Somewhere, there is written, the equation (Kiran + Geoff)travel = time, to a factor of frantic. We finish updating the website only half an hour before we were meant to leave for the airport. Of course, our original plan had included a day of errands. As usual, the original plan is shaved away to what can be grabbed while running. We grab, we go, we get on the Tube.

There are lots of empty seats (phew!). Standing with a backpack is hard to do after 10 days of vegetable-like activity in London. The handy LED sign reads, slowly, "TO HEATHROW AIRPORT." We are lucky that we won't have to change trains at all. Of course, the equation works itself into the scene and our conductor kindly informs us that we are not actually going to Heathrow anymore and are now headed to Uxbridge. At the next junction we are told via loudspeaker that the next train bound for Heathrow will arrive in 17 minutes. It is 5:50pm and our plane flies at 7. The lines of people are growing. When the train finally shows it is already packed full of people, so we don't get on. The loudspeaker promises more will come.

At 6:40 we are checking in (phew!). The attendant informs us that the plane is near empty. We board with no lineups to the sweet piped-in sounds of Ladysmith Black Mambazo. The farther we fly into the unknown, the more freely I can dream. I am excited, so excited to be going to Africa. I sniff around the plane like a bloodhound, hoping to inhale some of its aura. My gaze drifts from the window to the seat in front of me, to the sign on the back of the seat in front of me.

VYOO VIKO NYUMA
TOILETS ARE AT THE REAR

WAKATI UMEKETI, FUNGA MKANDA
FASTEN SEATBELT WHILE SEATED

BOYA LA KUJIOKOA LIKO CHINI YA KITI CHAKO
LIFE VEST UNDER YOUR SEAT

As soon as we are close enough to see houses, I am blinded by the sun on their corrugated metal roofs. I squeeze Geoff's hand: Ethiopia. That's as much excitement as I can manage after only 2 hours of eyes closed in a day and a half of London-Nairobi-layover-Addis Ababa (click here to see route map). Somewhere in my haze of memory is the fantastic flight over the wrinkled, arid mountains of Iran.

Just before our bags arrive on the conveyor belt, a porter attaches himself to our trolley's handle and makes conversation with Geoff. We don't protest, just let him do his thing as he leads us out the door into a den of hungry taxi drivers. "See this official price? 40 birr. I give you good discount, you pay only 30 birr."

In the minivan to the Piazza (4 birr), I practice my first Ethiopian word over and over, so I can say 'thank you' properly by the time we get out. I say "amesaganello" and the driver seems to appreciate my effort. We find a guest house, pay, and get horizontal immediately.

After 16 hours of sleep, we get into a taxi, which is a good price when hired for the day for our numerous errands. Yitbarek, our driver, is eager to share his city, practice his very good English and teach us handy Amharic words like "sega albellam," 'I don't eat meat', and numbers. We teach him a little bit of French.

Back at the piazza, we decide to check out our neighborhood on foot before the sun goes down (like clockwork, year round, it's at 6:30 pm). Around the corner a girl from Yemen strikes up a conversation. "I saw you two on the plane! My name is Leyla." She asks us how long we'll stay, and where we're headed. We don't know yet, we just arrived. She warns us not to visit the tribal people in the south. "Any Western contact changes their culture. They should be left alone." When we tell her about our project and that we want to learn from their culture, not change them, she seems relieved. "If you see any foreigners down there, tell them to go back to Addis. Tell them you got chased by people with machetes."

Dinner is "fasting food": small portions of rice, lentils, vegetables, all spooned onto injera (huge, spongey, moist pancake-bread). Injera is traditionally served on a round basket table. The cone lid is removed and a ½ meter wide plate is placed on the base for everyone to sit around and eat from. You tear off a piece with your fingers and use it to scoop up the food in small packaged mouthfuls. "You are lucky," Rose, our Immigration officer at London's Ethiopian embassy told us, "you are arriving during Lent- there will be no meat or dairy." Good timing, kids.

The restaurant is packed because they are one of the few in the area with a tv. "Ethiopia against Egypt" our server informs us. Football. Must stop calling it 'soccer' since North America is the only place that has the pigskin ball sport. Because of the crowd, we have been seated with a man from France, the only other foreigner. He tells us (with excitement because he can speak French with us) about the terrors of "l'autobus Ethiopienne." He shakes his head and makes a 'that's enough' gesture with his hands, palms flat; never again will he choose that mode of transportation. He hears our story, and asks when we'll be leaving Addis. "Quand est-ce que vous allez ?" " Quand nous avons un destination, " Geoff replies, 'when we have a destination.' The French man's eyes crinkle as he laughs, pleased. Our conversation is interrupted a few times by the roars of the restaurant crowd. The game is taken very seriously.

This is our 3rd day with Yitbarek as our taxi driver (we sought him out both days), and today he hears for the first time our wedding adventures. "I will be married in one month and six days," Yitbarek says calmly. His will be marrying Genet (means heaven), and we are invited. We struggle for about two minutes to try to figure out what the date is. He will tell us tomorrow; he's got some homework to do. Ethiopians follow the Julian calendar, which is 7 years and 8 months behind the Gregorian calendar, which we follow. That makes me 22 years old! It is understandable that some homework must be done- in addition to the difference in years, the Julian calendar also has 13 months ("of sunshine!" 12 of 30 days and one with five or six, depending whether it falls on a leap year) and the result must be translated into our system.

At merkato, the largest market in eastern Africa, we stare at the endless rows of material stalls. Stacks of flat reams of all designs and textures. And this is only the cloth section! We wander into the ready-made clothes shop section. A shawled man invites us into his traditional embroidered clothing shop, so we huddle into his 4X5 meters, which smells of sour milk. We smile and nod at all of the finery he unfolds. Geoff inquires about scarves, which he doesn't have. He pushes a pair of pants in Geoff's view and says, "this nice, only 200 birr." We tell him we don't need any.
"What's your price? Okay, 100 birr."
"No thank you."
The man's face curdles.

It is raining, and sounds louder than it is as the drops land on the corrugated metal roofs around us. As the brothel's security guard tells me, "Rain good for cow, good for goat, baa-aaa make grass grow." The electricity is out again- there are failures daily- so we are getting dressed for our night out by candle light. Yitbarek picks us up at 2pm (Ethiopian time, translated into our system is 8pm) and takes us to Karamara in his spotless blue and white taxi. The restaurant is in a traditional Gurage-style house, round mud and stick, with a thatched roof made from hay. Dancers and performers fill the round room with sounds and shakes of all the major tribal groups of the country. The common style of all the dances is the iskiste, shoulder-jerking head-flicking movements accompanied by 'tssssssss' hisses through the dancers' teeth. Their bodies click like jointed puppets. The Gurage people dance with their legs too, skipping and hopping with more energy than the rest.

On our way to meet Abel, the passenger from yesterday's minibus, I stop to buy 2 of the whittled sticks I've been so curious about. "What's this?" I ask. The vendor brings a stick up to his mouth and makes a brushing motion- natural toothbrushes. "Yes!" a passer-by exclaims, "Ethiopian Colgate!"

Addis Ababa Restaurant is full of people drinking tej, the local honey-wine. We get a tour of the round tukul (traditional-style house), originally an Italian aristrocrat's residence. We are served our first tej in flasks for chemical experiments. It is sweet, strong and an opaque orange color, and made in a brewery on the premises. It tastes like the juice of oranges squeezed many, many years ago.

Africa is the cradle of the human race. The Great Rift Valley, a depression almost 5,000km long from Syria to Mozambique, continues to prove that human evolution started here and probably occured only here. In 1859, Charles Darwin published The Origin of Species, considered blasphemous and offensive at the time because it claimed that humans were the descendants of apes. In 1974, Denkenesh (Amharic for 'you are wonderful'), also known as "Lucy" was discovered, the earliest known hominid. She was about 3.5 million years old and was the awaited link to prove Darwin's theory. Today we see her small frame (plaster cast, the original in archives) in a glass display box at the National Museum of Ethiopia. We marvel at our ancestral history: the desert created by the Rift Valley split caused animals to travel great distances for food. The distances travelled were too far for four feet, so bipedalism became more common among homo sapiens. I think science must have its share of challenges in such a strict Orthodox country.

The lights go out. Dim emergency lights flicker on in faraway corners. We feel our way to the exit- how strange to be in a museum with the lights out. It would be less than ideal to accidentally kick over old dinosaur bones.
The city's electricity surges on again.

Happy Birthday Bro!! I'm thinking of you a lot in the land of Haile Selassie. I think of all the Jamaicans who would love to stand here in the bedroom of Ras Tafari. It makes me want to hear some reggae.

I'm in a strange mood. Thinking about the attempt on my wallet and the riot, I feel paranoid and that every face hides a motive. I know it's the malaria medicine so I can't condemn Ethiopia. The medicine keeps us up at night with nightmares and bleak visions of the future. It's a good thing, for our sanity, that the people here are actually extremely friendly and helpful. Even the pickpocket had a worse day than I did really.

Today we meet Lucy, the bones of an ancient ancestor. They keep a plaster cast of her in the basement of the museum. She seems small and unimpressive in her glass resting-place. While we look at her the power fails and we are plunged into darkness. We wait surrounded by giant prehistoric elephants that probably don't even notice us, or the eerie silence.


Our time in the museum is punctuated by the howls of museum staf listening to the football game. They're huddled around a radio and they completely ignore us. By the time we're back outside, Ethiopia has won 4-1 and there's rioting in the streets. This is our second football riot in a week. This time it is a joyful riot and every car horn blares and people are everywhere cheering. Two toothless women are dancing shoulder to shoulder, clapping and jumping. Their beads slap against their necks and their cotton shawls are down off their heads. Amidst all this joyful chaos we run into our friend Eskinder and go to celebrate in a little bar called The Cave. There, with my shirt glowing from the black light, we talk about cultural exchange and the difference between a tourist and a traveler, if there is one. It has been a great day.

We meet Abel after dark, which is early because the sun sets right after dinner this close to the equator. Abel is the one who took care of us when the first football riot closed the streets around our guesthouse last week. He has since taken us to sample honey mead (T'ej) and for our first Ethiopian coffee ceremony.

Tonight Abel takes us to his apartment to meet his father. It's a small room with a double bed, a TV and three cafeteria chairs. I give my hand to Abel's father for a short time and he kisses it and says a quick prayer. Compared to his pumped up black-belt sons he is withered and old. His white cotton gabi wraps many times around his skinny frame. He is holding a 'chera' as a symbol of his status. It looks like a horse's tail on a stick and that's pretty much what it is. His grip on its handle looks pretty tenuous.

I sort of forget about Abel's father as we watch music videos. They are mostly gangster rap and hip-hop introduced by a scantily clad African woman speaking German. I get lost in the moment as Benjamin, Abel's brother, cheers me on to make 'home-boy' poses and say "Wassup?" like I'm straight from the 'hood. They seem fascinated by the lifestyle but don't catch all the lyrics. 'It wasn't me' by Shaggy becomes 'I was with she' when Abel sings it.

I am brought back to reality, sort of, when Abel asks us what we can do for his father. The old man has been coughing and wheezing so much the sound had faded into the background. Kiran and I look at each other, realizing that he assumes we're medical experts. He is asking us to diagnose and treat his ailing father's lung condition. This isn't the fist time this has happened and it is sad and moving. We are supportive but non-committal. In other words we don't help him at all.

Kiran and I argue over what to expect from our newfound 'guide' into Gurage country. Slicksta, from a local government office has offered to introduce us to Gurage culture in a small village south of here. He seems too good to be true and both of us are more paranoid than usual. I'm saying we should treat him as innocent until proven guilty. Kiran has a strong gut feeling of distrust. He's one of the first slick Ethiopians we've met. We leave Saturday morning.

Cute and worried Yitbarek drops us off at the bus station. He's worried about the motives of our guide. I admit, I also have my doubts about his trustworthiness. He is a too-slick, too ready to please, young guy that we met while trying to extend our visas. We have decided to have him take us to a small Gurage village anyway. He knows our objectives, to learn about the Gurage traditional marriage ceremony and the ensete plant for housing. "Of course, I know it verrry well." Our guide's rehearsed and frequent exclamation is to become a blaring signal that in fact, he knows much less than he professes.

Our days of research in libraries and talking to historians in Addis Ababa has taken us here, on the route to the Gurage people. Their spirited dance, and the use of the ensete plant as a staple has intrigued me. Avoiding the wedding practices of the some of the other groups was also a strong motivational factor.

"Blood cloth is displayed proudly in almost all tribes, to show virginity." Geoff is reading aloud some of his findings.
"In Hamer tradition, a woman taunts a young initiate until he can prove his bravery by whipping her. He must then run across the backs of ten bulls, four times, as a rite of passage into manhood. Only then is he allowed to marry."
"Here's another one: on the wedding night, the groom's best men, or mize, of an Amhara tribe hold down the bride for deflowering, or may even perform it for the groom if necessary."
"Female circumcision must be performed before a woman is to be married."

The wheels on the bus start rolling, and our first journey outside of the capital begins. We pass rows of shops with corrugated metal, mud, or stick faces. Big blocks of hay trot by with little donkey heads and tails underneath.

Traditional tiny tukuls with thatched cone roofs pop up in clusters. In a doorway, a cow's tail flicks up and down as its backside disappears into the home (nights are warmer if you share your house with your cattle).

On the left, market day- goats for sale, coffee pots, chickens held upside down in hands in bunches of 2. men and women float by in colors and wrapped in white gabi (shawls).

We return from a brief lunch of injera and find that the bus is filled with lime, banana, korlo (roasted barley) and green leaves on twigs. One man offers me a couple of twigs. "Chat," he says. So this is the plant that, when chewed in large quantities, gives a mild feeling of euphoria. When I start eating the leaves, the whole bus buzzes with chatter and activity. Kilos of chat are pulled up from under seats and shared with fellow passengers. Everyone is talking about the faranji ('foreigner' in Amharic, probably originally "Frenchie") girl eating chat. The man who gave me my first chat comes back, this time to hand me sugar granules to offset the bitter taste. The bus rocks with green smiles and conversation.

As we near Emdibir, we move farther into the hills. Round, mud tukuls line the ridges. At the village, kids run up to us yelling "faranji!" and one or a combination of "money" "give me" or "one birr." Some stand and stare, others wave, a few hide, with holey clothes and flies in the corners of their eyes. Some of them have shaved heads, except for a small patch at the front and back- a precaution to keep lice at bay. It is hot as we walk around, surrounded by hoardes of kids, as our guide takes us to meet all of his family members. Each of their houses are solemn dark and smell of sour milk. His two sisters have had babies recently and seem to stay in these dark rooms all day.

The girls at our guest house love Geoff. "Jack!" they call to him. "Yes?" he asks. "Hallo!" they yell and giggle. Our room has 1 bed, 1 low table and 1 chair. There is a lightbulb, but usually no electricity. There is a shared shower, but usually no water. We buy shama (candles) and wash our faces/ brush our teeth with well water from a little pitcher, into a dirty little plastic basin. The toilet- chances are high that one could slip on the liquid shit coating the floor, only to land on the chunkier shit. No water means no flushing the chunks, and the pit in the middle of the 1X1 meter room is piled high. Urinating actually helps to wash some of it down, but you have to be careful of what may splash back. A plastic wastebasket, at eye-level when squatting, is filled with bits of news or note paper, coated with wipe-stains.

After today we decide that 2 days with our guide is enough. It was an interesting enough day, but it was obvious that he had neither planned a program for us or really listened to our needs. On our suggestion, we interviewed his aunt about her marriage.

Workiwot ("gold" in Amharic) is glowing with energy. She is eager to share her culture with us. She presents us with buna, served Gurage-style with salt instead of sugar and gets down with the others as they show us variations of their favorite dance. In the interview she tells us about her experience with marriage. Her husband's family had approached her parents to discuss whether a match could be arranged. Dowrry was discussed, as well as a date. On that day, she waited at her house with her mizes until the man came. Then they feasted and danced, and she went with him to her new home, his parents' house.

We are disappointed. According to our guide's translations, there is no real ceremony involved. We say goodbye and Workiwot tells us that we may get married at her house, anytime. Our eyes light up- would it be possible? "No" says our guide, "it is fasting time and there are no ceremonies."

The interview is a little frustrating as Slicksta doesn't translate directly. We have an hour of his commentary garnishing our ten minute interview of Workiwot. Her marriage was very much arranged and we can't seem to determine if there is any actual ceremony in the Gurage wedding tradition. It seems like the groom just comes and takes the bride back to his place for a feast.

During the interview it never feels comfortable enough to explain why we are so interested in marriage. Slicksta keeps everything very formal. He can't seem to sense our genuine desire to hear from Workiwot nor our admiration for her. I think if he did he wouldn't be so caught up in sugar coating everything. He seems to to also be claiming responsibility for every good thing the Gurage people have ever done.

We can't help but notice the number of times he refers to how poor his family is. He still hasn't explained what he expects from us financially. He has made it clear that he expects something though but won't answer even the most direct questions about money. I realize that the topic is difficult sometimes but in his case it just feels slippery. I'm starting to feel like Kiran might be right about him and I agree that we should say goodbye to him tomorrow. We aren't getting anywhere with this.

Ato Obiwa is coming in the morning. He is expecting to take us to find a Gurage family that would like some help building their house. I feel like we've set wheels in motion down the wrong road. We spend the evening feeling like we've let each other down. We don't see much hope for a wedding ceremony and we're runnning out of ideas. I have hit rock bottom. I don't even have the energy or will to cheer Kiran up. I don't see any point in going on with our trip at all. Maybe we're taking this too seriously. I long for a shower.

I add two chlorine tablets to each bucket of water in the hotel bathroom (bathroom is too big of a word and implies a decadent water supply). If we're going to pour the brown water over our heads at least it won't have any living parasites in it.

We have a complete turn around in store for Ato Obiwa. We decide that our depression was largely Larium and Slicksta induced and are excited about wedding possibilities again. After re-reading some of the notes we took in Addis we realize that Gurage tradition is to hold a song duel, where friends of the bride and groom try to out-wit the others in poetic song. If it's possible someone might still know some of these old wedding songs... We tell Ato Obiwa the full story and he thinks he can help arrange a model wedding. It's more than we could have hoped for and our mood does a complete turn around as well.

We take a day trip to Emdibir to talk to Workiwot. We are surprised when it turns out that Slicksta is still in town instead of in Addis as he'd led us to believe. As Kiran had suspected he was coming to visit his family anyway and used us to finance it. He does his best to take control of the wedding arrangements and we have some strained moments. He seems angry that we are arranging something with his family but without using him as a broker. Everyone is so genuine and helpful that his greed and pettiness really stands out.

I think we're perched over the sheep market. There are small depressions dug out of the side of the road. There is continual bleating and the shepherds twirl their sticks and watch. I watch as they work to keep their strays from being swallowed by another man's flock or run over by the occasional truck. It seems like a parable for life in many ways. A huge Mercedes truck passes loaded with ancient trees bound to be carved into the famous Jimma three-legged stools. A sheep narrowly escapes his fate.

The chicken bus passes with its roof at eye level for me here on the balcony. I'm used to live chickens hanging from people's arms and bicycles as they're being hawked on the streets and in the bus windows. This bus has its entire roof rack lined with chickens hanging by their feet. They'll be that way for at least 10 hours on their way to Addis. They seem calm looking at the world turned upside down.

I get brief moments of anonymity and then I hear 'faranji' or 'you, you' and a crowd gathers to point and stare up at me.

We're heading back to Emdibir and are again sitting on a bus. This is one of the best ways to meet local people, learn about their culture, save money, and not be a tourist. In some places we have to pay more than the locals, but we get seats with a good view or some other comfort in return. It is hot, and as usual it is not a good thing to try and open the windows, as the other passengers will give you the glaring of a lifetime and the women will pull their shawls tight over their heads in disapprovement. I ask a neighboring passenger why we need to keep the bus airtight. He explains in excellent English.

"The cold air from the open window causes unstable air currents around the person, because the air inside and outside are very different... turbulence."
"Yes, pneumonia," his friend adds.
So we sit in the completely closed bus while the cool air outside taunts us at the closed windows. We dream of bus journeys gone by where we lucked out and got a broken window.

Some time later, Geoff pulls out his collection of postcards from Vancouver to make conversation with our neighboring passengers. They comment on how beautiful the city is, and pass the cards to others on the bus. The next man studies them intently, then concentrates on the city at night and North Vancouver in the background.
"So many fires!" he exclaims, pointing at the lights on the hill.

The postcards are further circulated, as is chat. Our neighbor says that he is thoroughly enjoying speaking with us. We are different from other tourists, he says.

There hasn't been water for three days. We are feeling a little grubby and our boots are covered in shit from the local pit toilet. It isn't the best way to start a wedding day. This country has once again taught me how precious water is.

Kiran desperately wants to wash her hair. We look at our last bottle of Ambo and hatch a plan. We buy two bottles of the mineral water and take turns hanging our heads over a plastic basin. The bubbles tickle my scalp and I feel like I'm swimming in champagne or something more wasteful.

The wedding itself is a blur of colour and tribal singing. This is definitely the most spirited and intense ceremony we've had. I'm still chanting the songs when I get back to the hotel. I offer Ato Katika a beer to thank him for video taping the ceremony. He is deep in conversation with an incredibly tall Amharic soldier and declines my offer.
I'm too excited to notice this as strange.

In the truck back to Welkite, Katika jokes that he has sold our camera to a local for some quick cash. He asks if I'd prefer the camera or the tape back. I play along and tell him the truth which is that I'd rather have the tape back than the camera.

We leave for the airport before the sun rises, after advice from our travel agent to arrive an hour and a half in advance. The roads are used at this time of day for football practice, free of charge, lots of space. The morning mist swirls around the early morning running legs.

We arrive to an empty lounge, too early even for coffee, check in and wait. It is finally time to board so we line up. When we get to the front we don't have departure tax tickets so we have to queue at another line. Nobody is in charge and we wait again. Finally the plane leaves, half an hour late.

We fly over Bahar Dar, Lake Tana, huge gashes in the earth and rows of criss-crossing brown hills.