Addis Window

Car wheels on the wet tar recreate the sound of rain. Arabic Muslim prayers from a nearby Mosque slightly over power Chris Brown and Jordan Sparks old hit “No Air”, creating a strange symphony. Breaks screech and hooters toot incessantly. Rumbles of thunder cause the glass to vibrate and the broken door to rattle on its hinges.  Shouts echo as they climb the twirling staircase.

I get up to look outside and gaze along the green and grey corrugated iron roofs rusting in age. The rain has made puddles and a slush-puppy of rubbish and mud all along the gutters. Umbrellas are out and people run from covering to covering. The standard half white half blue taxis dominate the road, each with a different sticker on the back; usually religious or supporting some football club.

The rain starts up again, harder this time, and it’s pattering on the tin drowns out most of the noise except my Arabic backing track. A rude bus horn twice disturbs my solitude. Across the road begins a vast shanty town; a jagged desert of tin roofs that continue for miles until a foresty hill covered in grey mist begins. More and more houses, like cans of baked beans on a fire with holes poked in them, begin to let out pillars of wood-smoke, obscuring my view of the distant pallid Mosque.

Everything now seems grey except for a light blue shack selling bottled water and a red and yellow striped tavern branded by the local ‘St. Georges’ beer, ironically a biblical figure. Other than these a fruit store and a shop selling bright pink and green doors are the only stationary objects that add colour to my scenery. Occasionally a person skipping across my slice of Addis adds a brush of colour to the window painting.

This centre of Addis, Marketo Sub City, is a true slum of Africa. Life is hard and stops for nothing. Yet still, the difficulties of day to day living have not stolen the joy that is evident in the brief interactions between its rain dodging inhabitants. Even from my elevated view I can see the smiles and cheerful eyes.

When the sun comes out, noise will increase, shouts will flood through my now quietened window and the streets will fill up as the bustling trading will once again seize to life. Masses of people will paint the grey into an ever changing kaleidoscope of colour. 

Ethiopia in pictures

Credit to FP Aucamp for the photos, who we met twice both at the Ethiopian embassy in Kenya and the Egypt embassy Ethiopia and so joined up for the journey from Ethiopia to Egypt. Good oke!

The bizarre hyena feeding of Harar.

Enjoying his 'Kat' garden

Inside of an Ethiopian home.

Flora, another Ethiopian travel partner we met couch surfing, at the Blue Nile Falls.

Guns, everywhere and manned very poorly, treated like walking sticks.

Luke making some 'cash money' on the black market money exchange, phone calculator in hand. 

The photographer himself FP Aucamp, who traveled with us from Ethiopia, through Sudan and into Egypt.

ETHIOPIA

On entering Ethiopia I am reminded of that scene in 'Alice in Wonderland'; the one in the beginning where she's chasing the white rabbit down the black hole and her surroundings gradually become more and more bizarre. To say that Ethiopia is an island in Africa is by no means an exaggeration and it is a transition which is felt almost immediately; the dusty Kenyan sand-bowl, littered with thorn trees and termite mounds is replaced by rolling green hills, in which tiny houses are neatly embedded. In these rural areas English also seems to completely disappear and is replaced with Amharic, a language which probably most closely resembles elvish and seems to have striven throughout history to produce some of the most difficult words to pronounce. This is a fact the locals know all to well and so take great pleasure in listening to our, obviously comical, Durbanite attempts.

Food takes on a slightly more exotic form, breaking from the South-East African tradition of 'Nshima with everything' to assortments of various interestingly shaped pastries and meats, the origins of which one can never quite distinguish. Other peculiarities of Ethiopia include the incessant munching on copious amounts of 'Kat', said "chat", (a leafy plant) which will "remove all bad feeling" and apparently, if chewed consistently, "make world better place for everyone" or so say it's many admirers.

10 Birr (R5) pints of beer are also consumed from morning till night, with an enthusiasm and verve that would rival even the proudest Irish bar rat. The pubs and clubs are thus often a hive of social activity where Ethiopians gather in their masses. Although this may seem like a pretty normal social activity to engage in, the manner in which the Ethiopians undertake it can only be described as 'Classic Ethiopian'. Arriving at one pub to watch a football game, for example, we were met with the sight of hundreds of avid fans watching Tom and Jerry instead.

Aside from the complete disregard for social norms, Ethiopians seemed to have boycotted the rest of the worlds notions of time and space; when asking anybody the time, it is always imperative to distinguish between 'European time' or 'Ethiopian time' (GMT-6), the basis of which has no correlation geographically. jumping between these two times zones is commonly used as a tool by bus drivers to make their journeys seem shorter, providing a European departure time and an Ethiopian arrival time.  Moreover when inquiring of the date we discovered that it is apparently still 2005. I'm not sure how the rest of the world missed that one, but nonetheless, sitting drinking a beer, watching Tom and Jerry with Robs and Luke, I realized that if a policeman were to come and ask for ID's we would most definitely all get locked up for underage drinking.

Time traveling aside, Ethiopia remains somewhat of an oasis in the heart of Africa. Having never been colonized, it seems the country has taken on a very different path of development, creating a uniquely different culture along with it's own set of rules and regulations as well as ideas. We have thoroughly enjoyed the experience and Ethiopian peoples casual and contagious contentment with life.

(Some photos will be up in the next post, but for those of you who can't read anything without pictures, here's a shot of one of the Kat junkies we found in Addis.)

This was his response when we tried to take his Kat off him.

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Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 5

We arrived in Nairobi after the “twenty-four” bus took us a casual thirty-two hours, a lot better than the bus we passed coming in the opposite direction who were forty-nine hours in and only half way. Counting our blessings we set off for Karen district to meet our hosts, the Warren family, who we had been put in contact with via the grape vine. It was great to be part of a family again whilst waiting for our Visa’s to be processed, enjoying good food and good company.

It’s funny how on long, ‘hard’ trips like these your standards drop so significantly that even the smallest of comforts feel like a heavenly experience. Something like a bucket bath after a long dusty journey feels like you’re in some crystal clear pool and if you’re lucky enough to get a shower head, you feel like you’ve hit an absolute jackpot, as if you’re now standing in a crystal pool with a waterfall. Thus, staying in a beautiful house with hot water, hot meals and warm beds felt like we were kings in a castle; a total contrast to our last two weeks of travel.

Kings and castles aside, it seems like everywhere we go drama follows us, although I suppose that’s more Africa itself than anything else. Though we weren’t actually right in the thick of it, there were huge riots in the city centre about MP’s pay rises on top of already ridiculous salaries. The strikes were labelled ‘Occupy Parliament’ and pigs were brought in, one of which was slaughtered and its blood used to paint names of officials on the other pigs. What added to the shock factor (whether intended or unintended) was the savage cannibalism which the pigs displayed as they veraciously devoured their fallen comrade on the steps of parliament… truly symbolic?

Listening to the radio in a taxi on our way out of Nairobi the next morning was an absolute treat, comical to say the least, and I was left rather bummed and disappointed when the drive ended. The DJ kept saying, in his deep, gruff and typically East African accented voice, “now we know that the strikes were necessary, and I am in support of the strikes, but was the manner, and that is the question we are discussing, was the manner in which they were conducted distasteful? We are talking about the manner in which the strikes were conducted.”

As for the responses, they were absolutely delightful. A young lady called in first, disgusted. Then another, her more worried about animal cruelty. After this a man with a big voice called in, and I must say his response was my favourite, he simply said, chuffed as ever, “Ah! Ah! Ah! it was classic, brilliant!”. Next a Doctor ‘so and so’ decided to give a very educated and psychological response about the symbolism and how it was scary as people were saying they are ready to kill over such matters.

Upon jumping off and collecting our passports we began talking to the policeman on guard at the embassy; an ex professional boxer who had been in South Africa in ’93 and also to five European countries for tournaments. He was a proud yet humble man, not boasting in his achievements or glory days but rather happy he could share in once being in our country as we were now in his. I will never forget his huge hand as he raised it in his gesturing of “five countries” and how my fingers couldn’t  even reach around his hand as he shook mine goodbye.

And so we left, somewhat glad for our return to Kenya, ready for round three of our Moyale nightmare, this time wiser and more prepared. We booked seats sixteen, seventeen and eighteen, close to the front and on the side were wind blew the dust away rather than directly into the window. In our bus the back row was left empty and we laughed as we thought of our ‘growth’ as travellers and decided how if we saw any tourists on their way down Africa, we would definitely recommend the back seats which, we would tell them, they set aside especially for tourists.
 

                                                                   we strapped Brad's GoPro to one of the pigs, joking image courtesy of interoccupy.net
The End  
 

 

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 4

From Marsabit on, our only way forward seemed to be by 4x4 as the lorries were reluctant to carry tourists.  Thinking we were in for a nice, quick and easy version of the trip we proudly got in to our new Land Cruiser, an absolute beast of a vehicle, and settled in to the nice new seats. As usual, in a short space of time, it became grossly overcrowded and mine and Robbies leg room was cut in half by a huge bag of sugar. To make matters worse Jordan was moved and told that the bag of sugar was to be his new seat. Our already halved leg room was to be shared with ‘daddy-long legs’ himself.

The journey as a whole is difficult to explain. To merely say it was dusty and uncomfortable is a complete understatement. To put it in words will in itself be a weak attempt to do it justice, but I shall try nonetheless. The best way I can explain it is that it was like being on a painful, overcrowded, uncushioned roller-coaster in a dust storm for eight hours. You leave an experience like that feeling like you have reached a new level of mental strength and physical endurance. The corrugated gravel roads shake your entire body relentlessly and your  inability to hold onto anything means every bump causes your body to slam either against the person next to you or into the vehicle itself.  We got off in Moyale, Jordan and I each with a cracked rib and  Robbie suffering from severe back spasms. To make matters worse rain and dust had combined to create mud all over our bags and our hair had stiffened into one big dread.
 

Rob n Jords looking like dusty nomads at a midway stop during our 4x4 trip.

I must add that this particular section of the journey is known amongst travellers as the ‘bone cruncher’ and is considered the most hectic stretch of the entire 'Cape to Cairo'. Having said this, reaching Moyale alive had a triumphant feeling to it and we felt all-conquering ‘knowing’ that, theoretically, it shouldn’t get any worse as far as journeys go.  

Of course Africa was intent on teaching us a lesson and on arrival at the Ethiopian border we were told we had been misinformed about being able to attain a visa upon entry and had to go all the way back to Nairobi to get it. After arguing for thirty minutes to try find a way around, the very unhelpful border official loudly and rather rudely exclaimed “There is no option! You go Nairobi”. Moreover he proudly states that it is a common problem, as if the fact that it’s happened to many travellers should make us feel better about ourselves. Having lost all sense of humour by now I can only think that if its such a common problem, do something about it instead of just sitting there all smug-like and fat in your office with your stupid swivel chair (for me, being jobless, I detest swivel chairs as they symbolise office work and yet I admire them because we all know swiveling on chairs is  cool, especially if you’re on an international call talking about stocks and shares in a nice shiny suit, wearing shoes that have laces and socks that aren't secret). Nevertheless, I keep quiet and we humbly return to Kenya, tails between our legs.

The thought of repeating the ‘bone cruncher’ was eating away at our morale. Typical us; no one would ever dream of having to do this leg once, let alone twice and yet here we were about to do it three times, just for kicks. In fact we were so desperate not to do it again that we looked for alternative routes through Sudan and even Somalia; our logic being that we had more chance of survival in these countries than going back and forth along the terrible roads. Even these, however, meant a substantial amount of backtracking and even returning to Nairobi.

Just as all seemed lost. a life line was given when Chris, a local border hustler, told us of two Americans who phoned their embassy in Addis and managed to organise entry into Ethiopia without a visa. And so, we wasted no time in buying a sim card and dedicatedly began phoning the eight or so different numbers we found for the embassy. The response was typically South African and for the first day the phone just rang and rang. On the second day more of the same until about the one hundred and fiftieth call; an answer. Needless to say despite the best efforts of the very helpful Busi, our embassy obviously didn’t have the same sway as the Americans and we were sent packing, Africa had won the battle; Nairobi, round two.

Ten minutes later we found ourselves booking the one way bus ticket back to Nairobi. A “Twenty four hour” trip. Unfortunately all that was available was the back row and after being warned against taking these seats we niavely, or perhaps  ignorantly, ignored the advice, settling for seats fifty eight, fifty nine and sixty.

The trip back was worse than the trip before, the bus gave us an absolute beating; sitting behind the rear wheel created a see-saw effect, throwing you up and then slamming you down, as if the person on the other end just jumped off when you were at your highest. In fact, it was so bad that Jordan and I found ourselves standing for two hours at one point just to get some respite. Back spasms and cracked ribs flaring up again, we whimpered and whined the entire thousand kilometres back to Kenya’s capital, dehydrated, sore, needing to wee and unable to get a wink of sleep.

Not only had our budget taken a huge dent but our spirits had too. An extra R500 on doing the worst part of the journey three times instead of once was hard to swallow and we arrived in Nairobi battered and bruised, truly a sight for sore eyes.

Dar es Salaam to Disappointment: Part 3

Hoisting my backpack up the lorries ladder, I dodge the red mud left by the pair of huge boots two steps ahead of me. Behind me Jords, Robs and a few others follow suit.

The lorries are of course meant for carrying goods and as a passenger you simply find your place a midst whatever cargo is being carried. Today's choice is a lorry full of various vegetables. Thousands of loose cabbages lie at the rear end of the the lorry and in front of them sit large bags of carrots followed by even larger (about 200kg) bags of potatoes. Of course it's no 'Woolworths' van and all the vegetables are still unwashed and extremely sandy, making for a rather dirty setting.

The three of us are taken in by our surroundings, 'frothing' on the new experience. After five minutes we stop for more cargo and a few more passengers. More of the same massive bags are added, this time it's sugar and rice. Boxes of biscuits, beef cubes and washing powder are also thrown in, making a soapy vegetable aroma. Five or six more people jump on and I count a total of twenty-three men, one women and her baby.

I readjust a few things and make a fairly comfortable bed on the sugar, surrounded by a sea of cabbages. Jords and Robs have settled in on the potatoes and use their bags and the carrots as back rests. Some people sit outside on top of the lorries metal frame and with the roads still nicely tarred the journey starts comfortably enough. Until rain. The grey clouds, once ahead now loom solidly above us and the first few drops begin to fall. It comes quickly and within minutes it's pouring.

The back of the lorry is covered by two plastic covers; the one on the outside is thick and green, strong but old with holes, under this lies a clear sheet that provides the main rain protection. Those sitting above scurry inside and my glorious throne of space is slowly invaded. First an older man joins me exclaiming "Ah we are together". He seems rather impressed at my "picking a space" skills, acknowledging the wisdom beyond my years with a nod and a grunt of approval as he slides in next to me. He seems to find the whole scenario very comical as he laughs at those getting rained on nearer to the front. As the rain continues, more join and my throne becomes more of a footstool as I am pushed further and further off of it.

After a little while the water dripping through the old green cover begins to collect in the clear plastic, creating pools above our heads where it sags between the trucks squared metal frame. In total four pools are created and as the truck moves water 'swishes' from pool to pool. As one is emptied another one fills, and so the risk of it spilling increases. Thus the water becomes like an axe hanging above ones head and with every bit of braking, accelerating and sharp turning, a game is created between the passengers as water flows from pool to pool. Filling is greeted by frantic 'pushing of water' into someone else's pool, who in turn does the same, transferring it elsewhere, and so the game continues. All eyes watch as everyone calculates the risk of getting showered upon  as amounts of water rise and fall. To both safe onlooker and the endangered, it is a more than comical sight. The entertainment makes the wet a lot more bearable and soon teamwork takes over and everyone works together to push the water away from danger, out over the cabbages.

When it clears we make our way to the front, climb out the folded back plastic and sit on the metal frame; the wind icy against our damp clothes. Flat plains as far as the eye can see with a covering of sporadic shrub and thorn trees. Distant mountains to one side, shimmering in the heat. Large herds of cattle guarded by Masai create clouds of rising dust as hundreds of hooves trample the barren earth.

On my left a Masai guards his herd, wrapped in two cloths. The first, a bright pawpaw orange, partly covered by a deep purple outer cloth. He wears a burgundy scarf wrapped around his head with feathers sticking out, almost like an American Indian. Around his ankles, wrists and neck hang many pieces of beaded jewellery. His ears both have huge tunnels, in the right one a feather hangs through and in the left is a shiny metal earring. He holds a a stick, black with green beads. Over his bare chest hangs an AK47, around his waist a long machete in a leather satchel.

The Masai here differ from the more traditional red dress so commonly found elsewhere in Kenya. They seem more nomadic and wild. It feels good to see them, the non-tarnished, non-tourist version of the Zanzibar sell-outs, knowing their machetes are used to protect their cattle and not merely to peel oranges.

The journey continues and the crowd of passengers changes frequently as many get on and off along the way. At one stage we're joined by a whole group of Masai, more traditionally dressed in red with white beads and sandals, their hair braided and dried in a reddish mud. As they get off a more modern Masai gets on, his traditional skirt accompanied by a thick-striped black and white collared shirt and a Taqiyah (Muslim hat). Although his English is good, there is little conversation as his sits quietly chewing his 'Kat'.

As night falls, more and more people get off and when we finally reach our destination, Marsabit, only about five of us remain. The driver checks into his 'Hotel' and we're allowed to sleep in the back. Suddenly the bags of potatoes are not so romantic and provide more of a stone like mattress than anything else. Our excitement warn off, we settle in for another uncomfortable night of minimal sleep and water dodging as the rain continues.

Midway through the night the pool above me gives way, and my sleeping bag is left soaked. Freezing and wet I try escape the even colder metal side of the lorry and snuggle up to Robs attempting to steal some of his body heat. It works to minimal effect and as I slowly drift off back to sleep I think of the days previous passengers and how they'd probably like to know I lost the game of 'water dodging'.

A horrible shot, but hopefully you get a bit of an idea.