I woke up early in the morning to drive to Mekele, 8 hours
away. The drive was spectacular. Just mountains and farmland and beautiful
villages. The word “lush” doesn’t begin
to describe Ethiopia. It’s like Mother
Nature threw up on it.
Camels on the road
My driver was an old man and we exchanged pleasantries for
hours as he practiced his English. He
showed me a picture of his son. His wife
died 2 years after his son was born and was taken in by his grandmother. 2 weeks ago, the grandmother died. Now my driver, Mengistu, has to pay more than
a day’s salary to have a caretaker look after the boy.
Mengistu started to cry and turned to me to ask “Will you
adopt my boy? He is honest and so
good. He may die if I cannot feed him.”
I hear a lot of stories.
My cleaner in Uganda has a new one for me every week. People want me to help them and I do what I
can but there are lines you have to draw around your heart when living in these
countries.
I told him, “I’m sorry, I cannot take him.”
“Please, take my number.
If you find someone who wants him, please don’t forget me.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that no one would ever
adopt a 12 year old boy. Instead, I took
the number and said, “Of course.”
I gave him some money, and he took it and thanked me, but I
could tell from his eyes that this was only spitting at the fire of the
problem.
We stopped for some roadside coffee. A priest came by and offered us a prayer for
money, but I did not give him any. God
should not need our money, only our love.
A group of boys on a soccer team came by with a big picture of them in
jerseys asking everyone at the coffee shop for money for their team. I gave them 50 Birr ($2.50) and they ran off
screaming and hooting. An obscene
donation I was told. Shit, I probably
could have bought soccer balls for the whole town. Because in my observations, soccer sustains
people more than prayers.
Money is a scarily powerful thing to have. I never thought I had a lot of it until I
realized now I could be a sultan. A
sultan of soccer teams. Wild.
I bought a bushel of Chaat, a stimulant like very strong
tobacco. You pick off the leaves and
chew them in the back of your gums. I’m
pretty sure not eating roadside leaves was in one of my trainings on how not to
get Cholera. Oh well lolz.
Eating Chaat like a damn Koala
Edit:: Oi, bad idea.
The Chaat is rocking to sleep on my stomach lining. But at least I’m WIDE AWAKE.
End note::: Seriously though, if you do happen to know
someone who would be saintly enough to take in a 12 year old Ethiopian boy, I
took all of the driver’s contact information.
I drove to the airport, realized I forgot my writing book,
found a guy, found a phone, found a cab, returned to the hotel, got back 5
minutes before departure. Every time I
lose something while traveling I remember my mom sending me off when I was 19
through the airport on my way to Kolkata.
“Keep your shit together.
If you lose anything, I’ll kill you.”
“Ma’am, you dropped your passport.”
“CHELSEA!!!!!!”
Lalibela is a Christian city built to be the new
Jerusalem. A man made river of Jordan
runs through the city. When the city was
built, Christian persecution was widespread.
So all of the churches were carved from the solid rock floor deep
underground. When scanning the horizon,
you cannot see any churches, and it isn’t until you are almost on top of them
that you can see the intricate framework below.
They’re magnificent.
All of the churches are connected by dark underground
tunnels for protection. The churches are
Ethiopian Christian Orthodox. They had
large wood doors that opened into dark, stone rooms like an ant hive. Shadows of the priests reached to the tops of
the dark stone. It was very simple and
deeply humble. A woman with thick
wrinkles crouched with her head down, counting rosaries, tears streaming down
her face.
I found the stone walls very oppressive. I felt more holy eyes up on top of the green
mountains rather than head down on a carpet.
Rabindranath Tagore, the famous Indian poet said, “
LEAVE this chanting and singing and telling of beads! Whom
dost thou worship in this lonely dark corner of a temple with doors all shut?
Open thine eyes and see thy God is not before thee!
He is
there where the tiller is tilling the hard ground and where the pathmaker is
breaking stones. He is with them in sun and in shower, and his garment is
covered with dust. Put off thy holy mantle and even like him come down on the
dusty soil!
Come out
of thy meditations and leave aside thy flowers and incense! What harm is
there if thy clothes become tattered and stained? Meet him and stand by him
in toil and in sweat of thy brow.”
Give me a mountain and I will open my soul to the heavens
and earth. Give me a temple and I’ll
take a picture and never look at it again.
We walked through the dark tunnels when a bat fell from the
ceiling.
“Jesus Christ!” I screamed and it echoed back 50 times. The nuns looked up from their beads and
scowled. Nice Chel.
The priests and nuns slept in a little holes cut into the stone that were just big enough to lay down in. Unfathomable to me.
I ate lamb and injera with chili for dinner and some coffee
to drift me to sleep.
My organs still a little frozen, I ate a breakfast of toast
and local honey, amazing Ethiopian coffee and drove to the city of Gondar.
I relaxed in the sun and fed my fingertips with injera (a
spongy pancake), spiced lentils, lamb and beets. For dessert, I watched a coffee
ceremony. A woman knelt on dry grass and
roast coffee on a skillet. The plumes of
white smoke were holier than incense. She
smashed the beans with a mortar and pestle and fed them into a clay pot with a spout
so long and narrow, the grounds never poured out into the cups. The cup was small. The coffee was silky and sensual. Folgers seems like the distant memory of a
bad lover who stole my wallet in the morning.
After lunch, I visited the castles of Gondar. Gondar used to be the capitol city of
Ethiopia and generations of Kings built their stone castles there. My favorite story was of the young woman who
saved the traveling King’s life with medicine for malaria. He brought her back from the village to his
castle, died, and she became the ruler.
And among many other accomplishments of consequence I’m sure, she built
a sweet underground stone sauna. The
steam rose up through circular holes in it which women on the top could bend
over and use for facials!
The Italians screwed up some of the original stone by
stuccoing it when they tried to take over for like 2 seconds. But Ethiopia remains the only country in
Africa that wasn’t colonized.
After resting in my hotel WITH A BATH, and a little bit of
the new Bridget Jones book, I went out with my guide to the Dashen beer garden,
home of the famous Ethiopian Dashen beer.
I ate chicken and drank two beers of Dashen on tap. Dashen is an amber beer with hops that hit
all the right places. Exactly the kind I’ve
been missing in Uganda.
It’s an interesting time to be living in Africa. There’s a lot to talk and drink about: Ebola,
Obama, Al Shabab, Anti-gay bill, Rhianna…
I promise you, if the shit hits the fan in Uganda or if Rhianna gets
back with Chris Brown, I’ll leave.
But
until then, here’s to Obamba giving Al Shabab Ebola. And god bless Rhianna.
I slept with Iron and Wine playing deep in my ears to keep out the incessant giggling of my cotmates. The walls were slick with rainwater and the fog whipped around my hair and I thought "oi."
I stopped by the hut for some hot coffee and bread before setting off.
We climbed through tall grass and bright flowers. My old man scout led the way using his stick to clear the wet bushes in front of us. My (quite handsome) guide led from the back. When I saw my first view I choked a little. We were on a soaring cliff looking down on the clouds and green, jagged mountains. It was awe inspiring. Awesome, if you will.
We got to a rock bridge we needed to cross to get to the waterfall. The bridge fell away on either side. As I was climbing over it, my foot slipped and I fell down. In a millisecond, my rock climbing skillz kicked in and I did a finger crimp of my life. Literally. My guide grabbed me and pulled me up Indiana Jones style. I knocked my knees around but am living. The waterfall was a bit of a blur because I was still shaking. I recrossed the bridge scooching on my butt.
The Bridge
I am only one of 2 solo female travelers my guide has had in his 2 years of experience. I take pride in that.
We trekked steadily up the mountain. The altitude bit at my lungs and held there until I was gasping for air like a goldfish held by its tail. My legs were leaden and dragged behind me. When we summited the mountain at 3900 feet the impressive view was completely blocked by fog. So we just sat down and ate the bread with vegetables we had packed for lunch.
And then it started to rain.
An icy rain so intense it bounced off my back into hail. The rain didn't let up for 3 hours. It was miserable but I couldn't complain because I was the stupid head who booked this trip as her vacation. I pretended I was a refugee running away from some awful persecution. And that helped. I couldn't tell my Ethiopian brother what I was pretending because that would be kind of messed up.
At hour 2, my brain waterlogged and I was just a body walking down the mountain. I woke up to see a large herd of gigantic baboons crossing in the fog ahead.
Back aching from shivering, we finally got to the campsite just to find all of the beds in the hut were taken. It's ok, I was assured, there is a tent we have for you. But you'll have to share with a German lady.
"Ok. Let's talk. This isn't going to work for me. Call the boss, have a car pick me up and take me to the nearest city so I can sleep in a warm bed."
Here's one thing that's happened since I got older. I am no longer afraid of speaking up, no longer feel guilty for making things happen for myself. Thank god.
"Ok, get changed and then we will head to the main road to meet the car."
I was brought into a stone storeroom and all the men stood by casually looking on. I built a fort out of bags of rice and hissed at them to leave. Once dry, they fed me some coffee and popcorn and we set out again, in the rain, down the mountain.
My guide, Ganatsu, and now my best friend, held my hand the whole way down so that I would not slip down the slick, muddy rocks. I'm a princess.
Down at the river, a mule and mule handler met us to take us up the almost vertical mountain pass. But first we had to pass through the fast moving, icy river. The mule handler, porter, scout and guide all stripped down to their knickers to determine the best possible way across with the mule. All of these men right now are working to make sure I have a good time on my vacation. I am a ridiculous person living an incredible life.
Mule and mule handler
When they found the best route, they lifted me onto the mule as the scared-as-shit animal crossed the river. We were laughing hard as the mule kept freaking out and dipping half my body in the water.
The mule took me up the vertical mountain and I gripped on for my life with my legs. But eventually became a mule riding pro, twisting back to talk to Ganatsu.
I'M ON A MULE
We reached the main road 2 hours later--and the car wasn't there. Positively shaking and drenched, we climbed the nearest hill to get cell reception to call the car. Nothing. A white car came in the distance. Could it be? Our car? We high-fived. We hugged. But no. Not our car.
We need to find shelter, with every breath I take I feel a sharp pain in my chest. We see a house in the distance and walk to it. It is a singular dark room made of stone, chokingly dense with smoke. Rice bags line the walls and a beautiful woman and her boy took turns adding twigs to the fire on the floor and swatting at the chickens to get away from the rice.
We sat around the fire and smoke rose up from our body as our clothes (and lungs) turned from ice, to water, to vapor. I was so thankful for the fire but couldn't help think of my friends working all over the world on proper cook stoves.
After half an hour the car still hadn't come and the woman was starting to run out of twigs. Time for Plan B. If the car never came, I would cut open a bag of rice and crawl inside to wait out morning.
Then the boy's voice rose up like the sun on Christmas morning. The car was here! I thanked the woman and ran slowmo to the car.
"Chelsea! Poor girl! Such an adventure!"
Yes, yes, I know I simpered, enjoying the attention. I took off my outer layer of soaking clothes and they drove me 2 hours back out of the mountains into the closest city of Debarak. I said goodbye to Ganatsu and my scout and was taken to a hotel with a warm bed. I ate two bowls of carrot soup, bread, goat and whiskey. I took a hot shower which overflowed from all the mud and bugs caked on me, ew, and fell asleep at 9pm.
There's nothing worse than airports in poor countries. They're a shitshow of bribery and pushy men. Usually I'm good to go and even thrive a little off it. Elbows out. But if you're feeling a little weak, a good trick is to pop in your IPod--your surroundings will turn into an artsy music video. Ultimately very comforting and "so meta." "I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together...I am the walrus" This song was totally written in a sweaty Ethiopian airport.
I board the plane. Wrinkles next to me had obviously never been on a plane before and kept hitting me to show me the safety card. I helped him open his sandwich.
I follow a guy with my name on his paper into his car. He lets me out at a hotel where another man puts me into another car and wishes me goodbye. I'm in a covert operation where every man knows just enough to pass me off to the next. "Where am I going?" "Jaubsibwvd&/7)3!/" "And then?" "I don't know."
5 car passes and 3 hours later our car pulled over next to an unlit circular hut. It was 8pm, pitch dark, raining and freezing. I was ushered into the hut and given a bowl. I guess it was dinner time. The hut had 14 men and women swathed in scarves. Two candles barely out the room and and a small fire cooked something in a big pot. A clear vegetable soup was ladled into my bowl and I ate it greedily, dipping bread around the edges. I listened to the Amharic voices which clucked with laughter and dipped in and out with the flickering candles.
The dinner hut
After dinner I hiked to the sleeping quarters. Raw beds under a low, warped ceiling. My team is a 100 year old scout and his rifle, my guide and the driver. They took beds on one side of the room and I on another. The scout stood outside, with a towel draped over his head, in the pouring freezing rain, all night.
I was in the middle of wet wiping my muddy feet when a pack of Korean tourists bust in and loudly take the remaining beds.
In the middle of the night, burglars climbed up to my apartment and broke in through the back door. They came into my bedroom and probably chloroformed me. They used my iPhone as a flashlight and stole my laptop, my canon camera, my roommate Yatin's expensive fancy lenses Sony camera and his Playstation. Yatin was home in South Africa, so I was alone. I found my towel in a different place than I had left it. They took my purse and hid it under my inverter cabinet, took the $400 I had taken out for my trip to Ethiopia but left my Kindle, Nokia phone, and credit cards. They left all of my Apple products (phone and iPod) presumably because of trackers. Billie freaked out in the middle of the night but I figured she was chasing a mouse and ignored her. It was when I woke up in the morning to pack my camera for Ethiopia that I realized things were missing and noticed the police and neighbors outside. The burglars had robbed 4 apartments and none of us woke up. All apartments had our towels or scarves in weird places (presumably due to the chloroform--a common burglary practice here.) All our purses were under the inverters. All of our Apple products were left. All of us are unharmed. I feel extremely violated and creeped out that they were in my room, by my bed. That they chloroformed us. The guard who was either asleep or in on it was fired. I filed a police report..
But since none of my cards or passport was stolen, I decided to continue on my trip to Ethiopia. I went to work, told my company security about the event, got some work done and head to the airport. In my comfortable hotel room in Addis, my heart finally slowed down, I threw up, and fell asleep at 9pm.
My Regional Data Coordinator in the West Nile (borders South Sudan) of Uganda got caught in an ambush in one of our districts while trying to collect data for our project. She saw two people die.
