bag floated gently to the ground a foot from her, where I plucked it up again (one never knows when one will need a plastic bag). A few moments later we received her stone present. She then followed us at a distance, scowling, for a full half-hour. It was .. unsettling.
Of the seven or eight bands of children who aimed missiles at us, however, I'm not sure it was always antagonistic; often, it seemed instead like a poorly-thought-out way to shyly get our attention. And it must be added that on every occasion, adults came running from every direction to holler at the children, presumably yelling "Quit it!! Don't you know we're supposed to be a peaceful and democratic country??!"
Best Experience: The people, the people, the people.
Though I should definitely acknowledge the fun involved in writing home to one's mother: HI MUM ! GUESS WHERE I AM ???
Could I live here? ...Unfortunately.. no. Though I do love interacting with the people here, the answer is no. It's not because of profound cultural incomatibility that I say no, or a well-founded fear for my life, but a much more banal reason: it's seriously humid here, and at roughly 12:40 p.m. on February 16th in the middle of a Berbera street, I had enough and tore off my hijab. Only with a great effort of will did I keep my long-sleeved shirt on. This would probably be an issue here before too long.
All the same though.. I do hope this country manages to survive. Against all odds and all terrorists, it's such an awesome and hilarious little corner of the world.
Tuesday, March 10
SOMALILAND IS PEACEFUL AND DEMOCRATIC COUNTRY
... if we heard it once, we heard it a dozen times - from the very first Somalilanders greeting us at the Djiboutian border, to the curious college students who came to share dinner and conversation with us, to random adults we met on the street: "Somaliland is Peaceful and Democratic Country!!" Someone has done a very good job uniting the populace towards the importance of national presentation.
On one hand, it's easy to see where the anxiety comes from, and you can't blame them- with their rogue parent state of Somalia making international crisis headlines every other day, Somalilanders are naturally anxious to establish an ironclad distinction of their own peaceableness. Couple this with the fact that the fledgling nation has yet to be officially recognized by, well, ANYBODY, and their preoccupation with international image makes even more sense. (The foreign minister, by the by, assured us that they entertain hopes for Ethiopia.)
Unfortunately, a wicked fly in the form of cross-border Somalian suicide attacks has occasionally landed in their Peaceful Order ointment. I don't think it was coincidental that important government buildings were surrounded with heavy concrete barricades, and indeed the president narrowly survived an assassination attempt a short time before our arrival.
Imagine, then, as the Somalilanders apparently have, what would happen if a couple of the precious few foreigners in their country, highly prized Western tourists, were to be harmed somehow during their visit. Imagine the headlines. "AMERICANS MURDERED IN FORMER NORTH SOMALIA," reporters would race each other to declare in urgently solemn tones, and audiences would cluck their tongues - "Former Somalia? Well really, what did they expect??"
It is this very impression of lawlessness (although somewhat legitimate) that Somalilanders are desperate to eliminate, and it has given rise to some strange behavior on their part towards foreigners. Namely, a bizarre zeal to protect them from any contingency of danger or bodily harm.
This attention was sometimes comforting, but it had an annoying side, as when David and I were almost unable to travel around outside the capital because we refused to take a police escort. (The escort would have been funded out of the travel funds of yours truly.) The Minister of Tourism, our student friends, and random helpful adults were all scandalized at our stubbornness and tried desperately to dissuade us, but (as I pointed out with some bluntness), if someone really wants to kill us, what is one policeman going to do anyway? ("Probably run away," was David's quick reply.) They conceded the validity of my argument, but no one seemed to be terribly comfortable with the concept of Visa Numbers 0048 and 0049 setting off into the desert with only a carload of other strangers to keep them alive.
This wasn't to be the last we'd hear about the escort, either; at every military checkpoint along the road, guards panicked and urgently phoned their superiors to report our risky unarmed travellerhood, and several times flatly refused to let us pass. David of the silver Arabic tongue managed to talk our way past each time. (It really is useful having him along.)
However, the officious protection did have its endearing side, as when I was left with our luggage for a few minutes on a well-traveled street while David ducked in to a hotel to check room availability. A concerned crowd quickly gathered and, led by a matronly old lady, bodily escorted me to a more secure location a few meters away where they could protect and observe me more effectively (and post lookouts for the odd potential troublemaker). Indeed I was so well-protected that upon his return, David couldn't actually figure out where I had gone, and only the crowd's eagerness to unite us both in the same place for safekeeping established my location.
I was more than a little charmed.
Somaliland is really a unique little treat of a country, and while I'm not sure I completely believe the repeated universal assurances of its PEACEFUL AND DEMOCRATIC qualities, I confess myself falling for it anyway. Perhaps I should (as I have several times been exhorted to do) write Obama and ask him to consider making Somaliland recognition a central part of his foreign policy..
On one hand, it's easy to see where the anxiety comes from, and you can't blame them- with their rogue parent state of Somalia making international crisis headlines every other day, Somalilanders are naturally anxious to establish an ironclad distinction of their own peaceableness. Couple this with the fact that the fledgling nation has yet to be officially recognized by, well, ANYBODY, and their preoccupation with international image makes even more sense. (The foreign minister, by the by, assured us that they entertain hopes for Ethiopia.)
Unfortunately, a wicked fly in the form of cross-border Somalian suicide attacks has occasionally landed in their Peaceful Order ointment. I don't think it was coincidental that important government buildings were surrounded with heavy concrete barricades, and indeed the president narrowly survived an assassination attempt a short time before our arrival.
Imagine, then, as the Somalilanders apparently have, what would happen if a couple of the precious few foreigners in their country, highly prized Western tourists, were to be harmed somehow during their visit. Imagine the headlines. "AMERICANS MURDERED IN FORMER NORTH SOMALIA," reporters would race each other to declare in urgently solemn tones, and audiences would cluck their tongues - "Former Somalia? Well really, what did they expect??"
It is this very impression of lawlessness (although somewhat legitimate) that Somalilanders are desperate to eliminate, and it has given rise to some strange behavior on their part towards foreigners. Namely, a bizarre zeal to protect them from any contingency of danger or bodily harm.
This attention was sometimes comforting, but it had an annoying side, as when David and I were almost unable to travel around outside the capital because we refused to take a police escort. (The escort would have been funded out of the travel funds of yours truly.) The Minister of Tourism, our student friends, and random helpful adults were all scandalized at our stubbornness and tried desperately to dissuade us, but (as I pointed out with some bluntness), if someone really wants to kill us, what is one policeman going to do anyway? ("Probably run away," was David's quick reply.) They conceded the validity of my argument, but no one seemed to be terribly comfortable with the concept of Visa Numbers 0048 and 0049 setting off into the desert with only a carload of other strangers to keep them alive.
This wasn't to be the last we'd hear about the escort, either; at every military checkpoint along the road, guards panicked and urgently phoned their superiors to report our risky unarmed travellerhood, and several times flatly refused to let us pass. David of the silver Arabic tongue managed to talk our way past each time. (It really is useful having him along.)
However, the officious protection did have its endearing side, as when I was left with our luggage for a few minutes on a well-traveled street while David ducked in to a hotel to check room availability. A concerned crowd quickly gathered and, led by a matronly old lady, bodily escorted me to a more secure location a few meters away where they could protect and observe me more effectively (and post lookouts for the odd potential troublemaker). Indeed I was so well-protected that upon his return, David couldn't actually figure out where I had gone, and only the crowd's eagerness to unite us both in the same place for safekeeping established my location.
I was more than a little charmed.
Somaliland is really a unique little treat of a country, and while I'm not sure I completely believe the repeated universal assurances of its PEACEFUL AND DEMOCRATIC qualities, I confess myself falling for it anyway. Perhaps I should (as I have several times been exhorted to do) write Obama and ask him to consider making Somaliland recognition a central part of his foreign policy..
Monday, March 9
The Wild Night Ride
Looking back on the past few posts, I'm noticing a heavy bias on the actual transit part of travelling; a little guiltily, I'm now getting ready to post yet another voyage tale. I suppose we do spend a good portion of our time physically traveling, and for me, most of that [conscious] time is spent thinking of things to write about. However, to critics I would argue that the voyaging is certainly where we do tend to have some of our most interesting adventures.
..As would definitely be the case with our trip to the newly-created Somaliland.
The overland trip to and through Somaliland, upon which we embarked after brushing off the panicked admonishments of my Djiboutienne friends like so many flies, was nothing short of epic. It began in a back street of Djibouti at 4 p.m. on Thursday, February 12th, and concluded at 1 p.m. the next day, a full 7 hours behind schedule, in the capital of Hargeisa. The overnight adventure, which took place in a 5-seater LandRover inhabited for 21 hours by one driver, two roof-based spotters and 13 passengers, possibly more (I couldn't see the way-back very well), included a series of exciting episodes. Highlights include:
* Evening border crossing into Somaliland, which provided only our second encounter with real Somalilanders (first being the visa-issuing embassy staff in Addis)
* driving literally through the desert, through sand and weaving around scrub-brush, at no point following any sort of road that I could make out
* getting stuck in deep sand at about 9 p.m. and having to be dug out with the handy shovels brought along by the spotters for that very purpose
* numerous opportunities for discreet, communal desert wee-ing
* breaking some major part of our vehicle related to the wheel or possibly axle at around midnight, and tinkering with it by flashlight until about 3 in the morning, allowing another chatty gentleman in our party to decide he'd like to be acquainted with me better
* praying for the bliss of even an hour's sleep between the hours of 3 and 10 a.m., only to be shaken awake just as I was drifting off by this same gentleman to hear what witty things he had to tell me
(which led naturally to)
* one of the first times I have pleasantly passed several hours in the contemplation of inflicting bodily harm on another human
I'm also fairly certain that we lost track entirely of where the road (or, er, trail) was a few times (especially after we got separated from the other LandRover in our caravan), since by the estimated arrival time of 10 a.m. we were still, frankly, just driving around blindly in the desert.
By about noon of the following day, I was no longer convinced of the existence of Hargeisa, Berbera, or any city in Somaliland, or anything other than desert, scrub-land, camels, and the occasional herd of sheep. (After 15 hours in the car, even those failed to keep my spirits peppy.)
When we finally did roll into Hargeisa at around 1:30 the next day, I thought I had been personally blessed by God and the entire host of angels. Even looking back on the moment with the benefit of sleep, rational judgment, and a bit of hygiene, I'm not entirely convinced that I wasn't. We did, after all, careen wildly in the middle of the night through empty desert on unsafe track in a vehicle with known mechanical issues through a country hugely targeted for banditry and terrorism under protection of a government that does not yet exist.
So I do have a lot to be thankful for..
..As would definitely be the case with our trip to the newly-created Somaliland.
The overland trip to and through Somaliland, upon which we embarked after brushing off the panicked admonishments of my Djiboutienne friends like so many flies, was nothing short of epic. It began in a back street of Djibouti at 4 p.m. on Thursday, February 12th, and concluded at 1 p.m. the next day, a full 7 hours behind schedule, in the capital of Hargeisa. The overnight adventure, which took place in a 5-seater LandRover inhabited for 21 hours by one driver, two roof-based spotters and 13 passengers, possibly more (I couldn't see the way-back very well), included a series of exciting episodes. Highlights include:
* Evening border crossing into Somaliland, which provided only our second encounter with real Somalilanders (first being the visa-issuing embassy staff in Addis)
* driving literally through the desert, through sand and weaving around scrub-brush, at no point following any sort of road that I could make out
* getting stuck in deep sand at about 9 p.m. and having to be dug out with the handy shovels brought along by the spotters for that very purpose
* numerous opportunities for discreet, communal desert wee-ing
* breaking some major part of our vehicle related to the wheel or possibly axle at around midnight, and tinkering with it by flashlight until about 3 in the morning, allowing another chatty gentleman in our party to decide he'd like to be acquainted with me better
* praying for the bliss of even an hour's sleep between the hours of 3 and 10 a.m., only to be shaken awake just as I was drifting off by this same gentleman to hear what witty things he had to tell me
(which led naturally to)
* one of the first times I have pleasantly passed several hours in the contemplation of inflicting bodily harm on another human
I'm also fairly certain that we lost track entirely of where the road (or, er, trail) was a few times (especially after we got separated from the other LandRover in our caravan), since by the estimated arrival time of 10 a.m. we were still, frankly, just driving around blindly in the desert.
By about noon of the following day, I was no longer convinced of the existence of Hargeisa, Berbera, or any city in Somaliland, or anything other than desert, scrub-land, camels, and the occasional herd of sheep. (After 15 hours in the car, even those failed to keep my spirits peppy.)
When we finally did roll into Hargeisa at around 1:30 the next day, I thought I had been personally blessed by God and the entire host of angels. Even looking back on the moment with the benefit of sleep, rational judgment, and a bit of hygiene, I'm not entirely convinced that I wasn't. We did, after all, careen wildly in the middle of the night through empty desert on unsafe track in a vehicle with known mechanical issues through a country hugely targeted for banditry and terrorism under protection of a government that does not yet exist.
So I do have a lot to be thankful for..
Friday, March 6
Djibouti: the nutshell impression
Atmosphere
After the Sudan and Ethiopia, Djibouti felt very pseudo-European. Colonial-style buildings lined neat, paved streets joining every few blocks into roudabouts. Storefronts boasted European products and even European names; walls sported slogans in English, French, and Arabic about keeping the city streets clean. I saw lots of tourist families (even white kids!), and plenty of other foreigners were humming along the streets in slick white Toyota SUVs with logos or flags on the side.
People
If I had to try to describe the national attitude, I guess I would say that Djiboutians (or Djiboutiens, as they would have me say), are an interesting cultural mix of self-conscious French stuffiness and laidback African friendliness. Chatting with a stranger for a moment betrays the blend: Djiboutiens speak lovely, flawless French, but seem to have almost exclusively eliminated the formal "vous" tense from daily speech, preferring instead to use the friendly, familiar "tu" for friends and strangers alike. Everyone was happy to talk to us, right away, on a personal and intimate level that was, after Ethiopia, both unexpected and delightful. While I know it's unfair to say all people of any country are one way or another, I confess the difference was immediate: within moments of crossing through the border, I felt in the joking, chummy atmosphere of our next bus none of that subtle but tangible aloofness I had been feeling for the two weeks prior. It was glorious.
It is my general impression that everyone in Djibouti Port, every last man, woman, and child, is employed either by something governmental or the tourism industry. Aside from the shopowners, taxidrivers, and hoteliers, Djibouti seems to be populated almost exclusively by ministers, military, or NGOs. The banking seems to function exclusively as a blend of these two interests. Surely other professions must exist; where they are and what they do I can't imagine.
After an interval of almost three years since I was last in a francophone country, I slipped into Djibouti French with the satisfaction of a toad plopping into an old beloved swamp. Overjoyed by the lingsuistic non-barriers (a first on this trip so far) and the amiable attitude, I exuberantly set about making friends with my bus seat-mates, taxidrivers, waiters, policemen, receptionists, random strangers on the street.. really, anyone who stood still in one place long enough. (And the Djiboutiens were kindly very happy to comply.)
Food:
As far as food goes, this seems to rather be a European enclave. It was very very tasty, but also much more expensive than the food we're accustomed to from the Sudan and Ethiopia. David and I quickly realized our time in Djibouti was necessarily going to have to be rather short, if we wanted to walk out with something in our pockets at all.
Best Thing Eaten: We also got to try some Red Sea culture sweets: some mochi-esque jelly tasting of currant, a stringy, melt-in-your-mouth version of halwa, a crumbly and grainy red rock-like thing, and a black-and-white mint-flavored sweet with the texture of fine sand. All delicious.
New Hygienic Lows:
The state in which I arrived in Djibouti defies all description.
Suffice it to say that during the blissful and lengthy shower I took immediately after check-in, the spotless white bathtub of the Sheraton-Djibouti washed black for twenty minutes. I was excited to note that my skin was a slightly different color upon emerging.
Which leads me to..
Favorite Quote:
Dragging myself into the marble-and-glass lobby of the Sheraton after our trek was .. intimidating. The neatly uniformed guard at the door, positioned to keep out trash, definitely gave me a bit of an alarmed look-over as I hauled my battered luggage over the threshold, but was too polite to say anything.
I, unfortunately, suffer from no such constraints, and said to him frankly: "I'm the dirtiest thing that's ever stepped into this lobby, aren't I."
My only reply was an involuntary mouth-twitch.
Money: REALLY, DJIBOUTI??
You know, I was going to be all mature and clean, and pass completely through this country without one snide "Djibouti's HOT!" or "We're all over Djibouti tonight.." joke. I really was. This was the intention, the plan, and one that I was prepared to follow through with.
But then I saw the coins.
Both the fifty- and the five-franc coins feature what at first glance can only be taken as a pair of camels, mid-coitus. My shock was so great that the first time I received change I forgot myself and actually shouted to David, "OH MY GOD THEIR MONEY SHOWS COPULATING CAMELS!"
Much closer and prolonged inspection revealed that in fact, it's just one camel standing very very close behind another lying down at such an unusual angle that the standing one is tilted respective to the lying one, and the line that looks like the tilted, straddling camel's front leg is actually a very inconveniently-located saddle strap.
See, I say "inconveniently", but I have my doubts. It's just a tad too perfectly arranged just so... This was no accident. So, bring on the tawdry Djiboutian jokes! And let the amorous animals begin..
Worst Experience: Seeing the bill after any routine transaction was always a bit heart-stopping.
Best Experience: We took the opportunity to learn as much as possible about transportation to our next port of call, Somaliland, asking anyone in a position to know about the overland bus transportation through the desert to Hargeisa. Hilarious fun ensues when a friendly Djiboutienne learns that you actually lack the wit to stay the hell away from countries that have tenuous grip on their security situations.
Could I live here? Just for fun, I've been thinking about this question as I move through each country.. or to be honest, perhaps not just for fun. I'm kind of in the market.
While I know I would enjoy Djibouti for a much longer stay than these few days, I'm not sure I'll ever make enough to afford to live here. Oh well, there's always the Sudan..
...Or, er, perhaps there's not. To retrospectively answer this same question for the Sudan, yes, I could.. if it still exists in a few years.
Thursday, March 5
Ethiopian Land Border Number Two
(backdated: Febrary 10th)
After a whirlwind two days in Addis Adeba, David and I headed east through Dire Dawa to cross through our second Ethiopian international boundary, that of Djibouti... a bit sad to leave Ethiopia, true, but I knew I'd be back before long. (Before about 8 days, to be exact.)
WE ARRIVED IN DJIBOUTI after what could only be described as a seriously bumpy bus ride. And this from someone who loves old wooden rollercoasters and delights in bumpy rides, metaphorical or otherwise. (In fact, as a child I used to press my head against the schoolbus window so the vibrations would make my teeth chatter gently.)
To say that my teeth were chatteriong in m y head, despite my sitting upright, does not do the experience justic. I eventually stuffed my clean-ish sweatshirt sleeve into my mouth to keep from chipping a tooth or biting through my tongue. I caught air several dozen times within the first half hour; after that, aware that at least five hours remained, I stopped keeping track. Sleep was unfortunately not a possiility, particularly unfortnate since we had woken at 1 a.m. to board the early-early bus at 2. After a few hours, I found a loose, rolling sort of position which at least allowed me to doze.
It was in this bouncing, semiconscious state when we hit something, or possibly leapt over a fissure in the Earth's surface, and suddenly everyone was airborne. I felt suddenly and briefly weightless before a smack alerted me that I had hit the metal ceiling, recently a good two feet above my head. A long, low collective moan rose involuntarly from the bus's occupants as they abruptly found themselves soaring through the air, completed with a loud "OOF!" as we made touchdown and all suddenly re-found our seats. My own unfortunate landing involved a sharp pain to my elbow and a cracking noise in my spine, but after a few moments, everything was still moveable. I had the sensation that my insides had instantaneously collapsed, or been squashed flat.
That journey over, the border crossed, and the next four-hour cramped- but smoother!- bus ride through the country completed, we were naturally very happy to arrive in Djibouti Port, and desired nothing more than a place to rest our weary, dusty heads for a few hours. Any hotel would do.
Not just any hotel was available, however; the first we tried was fully booked, as was the second, and the third. Bewildered and bleary-eyed from exhaustion, and nervous at the astronomical rate at which taxi-ing around was eating into our few Djiboutian Francs, David left me camped with our bags on the porch of one hotel and tramped around on foot to find us a place to stay.
There was nothing... and it was Somalia's fault. (Not a first-time phenomenon for problems in the region.) Turns out our visit coincided with the end of the much-reported Somalian delegation to Djibouti for the purpose of choosng a president. Applications for the post were apparently welcome from anyone willing to pay the hefty "application fee", regardless of experience (or even citizenship). How exciting! David considered having a go at it himslf, but alas the man had already been chosen by our arrival.
Presidential business concluded or otherwise, however, the entourage had yet to decamp, and hotels in town were still booked to the max - all except - wait for it - the ritzy Sheraton. With roughly 7.5 hours of sleep in the past 35 hours between the two of us and nowhere else to go, we had no choice. The Sheraton-Djibouti it would be...
...and I didn't even have the energy to complain about it.
(And dang, but those beds were soft!)
After a whirlwind two days in Addis Adeba, David and I headed east through Dire Dawa to cross through our second Ethiopian international boundary, that of Djibouti... a bit sad to leave Ethiopia, true, but I knew I'd be back before long. (Before about 8 days, to be exact.)
WE ARRIVED IN DJIBOUTI after what could only be described as a seriously bumpy bus ride. And this from someone who loves old wooden rollercoasters and delights in bumpy rides, metaphorical or otherwise. (In fact, as a child I used to press my head against the schoolbus window so the vibrations would make my teeth chatter gently.)
To say that my teeth were chatteriong in m y head, despite my sitting upright, does not do the experience justic. I eventually stuffed my clean-ish sweatshirt sleeve into my mouth to keep from chipping a tooth or biting through my tongue. I caught air several dozen times within the first half hour; after that, aware that at least five hours remained, I stopped keeping track. Sleep was unfortunately not a possiility, particularly unfortnate since we had woken at 1 a.m. to board the early-early bus at 2. After a few hours, I found a loose, rolling sort of position which at least allowed me to doze.
It was in this bouncing, semiconscious state when we hit something, or possibly leapt over a fissure in the Earth's surface, and suddenly everyone was airborne. I felt suddenly and briefly weightless before a smack alerted me that I had hit the metal ceiling, recently a good two feet above my head. A long, low collective moan rose involuntarly from the bus's occupants as they abruptly found themselves soaring through the air, completed with a loud "OOF!" as we made touchdown and all suddenly re-found our seats. My own unfortunate landing involved a sharp pain to my elbow and a cracking noise in my spine, but after a few moments, everything was still moveable. I had the sensation that my insides had instantaneously collapsed, or been squashed flat.
That journey over, the border crossed, and the next four-hour cramped- but smoother!- bus ride through the country completed, we were naturally very happy to arrive in Djibouti Port, and desired nothing more than a place to rest our weary, dusty heads for a few hours. Any hotel would do.
Not just any hotel was available, however; the first we tried was fully booked, as was the second, and the third. Bewildered and bleary-eyed from exhaustion, and nervous at the astronomical rate at which taxi-ing around was eating into our few Djiboutian Francs, David left me camped with our bags on the porch of one hotel and tramped around on foot to find us a place to stay.
There was nothing... and it was Somalia's fault. (Not a first-time phenomenon for problems in the region.) Turns out our visit coincided with the end of the much-reported Somalian delegation to Djibouti for the purpose of choosng a president. Applications for the post were apparently welcome from anyone willing to pay the hefty "application fee", regardless of experience (or even citizenship). How exciting! David considered having a go at it himslf, but alas the man had already been chosen by our arrival.
Presidential business concluded or otherwise, however, the entourage had yet to decamp, and hotels in town were still booked to the max - all except - wait for it - the ritzy Sheraton. With roughly 7.5 hours of sleep in the past 35 hours between the two of us and nowhere else to go, we had no choice. The Sheraton-Djibouti it would be...
...and I didn't even have the energy to complain about it.
(And dang, but those beds were soft!)
Tuesday, March 3
To get to Mekele, you gotta...
So there was this one time that David and Jana decided they wanted to go to Mekele, the regional capital of Tigray in northwestern Ethiopia.
Jana quickly noticed that trusty Ethiopian Airlines could fly the distance in 90 minutes for a scant forty bucks apiece.
David, however, was tracing the faint dotted line on Lonely Planet’s Ethiopia map that indicated a somewhat-passable road, and looking at the tiny side note: “Scenic Route”.
Two more fateful words have rarely been written.
Even though the joy of the Gonder trip was still fresh in my mind (and the dust in my lungs), I knew a lost cause when I saw one. Local buses it would be, the acquaintance of which would be our pleasure for at least two days. As one who hopes for the courage to accept the things I cannot change, I resigned myself to the discomfort, and mentally wrote off those days in my mind.
So, 4 a.m. in Lalibela found David and myself dragging our suitcases half a mile uphill through sand and grit, to push and fight and squeeze our way onto a crowded-twice-legal-capacity bus, at last wedging ourselves in between a foul-smelling woman and two bushels of chat.
Blissfully, bumpy bus-rides put me to sleep like a baby, and the first few hours of tight, dusty, airless discomfort passed in a wink for me. Not so for David, who by the time I woke up was suffering from the pain of having his knees banged against those of the man sitting in an improvised seat across from us, and having his feet periodically stomped on. (Not that this last was new or surprising; I’ve often thought I could write an entire posting on the travails inflicted by Africa on David’s feet. Maybe I will.)
We passed the next few bumpy hours in a small-scale battle waged against the other occupants of the bus, in which we would crack the dirty window an inch to let in a beautiful sweet breath of clean, cool mountain air, and our fellow space-occupiers would squawk and quail and push it shut again, quick, before any of that fresh air got them. I won a decisive victory about two and a half hours in – by this point I was standing up in the ten square inches of floor space in front of my seat, both feet pointed sideways out of necessity, because it was less painful than trying to sit and fold my legs into that same space. Queasily carsick as ever, I had my face right up next to the life-saving wind of nourishing refreshment that came wafting in through that cracked window. It was temporary bliss, and as the next wave of popular protest against my open window surged through those around me, I had a sudden inappropriate inspiration. Pointing to the window, I smiled pleadingly and mimed heavy vomiting. The imitation was perhaps too well-executed; both hands were involved. Embarrassing, but effective. My right to have at least an inch of open-window access
was not challenged for the rest of the ride.
After seven or eight hours in the bus, we arrived at Woldia. It was past noon, so there was no hope of catching any further local transport on to Mekele that day. Prepared for this eventuality, we dragged our dusty, battered bodies and luggage up to the center of town, where we entertained vague hopes of hitching a ride on a passing truck. It was here that the lamb melodrama played out; the ensuing staring was escaped (again, only in the nick of time) by the discovery of two free seats in a furniture truck headed our way!
Well, sort of two free seats. 'Two free seats' as in, there were two good-sized adult men sitting in the cab, and if David squeezed next to the passenger, and I sat on the console/gearshift, it all worked out. And two seats among three passengers still made for far better odds than the arrangements we'd endured all morning. Plus, it was a short
ride, 256km, paved roads the whole way (!), five hours tops! He said we'd be there by 8, which seemed a bit slow, but still acceptable. And we'd be saving a whole day!
Upon reflection, we were ourselves lamb-like in our happy ignorance of the crushing tire about to fall. After covering the first third in no time at all (up to a village where we made a furniture delivery), the driver lost all will to continue with any appreciable speed. The last 180 km would not be covered over the course of three hours, or even four, but several times that. Discussing the strange metamorphosis afterwards (he had been averaging fully 60 kmph until the delivery), David wondered if the driver wasn't trying to drag the trip out another day, and thus be re-hired by default to take us to the next town after Mekele. Indeed, he took as long as possible on the well-paved, empty road, dragging the drive past the evening and well into the night. From my vantage point on the gearshift, I had an uninterrupted view of the odometer, allowing me to pass the time working out our various average speeds - overall, before the village, after the village, up this hill, for the past 10km, etc. I discovered with some bitterness that we were getting along at a rate of about 13.25 miles an hour. Yes. On foot and in good shoes, I possibly could have out-run us. But no, neither David nor I ever complained, figuring he had his reasons.. until the breaking point.
This came at about ten after midnight, when - with only 24 km left to go - the driver abruptly stopped in the last small town before the capital, declaring that we weren't going to make it to Mekele after all and that we had better stay the night.
Not for nothing had I been keeping religious track of our progress, and I was quick to point out that Mekele was only 24 km away.
Surprised but not deterred, the driver and his friend then countered that due to the late hour, we'd never be able to find a hotel in the capital, and that we'd better stay in this po-dunk town.
This was David's turn to jump in, insisting what we all knew to be true - that hotels are 24-hours, or at least open late, and in a city as big as Mekele we'd be able to find SOMETHING, thanks very much.
Beaten back on two points, the driver then changed tack, complaining of how very tired he was, to which David very rightly said, "Well if you didn't drive so slowly, we'd already have been there by now!" At which point the driver foolishly attempted to claim (very energetically for one so tired, I thought) that he had been going - wait for it - 50kmph all along.
OH ho.
REALLY.
"YOU SIR." I snapped archly, "have for the past SEVEN-PLUS hours at no point averaged more than TWENTY-ONE POINT THREE KILOMETERS AN HOUR."
David and I, travelling since 4 a.m., united in our cold fury, were a formiddable team, and a force to be reckoned with. Cross but cornered, the driver got back in the cab, and we positively flew those remaining 24 kilometers to Mekele.
(I couldn't stop grinning.)
And oh, never has a bed been so soft as those wonderful, Mekele [24-hour] hotel beds.
Next stop after Mekele, the national capital... then (overland via the west) A NEW COUNTRY!!
...All said and done, I suppose it was a rather scenic route..
Jana quickly noticed that trusty Ethiopian Airlines could fly the distance in 90 minutes for a scant forty bucks apiece.
David, however, was tracing the faint dotted line on Lonely Planet’s Ethiopia map that indicated a somewhat-passable road, and looking at the tiny side note: “Scenic Route”.
Two more fateful words have rarely been written.
Even though the joy of the Gonder trip was still fresh in my mind (and the dust in my lungs), I knew a lost cause when I saw one. Local buses it would be, the acquaintance of which would be our pleasure for at least two days. As one who hopes for the courage to accept the things I cannot change, I resigned myself to the discomfort, and mentally wrote off those days in my mind.
So, 4 a.m. in Lalibela found David and myself dragging our suitcases half a mile uphill through sand and grit, to push and fight and squeeze our way onto a crowded-twice-legal-capacity bus, at last wedging ourselves in between a foul-smelling woman and two bushels of chat.
Blissfully, bumpy bus-rides put me to sleep like a baby, and the first few hours of tight, dusty, airless discomfort passed in a wink for me. Not so for David, who by the time I woke up was suffering from the pain of having his knees banged against those of the man sitting in an improvised seat across from us, and having his feet periodically stomped on. (Not that this last was new or surprising; I’ve often thought I could write an entire posting on the travails inflicted by Africa on David’s feet. Maybe I will.)
We passed the next few bumpy hours in a small-scale battle waged against the other occupants of the bus, in which we would crack the dirty window an inch to let in a beautiful sweet breath of clean, cool mountain air, and our fellow space-occupiers would squawk and quail and push it shut again, quick, before any of that fresh air got them. I won a decisive victory about two and a half hours in – by this point I was standing up in the ten square inches of floor space in front of my seat, both feet pointed sideways out of necessity, because it was less painful than trying to sit and fold my legs into that same space. Queasily carsick as ever, I had my face right up next to the life-saving wind of nourishing refreshment that came wafting in through that cracked window. It was temporary bliss, and as the next wave of popular protest against my open window surged through those around me, I had a sudden inappropriate inspiration. Pointing to the window, I smiled pleadingly and mimed heavy vomiting. The imitation was perhaps too well-executed; both hands were involved. Embarrassing, but effective. My right to have at least an inch of open-window access
was not challenged for the rest of the ride.
After seven or eight hours in the bus, we arrived at Woldia. It was past noon, so there was no hope of catching any further local transport on to Mekele that day. Prepared for this eventuality, we dragged our dusty, battered bodies and luggage up to the center of town, where we entertained vague hopes of hitching a ride on a passing truck. It was here that the lamb melodrama played out; the ensuing staring was escaped (again, only in the nick of time) by the discovery of two free seats in a furniture truck headed our way!
Well, sort of two free seats. 'Two free seats' as in, there were two good-sized adult men sitting in the cab, and if David squeezed next to the passenger, and I sat on the console/gearshift, it all worked out. And two seats among three passengers still made for far better odds than the arrangements we'd endured all morning. Plus, it was a short
ride, 256km, paved roads the whole way (!), five hours tops! He said we'd be there by 8, which seemed a bit slow, but still acceptable. And we'd be saving a whole day!
Upon reflection, we were ourselves lamb-like in our happy ignorance of the crushing tire about to fall. After covering the first third in no time at all (up to a village where we made a furniture delivery), the driver lost all will to continue with any appreciable speed. The last 180 km would not be covered over the course of three hours, or even four, but several times that. Discussing the strange metamorphosis afterwards (he had been averaging fully 60 kmph until the delivery), David wondered if the driver wasn't trying to drag the trip out another day, and thus be re-hired by default to take us to the next town after Mekele. Indeed, he took as long as possible on the well-paved, empty road, dragging the drive past the evening and well into the night. From my vantage point on the gearshift, I had an uninterrupted view of the odometer, allowing me to pass the time working out our various average speeds - overall, before the village, after the village, up this hill, for the past 10km, etc. I discovered with some bitterness that we were getting along at a rate of about 13.25 miles an hour. Yes. On foot and in good shoes, I possibly could have out-run us. But no, neither David nor I ever complained, figuring he had his reasons.. until the breaking point.
This came at about ten after midnight, when - with only 24 km left to go - the driver abruptly stopped in the last small town before the capital, declaring that we weren't going to make it to Mekele after all and that we had better stay the night.
Not for nothing had I been keeping religious track of our progress, and I was quick to point out that Mekele was only 24 km away.
Surprised but not deterred, the driver and his friend then countered that due to the late hour, we'd never be able to find a hotel in the capital, and that we'd better stay in this po-dunk town.
This was David's turn to jump in, insisting what we all knew to be true - that hotels are 24-hours, or at least open late, and in a city as big as Mekele we'd be able to find SOMETHING, thanks very much.
Beaten back on two points, the driver then changed tack, complaining of how very tired he was, to which David very rightly said, "Well if you didn't drive so slowly, we'd already have been there by now!" At which point the driver foolishly attempted to claim (very energetically for one so tired, I thought) that he had been going - wait for it - 50kmph all along.
OH ho.
REALLY.
"YOU SIR." I snapped archly, "have for the past SEVEN-PLUS hours at no point averaged more than TWENTY-ONE POINT THREE KILOMETERS AN HOUR."
David and I, travelling since 4 a.m., united in our cold fury, were a formiddable team, and a force to be reckoned with. Cross but cornered, the driver got back in the cab, and we positively flew those remaining 24 kilometers to Mekele.
(I couldn't stop grinning.)
And oh, never has a bed been so soft as those wonderful, Mekele [24-hour] hotel beds.
Next stop after Mekele, the national capital... then (overland via the west) A NEW COUNTRY!!
...All said and done, I suppose it was a rather scenic route..
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
