I woke up a little sandy, drank coffee out of a plastic cup,
had a quick wet wipe wash, and jumped into our jeep again for another day of
salt seeing. Our cars passed desert, got
to the salt lake, AND KEPT GOING. INTO
THE WATER. It was amazing. I kept being scared that we would break
through the crackly salt beneath us.
Then this guy did. We had to get
onto the back of the truck and jump around until our weight lifted the front
end out of the cracked salt.
We parked our cars at the salt mountains. Pillars of salt and rock reflected off the
salty water beneath it. The pillars
looked like gnarled humans looking back to watch their city burn. Or something.
There were twisty caves beneath the pillars but were flooded and we were
warned not to explore them. So I didn’t. But some boys with underdeveloped frontal
lobes did. They said it was cool.
Back in the Jeeps we drove until the water disappeared beneath
us and we were in a dryland with white salt as far as the eye could see. Men bent over in the sizzling heat prying the
salt up from the ground and hacking at them with machetes until the crystalline
structures fell away in perfect lines to form salt blocks. The salt blocks were loaded onto the back of
the camels and sold for $1 a brick. They
could sell about 200 bricks a day split among 11 people. The men had fading eyes from the reflection
of the white salt. The camels were all “fuck
this, it’s too hot.” The tourists took
pictures and tasted the salt. “It tastes
like salt!” Has to be the hardest job in
the world.
Next we went to the sulfur lakes, one of the lowest points
in the world. Green, yellow, orange,
magenta, painted the sky into a Martian landscape. Sulfur bubbled up from the
green lakes and created little vertical poops.
I bent down to touch one non-acidic area and it felt like oil. I rubbed it into my skin because it’s
supposed to make you look youthful and beautiful. I just kind of looked oily.
We slept in a little room, on the floor, and played
cards. I took a welcomed bucket bath
(fill bucket with water, use cup to splash all over yourself), ate injera for
dinner, and went to sleep very (very) close to my new friends.
One hotel change (mold, leaking walls, dirty sheets,
non-locking door), one room change (roaches), and one sad little phone call to
my mom later, I gave up and checked into a room which could be a dirty tomb and
got drunk at the bar downstairs.
I woke up early in the morning, a little dirtier than when I
went to sleep, and met up with my car going to Danakil. My co-travelers now included an older man
from China, Shong, and two German students, Phillip and Christoff. We took a car down, down, deep into the
valley’s of the earth. The green
mountains and mules were replaced with sand and camels. The weather became oppressively hot. Do you remember that Twilight Zone episode
where the man wakes up from a coma in which he was dreaming about the world
becoming so cold that everyone died to find that the world was moving closer to
the sun and everyone was going to boil to death? Moving from the icy rain in the Simien
Mountains to the Sulfur lakes in the hot valleys of Danakil felt like
that.
Danakil
We stopped for a lunch of pasta and mango juice in a little
village in the middle of nowhere. 25
other travelers met up with us, most from Israel. The kids asked for money and water bottles. Then they showed us how Ronaldo was soooo
much better than Messi. Soccer is the
language of the people. And I’m a mute.
Village
Soccer Talk
We boarded our 9 cars and caravanned deep into the Danakil
desert. We stopped at what looked like a
large lake and were told that underneath the very shallow lake was salt, as far
as the eye could see and as deep as several miles. Salt was loaded onto camel and mule caravans
to be taken back into the city. I waded
out onto the salt and was surprised to feel it smooth and completely flat
beneath my feet. I watched the camels
bring the salt back as the sun set.
Salt Caravan
Salt Caravan
Salt on the back of a camel
We drank tea and ate rice and greens for dinner in an even
smaller, hotter village. We slept on
extremely comfortable straw cots in the open air and let the dessert breeze
drift us to sleep.
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.
