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Our
adventures in Ethiopia (24
posts, most recent listed first)
| Africa
tomorrow |
Location:
European airspace
|
| March
19, 2001 - Kiran |
|
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
|
| Amesaganello |
|
| March
20, 2001 - Kiran |
|
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.
|
| Piazza |
|
| March
21, 2001 - Kiran |
|
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.
|
When
we leave, Egypt is in the lead 1-0, but from our room
we hear Ethiopia score 2 points before the game's end.
We also hear the night sounds masked yesterday by our
jet-lagged sleep as they introduce themselves. A kitten
outside our window meows like a cricket, non-stop. At
around 3am I am woken by the sound of skin smacking against
tile. A muted conversation drifts from the stairwell through
the crack under our door. A fierce knock is delivered
to a door a couple away from ours. A man speaks English
with a thick German accent "I asked, are you feeneeshed?
Zen she starts to grab my dick-" Chatter between
the girl and the inhabitant ensues, in Amharic. The girl
is upset. I am wide awake. The German accent counts, "Ten,
twanty, feefty. Zees was da agreement." Door shuts,
then footsteps. The two start up in Amharic again, in
their room. About ten minutes later someone else bangs
on the same door, telling the two to shut up. I flick
the bathroom light on and the squad of cockroaches, also
missed thanks to jet lag, introduces themselves. I pee,
eyes on guard for encroaching enemy, in the bathroom of
room #8 of the hotel that is a brothel. |
| Corrrruption
|
|
| March
23, 2001 - Kiran |
|
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.
|
The
clothes section turns into the craft section. A man pushes
a drum in my view. "Cheep. 200 birr." I decline
and turn around, passing a seated man who shakes his head,
holding up the same drum, "No, only 35 birr."
On the way to the minibus area, a guy bumps right into
Geoff, then apologizes profusely while kicking his knees
up, repeatedly hopping from foot to foot. We look, from
our far and close perspectives, puzzled at the strange
dance, oblivious of the premeditated situation. "My
wallet!" Geoff says surprisedly. His face returns
to normal when he feels it was an unsuccessful attempt,
and the guy is gone. In slow motion, we look around and
notice that every eye has been on our situation since
Geoff's exclamation and now a crowd has caught the guy
and with shock on his face, has received a punch and is
then thrown over a low wall. Ethiopians generally hate
a thief, we have learned.
The minibus back to the Piazza is re-routed by reflective
safety-vested police at every attempted turn. Close by,
shots are fired. A passenger in the front seat explains
that they are rubber bullets, to control the rioting.
"Why are they rioting?" Geoff asks. "Corrrrruption"
is the answer. If Egypt and Cameroon tie, they will both
secure themselves a place in the World Cup semifinals.
They are insulting the paying crowd by not trying to beat
each other, and eliminating Ethiopia's chance to win.
Even though they have been warned to play properly, they
have returned to the field and continued in the same manner.
Ethiopia is very angry. |
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.
|
| Honey |
|
| March
24, 2001 - Kiran |
|
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.
|
Next
stop is next door, to Abel's aunt's house. She is waiting
for us, sitting on a low stool and dressed in white shawl
and dress. Spread on the ground around her are long grasses,
on top of them a low standing tray with tiny handle-less
coffee cups, a large clay pot burning frankincense, and
water boiling in a coffee pot. She greets us shyly and
begins to roast freshly-washed coffee beans over a fire.
When they are ready, they are ground in a mortar and pestle,
and then added to the boiling water. The thick liquid
is served with popcorn. It is strong and delicious. We
are taught, between three
servings of coffee, a crash course in iskiste. We try
hard not to notice our teacher's boobs wiggle up and down
with the jiggling shoulder movements. |
| Too
far for four feet |
|
| March
26, 2001 - Kiran |
|
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.
|
Upstairs,
the security guards' eyes are, as they were, glued to
the security monitors. On closer inspection, they're actually
looking at the radio excitedly, as the announcer feeds
their adrenaline with shouts and play-by-play details
of the football game, Ethiopia against South Africa. On
the second floor, our eyes are surrounded by ancient paintings
on skins, most of them biblical, all of them with wide-eyed,
circular-haired Jesuses and saints. From below: a roar
of cheers, accompanied by honks and shouts from outside.
As we come down the stairs, another round of cheers, infectious,
greet us. Joy is plastered on the faces of the hugging
security guards. "What's the score?" I ask.
"Ethiopia 4, South Africa 1... Ethiopia win!"
Outside, people are running in mobs, cheering. All cars
are honking, hands and heads waving out the windows. Ethiopian
red, gold and green colors are wrapped around bodies,
heads, from antennas; the country has placed in the top
4 for the African finals, and will play at the World Cup
games in Argentina, in July. We hop on a minibus and cheer
with the rest. All ages are celebrating on the streets-
grandmothers in dresses lift their knees and clap their
hands in dance. Jubilant fists answer one another. All
teeth are showing in all faces. The feeling of one is
vibrant and the energy is spread to us. Back in the Piazza,
mobs run down the hill towards each other, clad in colors
and loud. Those mobs join bigger mobs. Painted faces whoosh
by the traffic jams, legs kick out of windows to the beat
of patriotic songs. |
| Little
Lucy and the home team |
|
| March
26, 2001 - Geoff |
|
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.
|
| In
the 'hood |
|
| March
28, 2001 -Geoff |
|
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.
|
| Tea
and pastry |
|
| March
29, 2001 - Geoff |
| We're
playing backgammon while it rains. We have some tea that
we made with an electric coffee heater and ginger cream
biscuits that come from Yemen. It's very homey. I think
we are being drawn to the Gurage (gu- RAH-geh) culture
for a wedding ceremony. I think the choice was made when
Kiran saw them dance. With over 80 cultures alive and
well in Ethiopia it hasn't been easy. I
want to be a tourist a little and this is the most difficult
a wedding has been to come across. Maybe we won't be able
to have one here, we'll see. I'm starting to learn that
I'm not immune to the stress of weddings. Any moment in
life that is so drowned in expectations is bound to evoke
stress. |
Addis
is starting to reveal itself. The bits and pieces have
connecting lines now. There is incredible poverty here;
children approach us with scars, rotting scalps and ragged
or no shoes. I've seen toenails frayed like French pastry.
There's a woman on the street just south of our guest
house who keeps her withered legs tucked behind her back
as she lays on her belly with her hand outstretched. The
beggars here don't need to say anything and most just
let their eyes tell the story. It isn't easy to see and
I don't really want it to be. |
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.
|
| Slicksta |
|
| March
31, 2001 - Kiran |
|
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.
|
| Mud
and straw |
|
| March
31, 2001 -Geoff |
Slicksta
doesn't seem to answer our questions very well on the
5-hour bus ride to Emdibir. I'm still holding out that
the experience will be worthwhile. Aren't all experiences
that leave you healthy, if not clean, worthwhile?
Emdibir
is a cluster of mud and straw houses on a muddy hill.
The 'faranji' frenzy is pretty bad and we soon have a
crowd following our every move. I make the mistake of
entertaining a few of the children with loon calls. Some
of the older, hardcore, beggars chase the mostly curious,
less devoted, others away with sticks. They are hoping
to win favour as unasked-for bodyguards.
|
We
meet Slicksta's aunt, a beautiful old woman who cackles
and grins. She radiates warmth. When she is introduced
she points to Slicksta and grabs one of her time-flattened
breasts. We figure she is emphasizing her motherly role
in the community. We love her immediately.We also meet
his sister who is nursing a baby in the complete darkness
of a mud dwelling. We have a communication breakdown and
believe that her baby is due in 7 days instead of 7 days
old and right there wrapped in her shawl. Kiran longs
for light. Slicksta's sister gives us a coffee pot to
welcome us. We leave without seeing the baby.
We talk with Slicksta over coffee in the Gibe hotel. He
agrees to translate tomorrow when we talk to his aunt.
There's water enough for coffee but nothing else.
I watch as a bus rolls into town in a cloud of dust. There
is a goat on the roof like a figurehead or mascot. It
just stands there and brays. I guess it's better than
him being on the inside but I wonder if he'll still be
standing by Addis. |
| April
Fool's Day |
|
| April
1, 2001 - Kiran |
|
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."
|
| Who's
the Fool? |
|
| April
1, 2001 -Geoff |
|
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.
|
| Long
dark tunnel |
|
| April
2, 2001 -Geoff |
Our
parting with Slicksta was both dissapointing and expensive.
It's more difficult to get past the tourist feeling with
a guide but we don't know enough language to do without.
Everyone sees us as walking moneybags. We decide to get
help from the local government in Welkite.
We dodge dung and dung producers to negotiate the mud
road to the Ministry of Tourism and Culture. We get there
by a blue Toyota 4x4 truck that is the pride of the Gurage
Ward Administration Office. I try to remember times when
getting in and out of a car on a regular basis was normal.
Here it feels sinful and lordly. We've given up on a Gurage
wedding ceremony so we ask for help with volunteering
instead. Ato (Mr.) Katika offers us the sevices of his
translator and assistant Ato Obiwa. |
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.
|
| Arranged
wedding |
|
| April
6, 2001 - Geoff |
|
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.
|
We
trust Ato Obiwa and are happy that someone understands
us (and what a budget traveler is). By the time we're
back in the hotel room, we have a tailor working on traditional
costumes and a meeting on Monday with Workiwot's family.
They are already practising the songs.
We
have nothing to do for the weekend so we're heading down
to Jimma in the heart of the Kaffa region. There in the
lush valleys is where coffee was first cultivated. I'm
looking forward to a bit of traveling with only new experiences
on the program. |
| Jimma
stool pigeons |
|
| April
7, 2001 - Geoff |
|
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.
|
I
see a woman with a baby on her back wound in a blue shawl.
She walks between two other women having a conversation.
She takes the hand of one of the talkers and without saying
anything they pass their hands back and forth to be kissed.
Three kisses for each hand. The woman walks on and the
conversation resumes.
There's
a man who seems to be disturbed by my presence on the
balcony. He's raving a bit and doesn't like my notepad.
He shies away when I look at him directly. He seems harmless
enough.
Some
excitement builds when a gentleman shows up in a baby
blue VW Beetle. He makes a good show of disapproving of
sheep after sheep. Boys and men pull reluctant animals
up by the front legs for him to inspect. In the end he
doesn't make a purchase. His Beetle ruins his righteously
indignant exit by failing to start. The shoeshine boys
push him and his car around the corner. |
| Bus
fare |
Location:
Jimma to Emdibir
|
| April
8, 2001 - Kiran |
|
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.
|
Outside
the view is just as stunning as the way here. Hills rise
behind hills, each a shade deeper than the one previous.
The sun spotlights one hill, one acacia tree, at a time,
nothing left undisplayed, just waiting in cold shadow
for their turns. In the middle of the hills three huge
and bare rock mountains sit exposed, smooth thumbs pushing
up from inside the earth.
We pass lots of tukuls, some being constructed, all different.
Some are right out of TheThree Little Pigs. Some
are aged and decrepit, but still full of family life.
I wonder at what point a family decides, "yes, our
tukul is now leaning too much."
We pass stacks of tomatoes, firewood, enset wrapped in
leaf. From somewhere, their owners will come running if
a car shows interest to buy. In other areas, children
run alongside the bus, holding chickens in the air. Girls
carry neatly cut sugar cane, six footlong pieces per bundle
tied with enset fiber made into a handle. A village church
shines, its roof steeple and cross made from corrugated
metal. Our bus stops. Flat tire.
We get out and head to the shade. A man approaches Geoff.
"You." Holds up chicken.
"No." Geoff
"Why."
"Sega albellam (I don't eat meat)." The driver
thinks this is hysterical, and at the next stop, gets
a young boy to offer us another one. |
At
our lunch stop, we are as usual assaulted by calls of
"farenji!", folllowed by a request for money.
The request is always there, the approach varies: sweet
("mother!"), forceful ("give me money"),
silent (hand outstretched), cool ("hey guys"),
or the bizarre one yesterday when two young sisters followed
behind us repeating "mother father die hungry money"
over and over while giggling. Sometimes a person's situation
tugs at our heartstrings, but we never give money to children-
we don't want to support begging as a lifestyle because
the money's better than school. In Addis we buy food coupons
and hand those out instead.
Goats line up behind each other against cool shaded walls
of the tukuls. A chicken clucks from underneath someone's
seat. Easter will soon be here, and I imagine the cries
of a million animals sacrificed will resonate through
the air into my ears. A small fountain catches my eye.
I quickly divert my eyes when I realize it is urinary
flow.
Against the deep red and moist earth everything is vibrant-
yellow bananas, young green grass. Where rain has eroded
the side of a hill and formed rivulets are the velvety
red paws of the Lion of Judah.
__________
The Gibe Hotel girls are excited to see Geoff again.
"Jack! How are you?" (handshakes all around).
Geoff gets sucked into a conversation with a recent Christian
convert, bible in hand. The sky behind us lights up with
electricity and rocks with thunder as the sun sets. |
| Highs
and lows |
|
| April
11, 2001 - Geoff |
|
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.
|
At
the end of the truck ride we realize that we're not going
to get either back. We are told that the government has
to screen the tape for scenes which might be embarassing
to Ethiopia. Before we realize what's really happening,
they have smiled and said goodbye with our camera and
tape still in their truck. We have an appointment for
'feedback' at nine tomorrow, one hour after we were going
to leave on a bus for Addis. We spend the night feeling
like soldiers are going to burst in at any moment. The
paranoia hits its peak at four in the morning when someone
starts banging on every door waking people up and shouting
in Amharic. Our door is bashed along with the others.
We decide not to open the door. After two or three rounds
the person realizes we're not passengers on his bus and
leaves. We hardly sleep at all.
Our walk to the Ministry building is a low point on this
trip. My emotions range from fear to righteous indignation.
I can't think of anything on the tape that might seem
damaging. After all Ato Katika filmed the whole thing.
At the meeting it turns out that the Ministry is confiscating
the tape as an illegal recording. We've become entangled
in the red tape of politics. It will take a while to separate
the wedding from the hassle in our minds.
Read more about our ceremony here. |
| Fasika |
|
| April
14, 2001 - Kiran |
|
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.
|
Lalibela
is used to the tourist types. The behavior of the local
children tells all. We never walk anywhere alone, the
fly-like young boys persist incessantly to be our guides.
We trudge on, deflecting their offers with every "no"
we can think of, finally saying "We do not need a
guide. We will not give you money, now or ever. You are
welcome to walk with us, as our friends." Half of
them leave, the other half tag along for lack of anything
better to do. We play 'I'll say a word and you say the
opposite.'
"Down."
"Top!"
"Almost... we are going down the hill now,
before, we went...?"
"Up!" "Up!"
"Yes! How about big?"
"Small!"
"Thin."
"Big!" "Fat!"
"Slow."
"Fast!"
"Happy."
"Hungry!" |
The
churches here are hewn out of the rock, one even in the
shape of an Orthodox cross. King Lalibela had a vision
of these churches in his sleep and began building them
with such speed that it was said the angels were helping
him at night.
It is amazing to walk down cut stone steps into a church
cut out of the rock earth and be surrounded by faith.
Imagine putting a square container upside down inside
a bigger square container, right side up. This was the
shape of the cut-out buildings, the tops at ground level.
On the walls (like cliff faces) of the right side up container
are holes just big enough for a small Ethiopian. They
are all full of devotees reading bibles in Ge'ez, the
ancient language before Amharic. In one hole lies the
dried-out body of a pilgrim from years ago, body dried
out by the heat, toes at my eye level. Carpets are being
beaten, drums collected for the festivities tonight.
Just before midnight, we wand | | | |