WorldTripping.net - Ethiopia travel writing and travel articles.

WorldTripping.net - Ethiopia travel writing and travel articles.,WorldTripping - Simon and Leah tour Ethiopia by bicycle. Read the Ethiopia travel journal. Peruse the online travel articles. It's all about cycling in and around Ethiopia and traveling by bike.,worldtripping,world tripping,simon,leah,simon green,leah ingham,cycle africa,bike africa,bicycle africa,brighton,cape town,overland,brighton cape town overland,uk,sa,overland,uk sa,uk sa overland,coast to coast, coast to coast overland,cycle ethiopia,bike ethiopia,bicycle ethiopia,travel ethiopia,traveling ethiopia,travel writing ethiopia,travelogues ethiopia,cycle touring,bike touring,bicycle touring,cycle travel,bike travel,bicycle travel,cycle traveling,bike traveling,bicycle traveling,publishing,publishing online,travelogue,online travelogue,travel writing,travel writing online,diary,diaries,online diary,online diaries,weblog,web-log,web blog,web-blog,blogger,blogging,

"Glimpses" extracts from Leah's journal.

The Circus comes to Town

The second bright yellow truck steamed into town late afternoon. It parked outside our "bergo". A huge crowd had gathered around it by the time we reached the vehicle and many of its occupants had emptied out into the hotel for beer. A rotund man sporting a black Mohican and ear and nose studs stuck his head out of a window, to the delight of the crowd. Another man sat on the roof, grinning sheepishly. We chatted briefly about the other truck and ex passengers of theirs who we had met in Gedaref, then we went inside to the hotel courtyard. Chaos. Crates of beer were being stacked, ready for the truck. Tables were being piled with beer bottles. Local men had poured in to watch the 'Ferenj' knock back beer after beer. Dollars were being exchanged for Birr in one shady corner and the local drunk was screeching at a loud blonde woman in the centre. She in turn told us we could camp with them on the outskirts of town. We declined.

We made our escape to the front of the hotel and sat quietly on the porch. Children were still milling around the truck, a few of its inhabitants looking sternly out. Suddenly, an almighty clanking of metal. For a second, the ladder at the back of the truck swung backwards, hovered, then thundered down. A child's scream. The back door of the truck was flung open, a scowl on the woman's face looking out. An army truck was approaching and soldiers leapt down and grabbed the injured child. They carried him over to where we sat. Blood gushed from the child's severed thumb, the bone bare. As the crowd hemmed us in, we squeezed out of the mayhem and left the carnage behind, secure in the knowledge that the boy would be taken care of by the soldiers and, of course, the trans Africa crew.

We returned from our walk to find the truck gone and tales that they had slunk away once the beer crates had been loaded. Two children we had previously shaken hands with, rushed over and mimed for us the tragedy. They then mimed the 'Ferenj' driving away. We shook our heads in disbelief, too; the little girls, no more than seven, completely understanding, in their childhood logic, the injustice of that act. The rest of the sweaty evening was spent at the hotel. Locals came and went, asking us if we were responsible for the truck.

We spent a sweltering night in a tiny earth walled room. A huge spider dangled above the bed. Music blared outside but it was impossible to close the metal shutters because of the dripping heat. Finally, the last drunk staggered out of the courtyard and the metal gates clanged shut and we were finally able to sleep.

The following morning, two men from the truck, not the organisers, returned with the empties. Without prompting, they expressed concern for the boy but insisted, defensively, that the ladder had been secured.

I told them that the child may have to have his thumb amputated. The men looked down at the floor briefly then Simon changed the subject. Maybe they thought an offer of financial assistance to the child's family would have looked like an admittance of guilt. I thought it might have made them look human.

Middle Ages.

The roads were gritty and our tyres crunched, spraying dust. The land was deeply troughed and barren. We were hemmed in by golden hills. Fields were ploughed by farmers driving yolked oxen. Women sat atop donkeys dragging bundles of wood. After a particularly hard climb, we stopped at the sight of a gaggle of shy girls. They wore traditional dress and carried clay water urns, making their backs bend unnaturally. Some carried them on their heads. They each shook our hands before toddling away, bent legged, skinny and beautiful. A step back in time. Men passed us carrying rusted AK 47s and smiled and we were once again shunted back into our century.

Never alone. We lurched from one mudhut guest house to another not knowing quite what to expect. The villages were noisy and busy. People were watchful and some threw stones. We shared our dwellings with goats, chickens and pigs. Once in town, we were often 'saved' by a stick wielding youth. Once in a room, we were treated with respect and as curiosities. We were often brought heated water but I had to lose my inhibitions. The wooden huts where I bathed were built with loosely tied slats and the walls had eyes. We were woken one morning with screams and inhuman cries. A circumcision assembly was taking place, not of boys but of girls. There was nothing we could do. Eventually, I had to admit defeat and get a bus to Gonder. I was hoping to get treatment for my ever worsening tooth abscess, sick of falling asleep each afternoon from the massive dose of antibiotics I was on.

	Gonder.
	The church was unimposing from outside, one wing covered with tarpaulin. The inside, however, was awash with colour. Ancient murals hung from the ceiling. Paintings of black saints and biblical stories covered the walls. Faces, bunched together, looked down on us from the roof. We sat on wooden benches and listened to the singing of the women outside arriving for prayers. A white robed priest lifted a cloth to reveal a picture of a virginal Mary before ushering us, too, outside. We sat unobtrusively in the shade of a tree and observed four more priests carrying an oblong box covered with a sheet. It was too shallow to be a coffin and the golden handles glinted in the sunlight. The women hummed and bowed as the procession disappeared inside. The deep throated chanting of the men then began from within. Even the birdsong stopped. We had witnessed a magical moment. A cool breeze tightened my skin. The ark of the covenant was said to be located further North, but we quietly speculated on its real location.

Simon's Token Ethiopian Pieces.

Ethiopian Hospitals - Part 1.

Shehendi, pronounced 'shady' was our first encounter with an Ethiopian hospital. It was an appointment forced by necessity.

Having escaped vomiting and stomach cramps by the roadside, we wound up in this bus-stop town via the back of a dusty truck hurtling along a dusty road. The only accommodation that we could find was a mud hut complex with tin roofs, complete with communal facilities; a chemical long drop toilet and a pay-per-view outside TV. The better hotel was fully occupied by aid workers and government officials. Some were here to provide aid for, others criticism of; the attempt to deal with the refugee, or 'displaced persons' initiative in the hot and arid Ethiopian lowlands.

After a deranged night, it was time to get Leah to hospital. I went alone to ask a few questions, none of which would be answered without Leah's presence. A truck ride, with an attempted exhorbitant fare and we were back.

Children swarmed around us. Queues of people sat in what little shade there was. The doctor was nowhere to be found and was eventually located, prefering to give consultations in the tea hut. We stood before this man, this oversized and sweating doctor with terrible teeth, and our first doubts began to formulate. The future of Leah's smile did not bode well. This was not a man who trusted dentistry. Bidden to follow, Leah was examined in the corridor of a children's ward. The prognosis, take twice as many antibiotics and painkillers as you are currently doing, come back tomorrow for an unsafe extraction and oh, do you want some narcotics?

The only extraction was performed by us. We found out that there may be an X-Ray machine in a nearby town; and as soon as we had negotiated the set price of the busfare, that is where we headed.

Gondar Bound.

We woke before the moon had said goodnight. We attempted to pack our bikes in the darkness that follows moon-set. Naturally there was no electricity, why would there be at night? Avoiding potholes, sleeping people, ranging dogs and small fires, we somehow found our way to the station and our ride to Gondar.

Bus stations are not for the shy. More tickets have been sold than are seats, and more people want tickets than are available. Luckily for me, Leah has to deal with securing our seats while I secure the bikes to the roof. We both have our jobs, Leah's is to capture and contain two adjacent peices of padded vinyl; mine is to resolutely repeat to a man who has materialised from the gloom that I'm not paying any more money and this this was agreed with the driver yesterday when he tried the same thing.

We aimed for the Eastern light, cracking the mountain-rimmed horizon. The corrugated track constantly switched back on itself, giving bird's-eye views of the road just travelled, complete with a gently settling plume of orange dust. In front of the driver is a green heap of quat, spilling out of it's newspaper wrapper. Periodically, and whilst admiring the view, his hand will approach and a pile of fresh privet like leaves will be macerated and contemplated. No-one seems to mind that the driver is wired. That is until the final 180 degree turn to complete the final mountain pass. The brown and green dalmation-effect valley receeds behind us. Its floor is speckled with tiny streams of smoke, evidence of habitation. Rivers tumble from the heights, at this distance appearing as threads of shimmering white. We are about to cross the mountains, leaving the arid drought strickened lowlands for the verdant highlands. Ahead is a stunning vista of rolling green hills, tiny villages, patches of trees and a dusty brown road gently scarring the distant landscape. The whole of the bus was admiring the view, including the chewing driver. Singsong Amharic turns to Agitated Amharic. Not angry, just nervous. As the volume rises, the driver remembers that he is piloting a vehicle and brakes swerves and skids the coughing bus. We are treated to an excellent view of a very long drop and the cliffhanging finale to 'The Italian Job' springs to mind.

After a crested hill, before and below us are the sun reflecting tin roofs of Gondar, the biggest, longest and shiniest of which belongs to the Daschen beer factory. Getting off the bus is as chaotic as getting on. Again we have our jobs. Mine is to clamber atop the bus, and undo the string bindings holding our bikes to the roof rack. Leah's is to take the proffered bikes whilst explaining to several people that we do not need any help thank you. We have these roles, as she is far more diplomatic than I would have been. Ten minutes later with repacked bikes, we were out of the station and looking for a hotel.

Ethiopian Hospitals - Part 2.

We had come to Gondar in search of a dentist. Leah's jawbone abcess had grown and was affecting her temples as well as our sleep. All of the busses in town go past the hospital. All of the passengers seem to alight at the hospital. We step over the informal chain barrier and enter the 'landsdcaping in progress' grounds. The rubble for the paths has been laid, but not the screed, so we totter towards a throng of people ahead. To our right a new building is being prepared. Scaffolding of pared down trees is the exosceleton to yet more but thinner trees, vertically lashed together and infilled with boulders. This vertical stack of stones was filled with a binding mixture which would be dried, flattened and probably painted. A huge, two storey Ethiopian dry stone wall.

The crowd of people ahead is the waiting room. Dusty rags enclose emaciated figures. Silent infants stare as we pass. There is not a lot of noise emanating from this two hundred plus souls and we have no idea how long some of them have been here. Sitting, standing, talking, crying and dying; these are the people waiting to be seen or administered to. Leah finds the 'Dentisty Department', a rusting railway carriage set on breeze blocks to the rear of the waiting room. The dentist will return in a couple of hours so we find a wall to sit against. Groups of elite seeming doctors pass with medicaments or pencils. Orderleys remove fractionally too late patients with stretchers. There is an aroma in the air and I cannot tell whether it's a clinical by-product, Ethiopian cooking or death.

Around mid afternoon the dentist returns. Examining Leah's teeth, she cannot determine enamel from cosmetically white fillings and suggests a trip to the capital. Leah hastily agrees and we leave. We had been here four hours and everyone seems to be in exactly the same place as when we arrived.

BumBum Part 2 - Gihardia.

Through the twilight half-night, and illuminated by irregular doorway light cast by parrafin lanterns, a boy comes running towards us. He is one of the shoe-shining-army-supporters, the eyes of the town. Breathless, he tells us, "Your friend is here. Follow me."

We find BumBum, dehydrated and exhausted in the derelict looking 'Hotel Ethiopia'. His cramped stomach refuses to contain the water and bananas he is forcing down. By his face and his tales he has had a tough time getting here. His hotel has no electricity and the only water available, (including for the communal cisterns), is running down the walls and pooling by the sagging bed. We help him move to our slightly more expensive, but exponentially superior lodgings; we have hot water.

By now it has become apparent that we all drank from the same well near Gedaref in Sudan. The clockwork visits to the littlest room confirm this.

BumBum has changed, having become abrasive. He is impatient to continue his journey and angry with the illness that keeps him stationery. This spleen is sometimes vented at the innocent. "Look at her, all she sees is magic, magic before her eyes" is one vocal opinion, as the receptionist and money collector in the Internet caff tries valiantly to understand an unfamiliar network. The thick skin necessary to travel in difficult planes alone has become a shirt of anger; at illness, delayed plans, and sometimes people. Leah and I are thankful that whilst we suffer a certain amount of similar hardships, we have each other to keep us sane.

For a few days we are joined by a non-bowel-leaking cyclist. Also heading in roughly the same direction as us is The Skinny Canadian. We share notes, maps and plans over tej, in glasses that look like hospital sample bottles. As the days get hotter and bowels return to normal, we disperse and head in different compass directions with a loose plan to meet in the capital.

A Normal Day in Gondar.
By 10.00 am it was already hot. Most people had been active for a few hours, making good use of earlier, cooler temperatures. We had first-hand evidence of this, as since sunrise the employed women of our secure compound had been chattering and gossiping amongst themselves in singsong chirruping Amharic. Whilst this dawn chorus was not an entirely welcome alarm clock, it was preferable to the revving and idling of 4x4 engines. A frequent occurence at sun-up.
Downtown, the shops had been open since 2.00 am Ethiopian time, and we aimed to get to our local cafe for fresh pizza, cream cakes and cinammon tea before the dough products dried out in the stifling heat. It had become our breakfast haunt because of its consistent prices. The route to the hub of town took us down a stony path, past the old lady squatting and defacating next to a wall; then past the ancient stone walls of Fasiledes Castle, decorated in modern times by recumbent piles of filthy rags and ever energetic shoeshiners. We had walked this route so often that we were no longer asked, "Mister! shoe-polish?". Instead, smiled pleasantries were exchanged and tiny hands shaken in greeting.
	We reached the main asphalt strip leading to the Post Office. This was the realm of pollution spewing trucks, white landcruisers with multicoloured logos and veering taxis. A bus with chickens, cageless, but bound to the exterior luggage rail like living bunting, sped towards the station where its passengers would disembark, and interferers would assist with the handling of their live lunches. The pitted asphalt, with its cracked cousin the pavement, was also where the 'big-boys' loitered. Sitting around like a 'Nike' clad Fagin, one asked in a loud voice as we passed, "Why don't you go back to your own country?" His assembled cronies of younger, easy to bully boys, grinned in approval, showing teeth in various states of disrepair. Our ears were inured to such comments.
	Finally and without further incident or a rise in blood pressure, we arrived, bent to give a few coins to a pile of barely moving clothes and breakfasted. Discussion turned to our departure. Lately, the map had been examined and other travellers quizzed. We needed to know the state of the road out of here. It did not look good, with piste for hundreds of kilometres in all directions. We toyed with the idea of flying.
Curious and always in need of a contingency plan, we wandered into the Goverment run Ethiopian Airlines. Asking a seated and possibly new employee how much a one way flight to Addis was, we were told 217 birr. Prompted by his more experienced co-worker; who looked up from the pile of papers that had been absorbing his attention and saw that we were 'ferenj', the price rocketed to 823 birr.
We abandoned the idea of flying, consigning it to the 'in dire emergengy' category. To lift our spirits, we turned to food. Across the child hawker filled tarmac, was our samosa outlet. Buying enough to fill the afternoon, we were surprised when we received change from the notes proffered. Local price for local people.
And the afternoon? Indolence. Heat. Cardgames with Teddy. Waiting for the stomach cramps and toilet visits that accompany gihardia. Waiting for lunchtime.
As soon as the sun began to set, we began our familiar walk. Past the dozing hawks high on the castle ramparts. Through the game of knotted rag football that was distracting a urinating man. Past the leper. We fancied a change, a treat and decided to dine at an expensive hotel. We expected to pay slightly more for the glass of beer and the food. We did not expect to be charged more than the prices on the menu. Jaws dropping, the waiter cannily explained that our bill was inflated on the pretext that we had been looking at an old menu.
And as the moon rose, we walked up the hill to the candle-lit 'tej house', where local men, some of them vagrant, gather to forget and reminisce. After a refreshingly priced bottle of the honey wine Gondar is famous for; a bowlful of charred grains that tasted like popcorn, we gave our salutations, paid our respects to the lady owner tej maker and left.
Courtesy of the power cut rota, we walked back along the now pitch black streets. Back to our secure guarded compound. Back to candlelight and overhearing the manager telling a group of newly arrived Ethiopians that rooms were 20 birr a night. We were paying 50. They had just arrived in one of the ubiquitious gleaming white NGO 4x4 Toyota Landcruisers. Only the roof was stained, something having leaked en-route from the Simian Mountains, an eight hour drive hence. One of the men was on the roof, handing down a baled and knotted piece of luggage. The Ethiopian on the ground, took the package and carelessly tossed it to the ground, anticipating being passed another. The luggage pissed itself and shat where it landed. Heated words were exchanged. A knife flashed, a stowed gun surfaced. The weekend's mutton were led away to graze on something fresher than concrete.

Whitey Skin Tax.

We have learnt a new word. "Ferengi". The 'Lonely Planet' and the man in the street will tell you that this utterance can mean many things; a way to attract your attention; a term for strangers or a respectful salutation, (referring to an opinion that the white man has brought many benefits to Ethiopia).

There are also 'ferengi' prices. One German ex-pat referred to this as 'skin tax', having to constantly pay whitey prices even though he was an Ethiopian resident.

Consequently, I am fed up with not being able to walk freely down the street without being moleseted by calls of "Oi Whitey". And I am not guaranteed to be immune when I get to my destination. I become 'the whitey at table two' ordering eggs.

You can politely excuse this behaviour as part of the 'travelling' experience. That would be wrong. Having to endure a two day train journey across a desert where you can see the tracks beneath your feet and the hot winds make your face peel is an experience. Being racially abused is just that, racism.

BumBum Part 3 - Broken in Addis.

The next time that we see BumBum and The Skinny Canadian, one has a broken arm and thumb, the other has had his head split open. Leah and I have had our share of incidents too. Both of us have been stoned with a varying amout of accuracy and Leah was whipped from her bike as she passed a juvenile cowherd. The entry and exit of most rural villages has been trial by a hail of rocks. We have had our passage blocked by groups of teenagers. We have chased stone weilding children. Neither of us wish to cycle any further in this country. Our patience is exhausted. We are looking for an escape route and hear of a private truck that will be passing Addis shortly. Two seats out of the country are booked.

BumBum is furious that his broken limb limits his options. His once in a lifetime adventure is being hampered by these "black monkeys". He cannot repair his broken wheel or pull up his trousers. He has to choose where to recouperate, here or somewhere in Kenya. The full facts of how he sustained his injury never truly emerge and though he never admits it, I think that he shares our desire for flight. He makes a decision to accompany us. It must have been difficult. To come from such hope filled dreams; to endure so much to reach here, to have to admit an element of defeat is galling to him. He is irked and this much is obvious by his carriage.

Our huge orange and white transport arrives a few days later. On board are two other cyclists who have had similar experiences. They too are fleeing towards Kenya. Only The Skinny Canadian cycles off. He will meet us at the border, where transport is required to cross the Bayou Desert, home of the cattle rustling, convoy attacking 'Shifta'. It was the last time we were to see him.

Would you like to read more ?

Before here we were in Sudan. After here we were in Kenya.

Copyright (C) 2002 - 2008 by Simon John Green and Leah Simone Ingham - Worldtripping.net
All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be reproduced in any material form (including photocopying or storing it in any medium by electronic means) without written permission of the copyright owner except in accordance with the provisions of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Any unauthorised act in this respect may lead to legal proceedings, including a civil claim for damages.
Worldtripping.net is not responsible for the content of external web pages.