No way to express, how sweet it is, but to know what it is real, that you can feel!

Give Thanks ;-))

Finally

What can I say, I've been here for nine days and taken four pictures. There is just too much to do, eat, drink, watch, listen, and celebrate. I feel too much at home to be a tourist. It's like California, Italy and Pakistan all wrapped in one bizarre geo-cultural cobb salad and I really don't what to make of it quite yet. I can say one thing for sure though; never ever in my short little life have I met or even considered the possibility of an entire country composed of such outrageously generous fun loving people. Who knows where it'll go from here, but I'll let you know as soon as I find out God. Thanks, Sam

Power of Petra (not a registered trademark)

A major rewind shall be difficult at this point, but if I didn’t briefly mention my experience in the ancient sandstone city of Petra, I would certainly be opening up a great void in my travelogue universe.

After spending those five intensely “influential” days in Rum, it was difficult to fathom leaving for a similar desert environment that I knew would be swarming with tourists. During that last evening in Rum at Mohammed’s camp, as we sat around digesting, discussing, and drinking good Israeli vino, I expressed my reluctance about dealing with the hassles of yet another major tourist site. Eighth wonder of the world or puddle of mud, it really didn’t seem to matter, mainly because I was quite content where I was. But upon hearing these hesitations, without so much as a moment’s consideration of my dilemma, the Israelis, all of whom had visited Petra at least once, scoffed and said quite clearly that I should and must go. As fellow climbers, I was certain that their advice could not be the result of blasé impressions or contrived, guidebook type agendas. No, these were very discerning dudes who would not so strongly suggest a destination based simply on its reputation.

My biggest qualm with this sort of international travel tourism that I’ve been doing is that we’re all basically told to go the same places because (for obvious reasons) the places have some great historical or cultural distinction. In the end unfortunately, nobody is really making their own decisions. It’s the educated sheep mentality. This of course is the totally natural approach for us sheep-like humans when walking about in a new and mysterious country. Nobody disputes that all the major sites are indeed spectacular, for why else would they be designated as such, but for me the catch is not so much the destination itself but the surrounding the experience. My appreciation does not so much depend on the grandeur of the site but more so on the experience of being there, walking about, contemplating, and taking in. This is by necessity a slow and personalized process. The difficulty is that some places, for example the Pyramids at Giza, seem to have absolutely no room for a surrounding (slow) experience of any sort, at least not for a casual traveler who doesn’t know any better. Now that I think about it, my day at the Pyramids was perhaps one of the most dull experiences of the whole trip, and so when I was first considering going to Petra without really knowing how unique the place was, I was quite concerned it might be a similarly frustrating, and ultimately a waste of time. Hordes of tourists and convoys of coaches, constant haggling over camel rides and Pepsis, hot sun, zero shade, nothing but sand underfoot, and a few enormous crumbling edifices to gawk at; this was not my idea of fun and would be sure to avoid it in the future.

But low and behold! I could not have been any more mistaken in regards to these Egypt-based preconceptions of Petra. For one thing, Petra is by no means a tour bus accessible site. To even begin to enter the ancient city, one is required to walk, or at the very least be carried by donkey or camel, a full 3km through the main entrance canyon. And from there, there is at least another 20kms of promenades to the main edifices and ceremonial sites, to say nothing of the hundreds of minor pathways and trails that lead throughout the smaller ruins of the old city. All of this is to say that Petra is not a quick, off-the-bus-on-the-bus type destination. It is recommended to spend at least two days meandering through the landscape, slowly absorbing the remains of a culture that was developed over three thousand years in complete harmony with its surroundings.

The atmosphere today on the main promenades of the city is an extraordinary mixture of tourists and locals mingling in a totally relaxed yet active mode of being. Bedouin guides and shop keepers, beckoning but not insisting, tourists walking but not hurrying, local children playing more than working; this is the Petra that I experienced, a place where the old facades and archeological ruins blend and blur seamlessly with the modern adaptations for tourism and trade. In its own way, Petra has not died; though it may have been lost and unseen by anyone but a Bedouin for five hundred years, the city today is most certainly alive and evolving.

What is referred to as the ancient Petra is a massive layered conglomeration of three thousand years of Nabatean, Roman, and Crusader construction and cultural development. Carved out of the sandstone by successive waves of enterprising kingships, the amphitheaters, churches, tombs, and other such royal dwellings, though partially eroded in many places, still protrude distinctively from the canyon walls and tickle the imagination. Interspersed throughout the major buildings, are countless smaller homes and shelters, so tightly packed in some areas that it gives the feel of modern apartment complexes existing in a paradoxically urban, manmade, manipulated yet completely natural environment. Alas, it’s the ideal eco-village, complete with complex flood-control systems, water wheels, irrigation, agriculture and energy. Nowadays, generators have replaced the indigenous technologies, but nonetheless, the Bedouin are out there carving out a seemingly decent livelihood from a mix of crop production, goat herding, and tourism.

Over the two days I was lucky enough to spend discovering Petra, I walked about, scrambled and stemmed my way up and down, canyons, valleys, animal trails, and gentle desert ridgelines. The landscape was at points completely overwhelming, especially at sunset, when the fleeting orange hues would linger endlessly on the rolling bulges of white sandstone that lined the eastern canyons. At the end of both days, I chose fortuitously to exit Petra through these surreal white gateways to the setting sun, walking up and into what felt like a magical bath of angelic light, brushing away hunger and sadness with every upward breath. On both days it was exactly the same; just as I reached the pinnacle of these luminous white ridges and the blazing red orb had dipped below the horizon, I was completely swallowed up by an energizing tidal wave of love for the earth and complete awe for its (her?) beauty. This feeling more than anything else is why Petra is pure, and why the human beings there are still to this day able to blend with the nature, and why even with the whir of generators and the intrusion of modern restaurants and port-o-potties, the place has an undeniable resonance of power that must in some way affect every person who visits. Clear and simple, it is a sacred place available to all, no matter what path one chooses to trod. Me personally, I can’t wait to go back!

Wadi Rum

The difficulty with this medium is its limitlessness. It is in fact not one medium at all, but a great messy collage of many overlapping possibilities. As such, the medium of the blog and the medium of life are quite similar. When one suffers, the other projects. It seems no one wants to read about this aspect of (my) experience but of course it’s there and must be levied against the inspiration.

I arrived in the Bedouin village of Wadi Rum happy as a clam. It had been two days since I left Cairo, traveling overnight across the Sinai to reach the port of Nuweiba and then climbing aboard the ferry for the four hour trip to Aqaba, Jordan. From Aqaba, it was just a matter of one night’s fitful sleep in a cramped hotel room with a snoring Spaniard and some light provisioning in the morning, then I was off.

Undeniably, in all ways and at all moments, Wadi Rum was very, very good to me. First of all, as you might infer from the picture below, it is one of the most astoundingly gorgeous desert landscapes in the world.

The village itself (sprawled out on the valley floor between the massifs of Jebel Rum and Jebel Khalazi) is a pleasant place to stay. The Bedouin people are relaxed and living quite comfortably, many of them banking heartily off the growing tourist flow. Almost every adult male of Wadi Rum owns a Landcruiser, and when they’re not using it to transport goats or building materials, or whatever, there is no shortage of tourists wishing to pay 50 bucks for a ride around the desert. Fortunately for me, the tourists don’t seem to get out of the vehicles to walk around much, so in five days of climbing and hiking I did not meet a single one except in the parking lot of the village’s only restaurant.

The climbing and hiking was delicious sweet surrender. On the afternoon of my arrival, I hiked out into the desert and took this picture from atop an outlying tower in front of the main massif of Jebel Rum. These two hours of twilight strolling and scrambling through the winding canyons were all that was needed to convince me that I had come to the right place. The desert sunk its claws into my soul on that first afternoon and from sunset onwards, all other details slipped into place as water in the sand. The most definitive aspect of my good fortune was meeting Elad and his friends that night in the restaurant. Longtime Rum climbers, they told me everything I wanted to know about the valley and suggested that I migrate over to the other campsite in town where there was a free kitchen for use as well as many other conveniences and comforts. The following day after climbing with Mohammed, a local Bedouin kid who knows all the classic routes, I headed over to the climbers camp and just as I was walking in, Elad’s friends were walking out with their backpacks on. Turns out they had been unexpectedly required to drive back to their home town of Haifa that evening, thereby leaving Elad to wait until the end of the week for his other partners to arrive. This turn of fate naturally offered me the opportunity to climb three days with Elad, who of course was not just any climber dude, but one of the strongest and most experienced in the Valley, and certainly one of the most conscientious, respectful, and focused persons I have ever met. Needless to say, I thanked my lucky stars many times throughout the rest of the week (even as I struggled hard to follow the 5.12 cracks that Elad led effortlessly) and tried as much as possible to express my gratitude to him whenever possible.

The four days of climbing was intense; full of manifest suffering at times from a mix of hot sun and cold shade, sharp sandstone whose integrity that I never fully learned to trust, painful shoes that for some reason seem to have shrunk two sizes since I wore them in Alaska, and most of all my frantic head and deflated body out of shape from two months of malnutrition and sitting on my ass. At the end of the week, when Elad’s friends arrived and it was time for me to move on to Petra, I was left with the uncomfortable sensation of wanting more but knowing that I couldn’t handle it physically. My hands were torn up and toes blistered, physically I was quite a mess and emotionally I had an overwhelming sense of deficiency, which lingered heavily for some days and never fully subsided. But as with any difficult endeavor, the rewards I suppose are inevitably worth the hardships, even if the eventuality is uncertain and hard to ascertain in the moment.

(More climbing pics coming soon!)

Oddities

This is a message posted throughout the decks of the Nuweiba-Aqaba ferry boat -- see below for a picture of the oddly designed boat. I think there must have been something missed in the translation of the word "opinions," but nonetheless it is an accurate reflection of the paradox of Islamic politics.

Pyramids and Pudding

I'm kind of at the end of a line here. I took the night train down from Luxor three days ago and ever since I stepped off into that morning haze of Cairo's chaotic rush hour with no direction and no connection, life has been good; I certainly can't complain even though at times I really try.

It is quite a special experience to get off the train sleepy-eyed and slowly in a brand new city of 20 million people and have no idea where to go and no need to go anywhere. First step I took was to exit the station and go in search of a morning beverage. This ended me at an adjacent orange juice stand, where during the course of drinking, I was befriended by an Egyptian man who had just returned from living for 14 years in Namibia. For god knows what reasons exactly, this man Mahmoud was entirely devoted to helping me get to where i needed to go -- namely downtown, where the LP recommended budget hotels are located-- without any need for personal gain whatsoever. I say this with a bit of incredulity because it was a first for me in Egypt. Not that people are any less helpful and good natured here, it’s just that in relation to other places I’ve been on this trip, the level of street swindlers, scammers and sellers is astronomically higher. I have had to build up a hardy shell of skepticism in my encounters with people on the street, only to avoid being the constant victim of thickly embellished sales schemes.

After finishing our juice, Mahmoud and I took a taxi together to downtown Cairo and he dropped me off right where I needed to be. I got out the taxi and wandered several blocks down from the enormous traffic rotary of death at Mahab Tahrir and started looking for the budget hotels. Of course before I had a chance to find the one I was looking for, some dude with a striking resemblance to Tiger Woods asked me what I was looking for and if he could help. To be sure this was by no means going to be a selfless act. But in the end, Tiger Woods, as he preferred to be called, was genuinely helpful and pretty hilarious. First I asked if he could help me find the Syrian embassy, after which he insisted on showing me a hotel which he thought would be more suitable for me and my budget. He brought me up to the Dahab Hotel on the seventh and top floor of a building in the heart of downtown Cairo. This place turned out to be a real oasis of rooftop calm, potted plants, and a very diverse array of international backpacker types, from the classic Euros to the quirky Christian surfers from Hawaii, to a really sweet couple from Washington Avenue in FT Greene BROOKLYN! But what convinced me to follow Tiger’s advice was not so much the sweet setting of the place which didn’t really become apparent until later, but it was more the fact than when I arrived at the reception desk, the people checking in before me were none other than the two travelers sitting next to me on the train, whom I had noticed but not spoken with. As usual, nothing is as it seems and it’s always better to follow a whim than a reason.

Back to Tiger. After I checked in contentedly, he naturally insisted I come downstairs to his perfume shop and have a look around. I chuckled lightly thinking there was no way he would sucker me after I told him countless times that I was not in the market. But low and behold, after two cups of tea and his long monologue about the energetic chakra healing properties of his uniquely high quality essential oils (and me realistically considering the fact that I have been without any deodorant or added body scent for two months), I gave in. I left the shop happily and indeed energetically awakened from my overnight train stupor. On my way back upstairs to the Dahab, I bumped into the the two from the train--Canadians, Sarah and John--who were on their way out to visit the markets and mosques of Old Cairo. At first I thought I needed to shower and relax, but after some good cajoling and conversation with them, I was convinced to head right out and dive into the sights of the city.

From that point forward, I’ve been blessed with a continual barrage of Cairo sight seeing, walking, driving, talking, and taking in. I could have spent hours inside the Cairo museum but of course I was a bit distracted and disgruntled by the package tour hordes. I did leave the museum however fully satisfied by the experience of seeing the mummified body of Ramses II and about 20 other major pharonic personalities under glass and wrapped in the original formaldehyde soaked bandages of three thousand years ago. Something about the shriveled bodies and frazzled orange hair still clinging to their softball sized skulls really gave me a sense of what everyone is after here... We love the dead because it reminds us of how nice life is now?

After the museum, I strolled across one of the many Nile bridges into the upscale (island) neighborhood of Zamelek with a plan to meet a friend of a friend for dinner. Dear sweet Rima from NYC had mentioned to me several months back that she had a friend Suzanne who owned a restaurant in Cairo. Of course at the time I had no idea that Suzanne owned the best restarurant in the whole damn city and her and her husband and their 3-year old boy are amazing people and quite a blessing to know. The restaurant, La Bodega is set up in amazing colonial era mansion, with goegroeus murals, a decked out comfy lounge bar, and an extensively mouth watering menu that was on par with the best of the best in that other little upscale island neighborhood we all know so well. We sat and dined and chatted for three hours about their lives, my trip, and the frenetic nature of cairo. I left feeling for the first time completely recharged and ecstatic to be in Cairo. More than anything, I was humbled once again by the enormous generousity of what would otherwise be strangers and also again by an overwhelming appreciation for the unfolding plan, of which I seem to have no ultimate control but complete trust in.

And now it only gets better. I spent yesterday bouncing around in a mini bus to the three major Cairo pyramid sites (my own little package tour). It all began at one in the morning the night before when I mentioned to the manager of the Dahab that I might like to travel down to Giza for the day and in a matter of five minutes he had returned to me with news that a German couple was looking to do the same and it could be arranged for only 12 dollars a person. So off we went, me and the middle aged german couple, Joseph and Monica, to check off perhaps the single most acclaimed tourist experience in the world. In full style, we circumnavigated the Giza pyramids atop horses, gazing at the dessert monoliths and the Disney like clamor of 100,ooo others streaming about. This experience could be nothing more than slightly anticlimactic, alas we quickly moved on to the next site. The highlight of the day was indeed at the Saqara Red Pyramid, into which we were allowed to descend without paying the usual additional 10 or 20 dollar ticket charge. The inside of the three thousand year old building smelled strongly of ammonia or perhaps stale pee pee. Either way it was quite a memorable space for a minute. But actually the most memorable part of the day was the rush hour traffic through Cairo on the way back north. I believe the city planners must simply have forgotten to consider the modern predicament of cars and drivers. In fact, there is no city planning at all in Cairo! The city is ancient and completely broken when it comes to driving. The subway system ain’t half bad though, but the roads are a mess! Trying to cross the street on foot is a bit like Russian roulette though I’ve heard Delhi and Bangkok might be worse.

Anyhow, I don’t really to have to worry about traffic anymore because last night after returning to the hotel with the Germans, (who by the way it turns out are professional waste oil collectors, biodiesel manufacturers and diesel engineers back home in Munich) I packed my bag and took the metro down to the wealthy Cairo suburb of El Maadi. Yet another example of the unfolding goodness of the plan and people along the way, back in Luxor, I met a group of American school teachers – they happen to be Canadian but what’s the difference, eh – and one of them named Laura was sweet enough to offer me her guest bedroom in the house (see above) she shares with her boyfriend Hanni and their two cats. It was really pretty extraordinary to make this offer after knowing me for all of an hour and a half and to be honest I wasn’t really sure if it was right of me to take advantage of such openness. But I guess the point is nothing is to be taken advantage of out here, only appreciated and reciprocated. Though it may sound smug cliché or contrived, I realize this is the only approach to life when you have no home, only the world as nesting material. I’ll even go so far as to say, the proof is in the pudding.

Last night we ate at the Korean restaurant RIGHT around the corner from their house, then came back “home” and baked cupcakes for Laura’s seventh grade class bake sale. We chatted about the demands of teaching and the love/hate intensity of the city. Hanni and I spoke about the fruit and vegetable distribution business that he owns with his brother and Egyptian agriculture. By the end of the night, I felt more comfortable and ‘familiar’ than I have in a month, at least since I left Daniela in Nanyuki. I woke up this morning completely refreshed from the first real night’s sleep in weeks, took a beautiful shower, ate cereal and drank tea. Now it’s time to part ways with the slumbering cats of this lovely abode and go a wandering and book shopping on these new jersey-esque streets.

Valley of the Kings

Today I rode a bicycle 40 kilometers up and around the ancient cemetery of Thebes. It was perhaps the most overwhelming tourist experience I've ever had, with literally 70,000 of us stumbling around the tombs and monuments to the dead. I felt a bit awkward paying 20-30$ to gawk at the walls and stare dumbfounded at the colorful hieroglyphics and graphic adornment. The whole experience felt like a bit of a trespass, with an air of voyerism and necrophilia. In an hour, I'm off to Cairo on the night train. I think this'll be a good move for deepening my perspective and appreciation for the country. Tune out the tourism and hopefully begin to blend in a bit.

Down the Tube to Egypt

(slow train through northern Sudan)

(Lake Nasser Ferry at sunrise)

(Karnak Temple entrance)

I've been watching many bad American movies on Arabic television in the lobby of this pleasant backpacker hotel in Luxor. Right now, I find it difficult to concentrate on writing anything of substance with the TV blaring. But with free high speed Internet and tea, I must take advantage of my circumstances and write what ever comes out.

Since arriving by boat three days ago from Lake Nasser in Sudan, this journey -- and my corresponding state of mind which is the real driver of everything out here -- has drastically shifted. For a month and half I was fully immersed in Africa. For a month and half the experience was genuinely mine. Even in Ethiopia or Zanzibar where there were many tourists, I never once felt like I was being pegged and pinned by the locals for being one. I travelled with the sense that I was actually discovering something new and genuine for myself and using this blog to report about it. The Africa of Sudan, Ethiopia, Tanzania, Kenya was indeed brand new for me and relatively untrammeled by others like me. In Egypt, it's not only that there are hordes and hordes of tourists, but that the entire country (for me only the cities of Aswan and Luxor) seem to be almost completely designed to cater to the tourist desire. There are rows upon rows of markets with stalls selling an almost identical selection of spices, carved trinkets, clothes, jewelry, water pipes, and the like. Through the rows wander countless package-tour groups that have sailed up the Nile in luxurious cruise ships or sped up the high way in plush air

conditioned buses. Most appear to be Europeans (and Japanese, see above) on holiday. I say more power to them. Come to Egypt and appreciate the heritage. Come to Egypt and give your money to Egyptians. Thus far, it appears I have stumbled upon the true tourist mecca, but of course this not all there is to it and most definitely not the experience I desire.

(Aswan mosque)

I am in fact completely uninterested in visiting the archaeological sites, though yesterday and today I happily ride a rented a bicycle from one ancient Thebian site to the next. When in Luxor, there is really no choice but to do as the tourists do. This is fine, but what I'm really after is Egypt of the present. What is Egypt, who are the Egyptians, how do they see themselves? These questions began to occur as soon as I stepped out of the tube and into the culture. There is a very strange air of confusion about this place. Neither Africa nor the middle east, neither black nor white, but according to one educated Egyptian man I spoke with last night, the culture can best be described as pharonic. I laughed, but this is actually quite true. Egyptian identity is distinct and as a whole, the country can rightfully claim a direct lineage to pharoahs. I'm not sure if this distinction actually has any positive influence over culture and politics in Egypt today. The country is indeed a political force to be reckoned with in the region, and it is definitely the world capital of moderate Islam's mainstream media and education. But all this is in Cairo, and I am not there yet. Hopefully, with the few connections I have in Cairo, I'll gain those genuine windows into the Egyptian reality that I seek more than pyramids.

In Sudan, the windows were sublime and almost entirely inaccessible in a mere five days. Here it's the reverse but ultimately the same. Culture is blatantly lathered on the tourist but in such a way that the authenticity becomes questionable. From the Egyptian men I met in Sudan right through my three days in Egypt, I have run head on into bigotry and ignorance many times. In three or four different instances, Egyptian men have articulated to me the view that black Africans are lazy and Egypt is a cut above not only all of Africa, but the middle east as well. Having this kind of racist small talk so casually thrown out makes me want to dismiss the whole country outright. But then I remember that this is only an obstacle on the path to finding the windows. It'd be like going to Texas and concluding that all of the United States advocates concealed weapons and the death penalty. Unfortunately there are large sections of the population in any country, no matter how open minded and progressive the whole, that convey narrow provincial opinions. Sometimes, these people are even tools of the state, such as the current situation in Khartoum with the 600 "protesters" yesterday demanding death for the British teacher who's students named a teddy bear Muhammad. It is absolutely astounding to me that everywhere in the world, but especially in the Arabic speaking countries, blind allegiance and faith in authority figures overrides all human instincts of compassion. Bigotry and arrogance often wins the majority. People label themselves with this or that religion, nationality, or ethnicity, but so often the labels only serve to confuse.

What makes me happy more than anything out here is when I meet someone who is willing to grapple with these ideas, to engage, not to agree. Of course language can be a major limitation, but somehow, maybe not everyday, but always just at the right times, these folks cross my path and bestow their perspectives and knowledge in such a way that I am enlightened not defensive. Sometimes there is a fine line, such as the case last night in a conversation I had with the American owner of the Oasis Cafe...

(Feluccas on the Nile)

Khartoum

my multimedia mess:

(The above video clips were recorded this past Friday evening, during the weekly Sufi celebration here in Khartoum. In the course of one day, how completely one's reality of a place can shift. From sick in stinky overpriced hotel to breathing fresh air and eating wild arugula on the banks of the Blue Nile, Friday was an epic in itself which ended with these two hours of ectsatic music and dance in a Sufi cemetrary.)

Friday Saturday and Sunday

Where to begin eludes me (also where to end and where to go in between). It seems like I have been here in Sudan for years, but only three days have elapsed. How quick I was to judge! And how ironic that I would choose the word groovy in my previous post, sarcastically describing and nearly dismissing the whole of the country in one FOUL mood! Understandably, entry into a new atmosphere is always a bit rough with no guidance systems whatsoever. I came here blindly and what's more is that I was quite fixated on how pleasant and pleasurable the previous atmosphere was. Let me stand completely corrected. The experience of being in Khartoum for three days has evolved beyond me and my puny ideas of how it should and shouldn't be. This is the most basic realization there is for me. That when traveling to a new place, there is no choice but to let go of all preconceptions and believe nothing until it is presented as true by the experience itself.

The tendency for me is to enter a place looking to confirm or refute some simplified preconception, usually an association that has been generated over the years by a mix of media and government messages. In Ethiopia, it was famine. In Sudan, it's war, genocide, Islamism, or whatever's the latest NPR buzz word. But after being here for THREE days, I'm finished with that approach. Regrettably I am of course catching the train tomorrow to Egypt, so there is no more time to try any approach. This has been my typical pattern. The minute I arrive, my mind and body start to settle and tune in. And Like a tree sapling which is planted in fertile soil, I resist being uprooted. Just as the first tendrils take hold, it happens again. In Sudan, the medium is very rich indeed but tapping in and actually absorbing something of value is slow and restrained. this is the nature of the Muslim culture. The opening up and ability to relate is all the more valuable.

Camping at the Blue Nile Sailing Club has been the ultimate boon to my existence here. Through the club, I've been blessed with the most beautiful scenery in the entire city, cool temps, gentle evening breezes, and most importantly a steady stream of interesting english speaking Sudanese and tourist people with whom to chat and pass the time

This is a view of the Blue Nile Sailing Club from the water. The church in the background is catholic which is an oddity in Sudan. this morning sunday the church rang its bell on the hour every hour from 12 am to 9am and i did not sleep because the bell was in my head in my tent. i think the church must feel a little competitive edge with the constant public address coming from the countless mosques that surround it. who can blame the for a little aggressive bell ringing.

Now it's way past midnight and I'm supposed to be a the train station at six am. i'm losing it. this bog (blog) is consuming my brain. sudan is indescribable. so much experience, so little time. i;m smoking benson and hedges with the high rolling chinese engineers. last night they took us out for a 200 dollar meal at Khartoum's only Korean restaurant. endless gernousity. tonight we sit around at their hotel using the free internet. the hotel sells beer which is illegal in this country. nothing makes sense, i'm losing it. must stop uploading video. takes hours. tomorrow I travel on the 48 hour slow train with two backpacker friends from hong kong. we have to sit in separate rooms on the train because they are female. whatever comes my way here is a miracle. the whole trip is miraculous. traveling is a metaphor for life. journey to nowhere. new places everyday. it's all illusion. allah is the only god. they say in the the Koran it's written that jesus is not the son of god, but only a prophet like Muhammad. i believe what they tell me. i am adaptable, why not?

ok, so this is not my intention to ramble endlessly but nothing is permenent in the realm of the autosave.

ps.-- this last picture i dub the Libyan Egg Mall. Contrary to what the shape of the building embodies, I imagine the Libyans who financed this project in downtown Khartoum never intended to sell any poultry products in any scale. It dominates the skyline and is set to open its shopping plaza, hotel and offices sometime in the next month. for all those who think sudan is a war torn poverty stricken african country run by islamic fundamentalists, well it's all that and then some. one thing is clear, the sudanese government is not getting any poorer and neither are the NGO's who come here to save the people from themselves. that said i'm going to camp on the river. hasta las pyramides...

Back Live Again

I'm sitting up in the second floor lobby of one of the many high end, super gaudy hotels in downtown Khartoum, SUDAN. Indeed it was easy and safe to cross the south eastern dessert. My German travelling buddy and I sailed smoothly from Gonder up to Gederif Sudan in one long day. We parted ways in Gedarif where he went off to the Eritrean border crossing at Kassala, and me seven hours in air conditioned coach up to Khartoum. Three separate border security checks, and seven on route. Yes seven times on the road to Khartoum, I had to exit the coach and present my passport, travel permit, and registration in a hot dusty shack to some mildly suspicious, sleepy eyed immigration officer. I told them surely that Sudan takes more precautions against foreigners than the USA. In the end, there was only hassle, not harassment. Once when I took a picture of the sunset in front of one of the shacks, I was sternly reminded that pictures are not allowed in Sudan without a permit. Otherwise they simply wrote my name, passport number, profession, and nationality in some dusty log book and sent us on our way.

At Sudan-Ethiopia border of Metema-Galabat

Arrived in the city center yesterday afternoon around 4PM and set about finding a groovy place to sleep. Then I realized quickly that Khartoum isn't really the grooviest city on the planet. First off, to get similar quality accommodations to what I payed seven dollars for in Ethiopia, here in Khartoum the base would be $50. Food along with transport and all the other necessities are equally as out of proportion. The Sudanese pound was recently adjusted for inflation and now 2SP=1USD. This simply does not jive with the apparent poverty and quality of life I see all around me, so I can only assume I'm often paying foreigner prices. This is the classic double standard which I accept to a certain degree, but here it's a bit over the top. No worries though, I was well taken care of last night.

I checked in to the Khalil hotel which is actually more of a males only boarding house. These are called lokendas and they are the standard low budget option at 4.50 USD for a bed in a shared room. Last night, I was put in a room with three Egyptian dudes (Khalil, Hassan, and Sharif) who were in Sudan on some kind of construction based business endeavor. They were extremely friendly and took a keen interest in taking care of me. After I dropped my bag they suggested going out to their favorite Egyptian run cafe around the corner from the hotel. We ate the

classic Sudanese/Egyptian dish called ful, which is basically a bowl of brown beans with a bunch of condiments and fillers thrown on top such as egg, cheese, tomato, and really oily bland falafel balls. Sop it all up with a round of bread that is placed on the surface of the dirty plastic table. Follow bean gorge with super sugary juice drink and mysterious custard in a bowl, and yes you guessed it, wake up in agony around 3am and spend the next four hours running frantically from the the hot dingy room down the hall to the pungent hole in the floor. The porcelain squatting setups are actually physicologically beneficial, but not when it's a continual emergency situation. At last around seven, I went through the final oral trajectory and I was cured. A little low energy this morning, but extremely happy to have survived the ordeal in such a quick progression.

This morning, it also helped that I spent the morning strolling serenely down Nile Street. This street is a haven of trees and gentle breeze blowing south across the 1/2 mile wide Blue Nile before it joins the white one flowing north from Uganda. After taking a required detour around the enormous republican palace, I made it to the Blue Nile Sailing Club, the true haven where I'll pitch my tent later today and hopefully spend the rest of the weekend sailing around Khartoum. Incidentally, there is no way I would have thought to find a sailing club in Khartoum if I hadn't been gifted the Sudan Bradt guide by the french man at Belegez. In fact, this whole experience would probably be an enormous struggle without it, as only maybe 1 in 20 people in find speak a lick of English. Don't get me wrong, people are generally helpful and friendly. I'm learning Arabic by necessity and I'm certainly making my way smoothly northwards, but I gotta say it ain't nothing like the promised land I left behind.

My only need at this point is to get the train ferry connection so I can move northward to Egypt on Monday. The overland option on rubber wheels and fine sand roads through the northern dessert is not at all enticing. I tried to buy the train ticket today but of course Friday is Muslim rest day and after a 50 minute walk across the river through the industrial section of Khartoum North I was told to come back tomorrow.

Hopefully I'll take some better pictures tomorrow (without getting arrested) and update this Sudan posting with a little more optimism and appreciation for the details.

The North

The North

Most tourists who come to Ethiopia are set on some kind of historical circuit, bouncing from one cultural, historical or geographical wonder to the next. There are eight UNESCO cultural and environmental heritage sites in this country and beyond those, there are more layers than one could explore in a lifetime. Funny thing is, for most westerners who have never visited or learned about the country, the immediate association is still -- from the mid-80’s -- famine, starving people, Hands Across America, and possibly a vague sense of historical significance? I wonder how many people giggle ironically when they hear that Ethiopian food is by far one of the best and most abundant in the world, and that the place itself is considered the true Zion by followers of various religions.

The food is only a superficial misconception. The real truth of this place is something much deeper and more difficult to discover on a two and half week vacation. Unlike the rest of the tourists and backpacker types, I have intentionally foregone with the historical circuit. I figured if I didn’t have time to see it all – Lalibela’s rock-hewn churches, Aksum’s 30 meter obelisks, Lake Tana’s ancient island monestaries, and the thriving Lower Omo Valley indigenous culture just to name a few – than I would just relax and do what called to me most. So I took off from Addis and headed straight for the northern city of Gonder, conveniently located directly on the route to Sudan and only a three hour bus ride from the Simien Mountains, highest range in Africa and oddly popular trekking destination for foreigners of all ages and fitness levels.

I literally frolicked around Gonder for the two days prior, meeting new folks, seeing the sites, sharing good food and inspiring conversation. My 7 dollar a night hotel, the Belegez Pension was by far the most luxurious and friendly home base I’ve had yet. Guests included almost every European nationality but not a single American. This is a good thing for me, as Ethiopians seem to generally LOVE Americans, more so as they are rare in the country and especially the jovial ones. I notice that I enjoy this place the most when I am at my most sociable and outgoing, therefore this is what I try to be everyday, and it works, especially today my last full day in the country.

But back to Gonder. Capital of Ethiopia from the early 1600’s until the late 1800’s, the city is built mostly on top but to an amazing degree around its pre-modern edifices. The most famous (one of the eight Ethiopian UNESCO sites) is the Palace of Fasilades, commonly referred to as the African Camelot. I will leave it up to folks unfamiliar to do your own digging, only to say that the place lives up to and possibly exceeds its European namesake. The palace is actually an 8-hectare grouping of stone walled castles built by seven successive Ethiopian kings, and one Queen. Throughout its two hundred and fifty year history, some infighting occurred, but for the most part there was smooth transfer of power and stability until the 1883 Somali invasion. After that, Ethiopia was sucked into the modernizing vortex created by European colonization and expanding global communication and trade networks. In the end, it was Emperor Haile Sellassie who moved the capital to Addis in 1921, but the palace buildings remained until the close of World War II when the British aerial bombardment of the Italian occupiers severely damaged or destroyed much of what we see today. The place is nonetheless a souring testament to an original Kingdom which claims its direct lineage from King Solomon.

Gonder is only the most recent of the pre-modern capitals, and for me it will have to remain at least temporarily as my only glimpse into the living history of this country. For now more than ever, I realize my time on the continent is short. This is of course by personal choice that I decided to try to squeeze 8 or 9 countries into a two and half month overland SPRINT. My heart was set on trekking in the Simiens, so I nixed the idea of catching a short flight to Lalibela or one of the other northern historic sites. The thought of meandering around with herds of fellow tourists for two days and spending more money that I had was in the end quite unappealing. I actually went to the airport on Saturday morning with a reservation for the flight, but while sitting at breakfast amongst the herds I made up my mind. So I stroll out the airport doors intending to catch a taxi back to Gonder and the first person I meet is none other than the manager of the Simien Lodge (www.simiens.com) who is at the airport to pick up the owner off a flight from Addis.

Sure enough, this extraordinary man named Fantu who is the lodge’s Ethiopian co-owner with a Brit is happy to give me a lift (four hours of smooth cruising on dirt road in a new Toyota Hilux, a diesel pick up not sold in the US!) I figure this is a resoundingly auspicious turn of fate, and what choice do I have but to pack my trekking bag, quickly purchase four days of food and jump in. By late afternoon we arrive at the high altitude (and high luxury) lodge located 10KMs inside the national park boundary. Fantu hooked me up with the $20 per night dorm room (empty but me and facing the setting sun), showed me to the giant circular fireplace in the middle of the lodge, and left me with the best damn hospitality of any hotel I have ever experienced, in the world.

Next morning, I saddled up my pack and we set out down the dirt road leading to the main hiking trail. When I say we, I do not mean that I buddied up with some fellow backpackers, though there were many many to be encountered at the three main camps along the way. No, I’m talking about Jambor, the armed scout with whom I was required to travel (closely) for the duration of my stay inside the Simien National Park. It’s kind of a silly disorganized system, but every single person who enters the park – both Ethiopians and foreigners, though there is separate fee schedules – is required to have one of these guys. I was very lucky in that Jambor spoke and understood a fair amount of English. Most scouts do not and for this reason, most tourists also have to pay for a guide, and then of course most are not interested in carrying a heavy pack so they also pick up a mule and a mule driver. Needless to say this ain’t your average pack and go type of backcountry excursion. What was most unique was the fact that the Simien Mountains aren’t wilderness at all, at least in the normal sense of a place with little or no human impact. The terrain is in fact all high altitude grazing land with the steepest and wettest slopes devoted to barley cultivation. I kept thinking about possible similarities to what I might encounter in LADAKH.

My expectations had to adjust a bit with the sight of so much human activity, unfortunately including serious overgrazing and litter. Theoretically speaking, the highland people could be relatively prosperous growing frost resistant crops and raising sheep, goats, and cattle on the rich pasture. But this is most certainly not the case. Conflict number one stems from the fact that the government, park administration, and indeed many NGO’s are working to get the people out of the park and returned to the lowlands. All sorts of novel concepts for sustainable relocation have been proposed but to date the highland people persist. The other issue is that there is nearly zero additional infrastructure to provide for the peoples’ basic needs beyond what they build and prepare themselves. With only thatch-roofed mud hut villages and the nearest town a 2-5 hour bus ride down the treacherous slopes, the pursuit of health and education becomes an arduous journey for those that are lucky enough to have the idea in the first place. I met several children with infected soars, malnourished and eager to make a little cash by selling a handmade hat or basket. Some told me there was primary school in the villages, but judging from the fact that most were out herding animals in the middle of the day, this was not a regular fixture. I did meet a couple secondary school students who took the bus down to Debark town to spend the week studying and return to their families on the weekends. All in all though, the situation was not so optimistic for the majority.

Of course, this is the general predicament that many of us westerners expect to see especially in the rural areas of the so-called developing world. And my expectations were not much different, except that here in Ethiopia the relative situation is different. Physical manifestations of poverty are everywhere but this a developing country poised on the verge of actually developing. They’re about to join the WTO and up to this point the formerly socialist, now quasi democratic government has maintained staunch protectionist measures. Meles Zenawi the current PM was an original member of the Peoples Liberation movement of the late 80’s, and in some ways has accomplished what the Sadinista movement might have if it were not for the Reagan administration. I’ve talked to many Ethiopians who have equal parts disdain and appreciation for Zenawi’s undemocratic measures against oppostition parties and bolstering economic growth and stability, respectively. The base of real development has been set in the form of solid country wide telecommunications, transport, and energy systems. Up to now, a certain degree of efficiency has been lacking due to the absence of foreign capital and subsequent competition. But this is the necessary and crucial thing that Ethiopia has done which sets it apartfrom so many other postcolonial so called developing nations. Of course the reality here is not post colonial. It may be because the country has NEVER been colonized that it has so strongly maintained a protectionist stance, or perhaps it’s a simple result of its natural endowment of almost all resources but petroleum. I’ll have to save the historical investigation for the next trip, when hopefully I could set up a full semester long program for myself and perhaps others.

For now, it’s enough to say I am in awe and respect. Interestingly enough, tomorrow I set out for another country with its own uniquely undervalued and misperceived potentials for development. From what I hear, Sudan -- at least in the regions I will travel -- is not the war torn, crime laden dessert of state deparmtnet nightmares that most would have you think, but in fact something all together different and inviting. Tonight I happened to encounter a German traveler staying at the Belegez who is also heading to Sudan tomorrow. Then a French couple overheard us talking and offered to donate their used copy of the Bradt Guide to Sudan. Now I have a fellow (Caucasian) traveling partner and a guide book, both of which I assume will make the experience better, safer, or perhaps neither.

The plan is to arrive in Khartoum by Thursday and “kick it” in and around the city until Monday when I catch the sweltering dessert express train to Wadi Halfa. The train is supposedly meant to connect with the departing Nile River ferry for Aswan on Wednesday afternoon. The other temptation would be to go via rubber wheeled vehicle through all of Northern Sudan and take in the many historical sites, though for my frame of time and mind, I do not think this would be feasible. As of now, I am stripping away destinations from the original itinerary, even as I have pushed back my flight to India from December 15^th to the 30^th. The first country to fall on my chopping block is unfortunately Israel. Yes, I am choosing to eliminate the holy land and for no other reason than it is too complex and personally relevant for me to speed through in any sort of contrived fashion. For this trip, the remnants of the Felasha Jews here in northern Ethiopia will have to suffice for personal root finding. This decision will also hopefully ensure my smooth passage and hassle free visas throughout the Arab world. That said, I’m open to all the possibilities and being open is quite simply the whole point in this kind of experience.

One Week in Addis

One Week in Addis

One week in Addis Ababa Ethiopia and I could easily stay another, and another, and perhaps several more. Life for me here is very very comfortable, and it’s not only because of the perfect climate, delicious food, and shockingly beautiful women everywhere I turn. Ok so the latter has a lot to do with it but what I’m really blown away by on a daily basis is the ease with which people relate to each other, including me! Never have I witnessed a culture with such frequent displays of affection and generosity. From the warm greetings, hugs, handshakes, and holding hands between and within all the demographics, rich, poor, male, female, to the continual invitations of food and drink, I have never for more than a few moments felt distant from anyone.

After my life in New York, this is the most refreshing place I’ve ever been. Whereas in New York it was a rare and beautiful occasion to have the time and wherewithal to stop and talk with people on the street including in my own neighborhood, here in Addis, I spend my days walking down a single street and unavoidably meeting more people than I know what to do with. My little address book is literally filling up too fast. For example, today I headed down to the Sudan Embassy for the fourth and last time to quickly pick up my passport with freshly affixed visa. I arrived at 2:30 and was told lunch hour wasn’t over until 3, so I meandered down around the corner into a somewhat out of the way neighborhood primarily dedicated to auto parts stores. I checked out the few cafes interspersed between until I found what looked like a nice enough restaurant that would serve injira and vegetables. I walked in through the outdoor patio and straight up to the women sitting behind the cash register who greeted me with unmistakably clear American English. Turns out this Ethiopian woman had recently moved back to her home country from the illustrious state of Missouri where she still has four teenage children and a husband. We spent the lunch hour talking about her experience as an African immigrant in the Midwest and her perspectives on walking two worlds. After lunch, she introduced me to a group of her friends seated out front drinking macchiatos, and of course they proceeded to invite me to sit down and join them. Without my small touristy plans of each day and the ongoing hassle of waiting at the Sudanese Embassy, I could quite easily spend all my days in this manner, spontaneously stopping to talk and then following the conversation wherever it leads me.

Other highlights of my time here included my visit to the Ethiopian Ethnological Museum which is located in Haile Selassie’s former palace. In addition to the many cultural exhibits that fill the main rooms of the palace, the emperor’s bedroom and royal bathroom are preserved in their original state minus a few bullet holes in the mirror from the abortive 1960 Coup attempt. It wasn’t so much the content of the museum however that grabbed my attention as much as its setting and historical significance. After being occupied by the Italians for four years, the palace and grounds hosted Selassie’s royal family and most government functionaries until it was taken over by the student led revolution of 1974 and became what it is today as one of several academic buildings of the Addis Ababa University Campus.

The ethnological museum and library are maintained and curated by the university’s Ethiopian Studies Department. I knew this beforehand because on my way over to the museum, I happened to ask directions from a group of three Ethiopian Studies grad students who were on their way to their afternoon class in the adjacent building. Then of course when I walked out of the museum 2 hours later, who did I see but the three grad students studying in the former palace’s sunny courtyard. I was extremely fortunate because not only did they all speak perfect English but they more than willing to spend their afternoon answering all my questions about Ethiopian history. We spoke of the Selassie’s forty year emperorship and the subsequent forces leading up to the 1974 revolution. After they’d provided a book’s worth of perspective and nuance, we launched into an entraordinary conversation on contemporary politics, the relationship between the Bush administration and the current prime minister of Ethiopia, Meles Zenawi. Incidentally, this happens to be a classic example of Bush’s with-us-or-against-us policy, in which no matter how poor a country’s record of human rights and democratic participation, US military aid and DFI will continue to flow in so long as that country’s head of state proclaims an offensive stance against Islamist fundamentalism and war against the evildoers.

The political discussion wasn’t however nearly as fascinating as what they told me regarding the content of their classes and the mission of the graduate program. The Ethiopian Studies Program offers a unique interdisciplinary approach that seeks to categorize and comprehend the ultra diverse traditional ethnology of Ethiopia and at the same time define the new face of the country. What was so fascinating and uplifting for me was to hear these women speak so passionately about the complexities and inherent challenges involved in actually creating the modern Ethiopia. That the concept of nationhood is ever evolving, and in a country as richly endowed with indigenous culture as Ethiopia, it is really quite radical to consider the ways in which the traditional structures of governance and conflict resolution become assimilated into the framework of a quasi-democratic republic.

One of the women spoke of such an example from her own family and home town, in which a neighbor of hers had killed another in a dispute over land ownership and farming rights. The murdered man’s family decided to resolve the situation using the arbitration of the local council of elders. Without the legitimacy of courts or the threat of prison, it was mutually decided that the killer’s family would pay a fine of 4000 birr (about $45) and the killer would himself be obligated to sufficient agricultural labor to replace the familial contributions of the murdered son. In the end, the families were satisfied, but the grad student’s brother in-law become so enraged at what he saw as illegitimate justice (mainly that the life of the murdered man, his friend and neighbor, was being sold for a few dollars and some farm labor) that he developed a heart condition and died a month later.

Perhaps this is not the clearest example, but what I came away from this discussion with was an overwhelming appreciation for the country and its future. These women spoke with the nuance and vision that comes from seeing oneself and one’s background in the full context of the modern world. They had come from middle class backgrounds, learned English the hard way, and had somehow managed to reach the stratosphere of global perspective, a realm in which all illusions of escapism fall away and one realizes the interdependence and downright sameness of all places called home.

Maybe I’m romanticizing, but this is exactly what Ethiopia has said to me. There is only one world. We can feel at home anywhere, but in the end we must live up to the obligations of our birth. I feel very fortunate to have been invited into the lives and homes of so many brilliant and thoughtful people in this country. I am appreciative of every person I met here in Addis that actually took the time to listen and share unconditionally. From my grad student friends, to the neighborhood kids I played soccer with, to my multinational community of internet café regulars, to my sixteen year old student/friend who calls himself Abraham the hero because he has his sights set firmly on going to college in the US to study political science so that he may one day return to Ethiopia (heroically) to save the government from corruption and totalitarianism. There are many many more and really I’d like to use this blog to personally shout out to all of them, but alas, the journey itself calls and so does my 3AM wake up call to catch the minibus shuttle to Gonder. So as they say here, ciao – literally, your humble servant until we meet again.

Ethiopia or Oblivion

Ethiopia or Oblivion

Before I went to sleep on that final night in Kenya I stood briefly on the balcony of my halfway decent border town hotel, gazing out over the shallow valley to the lights and paved streets on the hillside in the distance. Only one kilometer across the way, Ethiopian Moyale glimmered in the evening moonlight, and in my limited imagination of the moment seemed truly to be the very promised land of my dreams.

In the morning round 6:30am, I sauntered happily over to the Kenyan side to get my exit stamp. They told me to return at 7:30 when the customs office opened. So back up the road I went for breakfast of tea and biscuits. Still at this point happy as a clam.

7:30 on the dot I returned and voila, the office door was open. I walk in smiling and present my passport for the exit stamp. The nice Kenyan officer flips through the pages and shoots me a bewildered and half pitying look. This is immediately followed by one of the most terrifying questions I've ever been asked: "what, no Ethiopian visa?"

Before even responding with a word, my stomach drops to the floor. While I manage to stammer out "ah, no sir, I didn't think I needed one," all the panic, dread, and self-incrimination in the world begins to flood into my head. My very first thought was a flashback to a moment in Nanyuki when Daniela and I were talking about my proposed travel and she asked me if I had gotten the Ethiopian stamp. I say "ohhh noooo, I KNOW I don't need that one before hand, I'll just get it at the border." This is indeed what I thought, and where the basis for this came from I have no idea. I guess the only rationality would be that I knew that Ethiopia issued visas upon arrival at the AIRPORT. And poor old me just assumed this would be the same at the slightly more rustic overland crossing of Moyale.

Well I was wrong, dearly misconceived and shit out of luck. It was only 7:35am and I felt as if I wanted to go back to sleep for the entire week and wake up on the other side of the rainbow. Instead, I said to the Kenyan officer, just go ahead stamp it, even as he forcefully advised me that I would have to pay another $40 for a new visa when Ethiopia required me to return. Right then it hit me: Return to Kenya… Travel back the way I had come… Do the most awful road trip of my life AGAIN! Literally at the moment, I'd rather have crawled into a sewer. But what other options existed? No plane flights to Nairobi, no luxury buses, only more severely overloaded Mitsubishis.

With these thoughts beginning to race like a tornado, the Kenyan smacked the stamp on my passport and wished me good luck I walked the open road across the small stream separating the countries and strolled up to the mud floored shack that represented all I could see of Ethiopian border security. On appearance, this border is quite unique in my experience, in that people and vehicles from both sides traveled freely to and fro. Occasionally the lazy looking guard would yell something like hey you where you going. In fact I could have very well walked right past him and headed straight into the country (and of course eventually TO JAIL). But no matter the irrationality of my situation, at several times over the next seven hours, I did take up coonsidering the plan of marching into the country sans visa and heading straight to Addis where I would conceivably plead for ignorance and asylum to my embassy.

My first attempt to avoid the dreaded fate was to speak face to face with the manager of the Ethiopian border station. He was a fairly nice seeming gentleman and immediately I thought he would accept my case if I pleaded desperately enough. And believe me there was no shortage of pleading nor desperation, nor subtle offers of "gifts" if only he would let me cross with stamp. He told me quite matter of factly the decision was not his to make and I had only one option: GO BACK TO NAIROBI. Dear god!

I left the office and walked back up the hill to Kenya in the now blazing sun with the worst most apparent look of despair on my face for all to see. I occasionally wear it on my sleeve but this was a walk of shame like no other.

The only suggestion I had received from guards at either end was to call my embassy, which is exactly what I proceeded to do. After an hour searching for the phone number of the US embassy in Nairobi (no internet in Moyales and as far as I could tell only one phonebook) and a suitable means to make the call, I finally got through to a very helpful and friendly Kenyan woman working in the office of US Citizen services. At first I couldn't decide whether to come out with the full truth version including the complete mia culpa and helplessness bit or whether to go with an elaborate lie involving stolen passports, banditry and the like. In the end I told her the truth but added a tale about being robbed, having no money and only a bus ticket to Addis Ababa. This embellishment did not change my situation in the slightest. The Embassy lady told me she could call my family and have them wire money to me. I said no better not bring Dr. Spear into the situation until all other options had been completely exhausted. She then told me she would call the US Embassy in Addis, find out what if anything could be done, and get right back to me. Sure enough after twenty eternal minutes of pacing around the Safaricom (Kenyan cell phone company) shop, the restricted number flashed on the phone. Then the news came again, this time with a bit more resounding defeat. There was nothing that could be done. According to Addis, the Moyale crossing was simply not equipped to issue visas. In reality I knew this was not correct as I had observed the computers and scanners in the office of the Ethiopian border manager. The Kenyan lady (she could not tell me her name due to US Embassy security protocol) asked one final time if she could do anything for me such as calling my family. I said no and hurriedly hung up with her to go in the back and sob pathetically to myself for a solid 15 minutes.

Once I had hit rock bottom, I began realistically considering my options. I started asking around about trucks departing for Isiolo, buses, or in my ideal world, charter planes that could swing me back to Nairobi in an hour and forget the whole thing ever happened. I found out there was of course no planes, no buses at all, and plenty of trucks, but all leaving early the following morn. With full gravity setting in, I posted up in the center of town and sat/paced agitated and miserable. Many people asked me what was wrong and most offered some idea or service to help. It was at this point that I earnestly began to inquire about paying for forged documents and illegal crossings. Even in this harsh border town, people were sane enough to advise me not to go barking up that tree. And of course I knew well enough, especially after reading Shantaram, that I could not go about traveling in the promised land as freakin fugitive. I just wouldn't be able to enjoy myself, not to mention the amount of money it would cost to get me out of jail.

At around 11:30 I walked back down the hill to the Ethiopian side for the third time and once again pleaded with the border guard for a bribe or some piece of knowledge that would get me through. All he gave me was the phone number of the head immigration office in Addis. As my determination began to ice over for the last time, I marched back up the hill feeling far more exhausted and famished than I ever did at any moment while climbing on Mt Kenya.

When I returned to my spot at the top of the hill, there was a noticable addition to the crowd of phone sellers and truck drivers. This new man was dressed in nice slacks, a sharp looking vest, and was wearing glasses. He came right up to me and said he picked me out from a mile away. I said yeah I got big problems, and before I could even finish the full explanation, he said he could help. He told me straight up not to worry, that there was an easy solution to my situation. I refused to put any faith in his plan but followed his every step with just a touch of new found eagerness

And so there out of the dust and despair on the rough hewn street corner of Kenyan Moyales, rose Biruk, the helping friendly Ethiopian travel agent/angel.

First thing he asked was whether I was American. He said great, you'll have no problem, all you need to do is call your embassy and have them contact the head of Ethiopian regional immigration Ato Domtew. Mr Domtew will take care of everything and we'll be having coffee at my house by 6PM. Incidentally, Biruk told the truth though I refused to believe it for another four hours.

I went through several phases of hope shattering and rebuilding throughout the afternoon. At first the Addis US Embassy told me they could not help and again to return to Nairobi for the visa. Then the first moment of positivity came when I recontacted the woman at extension 6034 in the Nairobi US embassy. She said, give me Mr. Domtew's office number (which I had received and written down earlier from the border guard) and I'll call you back in ten minutes. Twenty minutes later she informs me that allis going according to plan; she has sent Mr Domtew a fax with my requisite passport info. Upon receiving this first real piece of productive news, I broke out in cheer and celebration, hugging everyone in the Safricom store and offering to buy the whole town lunch.

Ms Ext 6034 told me she'd call us back when she got confirmation that the fax had been received. Since the Ethiopian government takes a full two hour lunch break, I would have to wait until 2:30 to get the final go-ahead. But sure enough, at 3:00PM Monday afternoon I marched down the hill across the stream for the final time. With sweaty palms and the demeanor of a religious pilgrim, I approached the manager of the Ethiopian immigration office once again. This time all I had to say was Mr Domtew's office has sent a fax from my Embassy. His only response was "we will respect." After sitting for 15 more minutes while the manager made some calls, he asked for my passport and within his Amarhic commands to the office employees, I heard the word STAMP. Then it was done. I strolled out of the office with my arms raised, reborn and completely drained.

Biruk met me across the street and we hailed a nice blue Ethiopian taxi to take me up the road to my hotel. After a brief stop at the hotel, nice comfortable room with shower for only 6 bucks, Biruk and I strolled triumphantly down to his little one room house where I was immediately welcomed by his wife and 2-year old daughter. This was all I needed, to sit and relax on the floor of this dwelling and talk with this angelic man and his family. But alas this is not all I would get. First there was my first Ethiopian meal. It was in full style an enormous spread of meat and vegetable dishes atop the fluffiest lightest injira I have ever tasted. For all who have not experienced the lushness that is Ethiopian cuisine, well you'll just have to find out for yourself.

After dinner, we returned to Biruk's house where his wife was happily preparing the evening's coffee ceremony just in time for the clock to strike six. Indeed the coffee was the most divine I have experienced in my short coffee drinking life. We drank the traditional three cups and settled in for a couple more hours of impassioned religious talk and playing with the kids.

From that evening in Biruk's house until now, Life in Ethiopia has been overflowing with possibility. This experience is not only mine, but it is genuinely apparent everywhere I go and with everyone I meet. People are truly happy to connect, share their experiences, drink and eat together. For a westerner, this kind of generosity is alien and almost suspect. But what I've learned here thus far more than anything is that the modern world, with its deep set cynicism and suspicions, is changing rapidly. The dominant paradigm is disintegrating and with it the complexity is giving way to layers upon layers of striving for cooperation and understanding. I have no idea where the changes will lead, but I do know I'm definitely bound to return to the promised land many times over.

Nuff said. This is all too much.