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.

Shaking my Organs

Again, posted by Susan

Let this chapter be called “shaking my organs.” (sorry my camera battery was dead from Nanyuki to Moyale, so words will have to suffice for imagery in this account)

At precisely 9:15am last Saturday Morning, I found myself in a dusty parking lot on the main road in Isiolo Kenya haggling over the price of my convoy transport to the border. In the end it was agreed I would pay 1500 shillings (about $20) to ride in the front seat of an extremely overloaded Mitsubishi cargo truck. Indeed I was lucky not to be sitting on the outside in the blazing sun on top of about 5 tons of used clothing that was being hauled to the Ethiopian border. Also I was lucky to have found a truck that happened to be leaving just as I was pulling in (some guys told me travelers sometimes have to wait days before finding a convoy). It seemed a solid vehicle to me, I had a comfortable seat in the cab, and I couldn’t have been happier. Besides me and the driver up front, there was one Ethiopian guy, one Somali, and one seat that was shared between the three crewmembers. Everyone was happy as we set out north on the paved road out of town.

First stop was five minutes down the road, not yet out of town, at the standard police check/pay-off point. Sure enough, the driver instinctually passes over his license with a 100 shilling note tucked inside, and after a brief friendly chat with the cops we’re on our way. There is another 2 or 3 more blissful minutes of me eating bananas and the truck cruising down the tarmac, when all of sudden it ends. Not my bliss per se, but the pavement. Just like that, 10 minutes into our trip, the reality begins to dawn on me. The truck slows to what will become its regular cruising speed of about 20 miles per hour for the duration of the trip. At this point I didn’t know the exact length of the road to the border, but I thought to myself, man is this it? Is this what it’ll be for the next 24 hours? I was told we would arrive at the border by Sunday morning, so I figured I could deal for a full day and night.

Then a couple of very revealing things occured. First thing is: I pick up the day’s paper which is sitting on the dashboard in front of me. I flip through and happen to find a public interest story in the middle of the paper entitled, “On the Road From Moyales.” The story describes the deeply neglected state of the road upon which we’re traveling as well as the desolate nature of northern region of the country. The author describes the regions suffering economy and the kenyan government’s continued rhetoric but lack of action on paving the road. There was in fact a protest march organized last month in which nearly 200 residents of the border town of Moyales, including the author of the article, walked the entire 510km of the this road that I am now driving on. Now it begins to become clear; 510KM is the total distance, we’re traveling no more than 25 maybe 30 km/hr, at this rate walking might actually be faster.

And just like that, no sooner due I close the newspaper and settle in for some organ jarring wash-board craziness, does the driver pull the vehicle over and the crew jumps off and starts throwing tools down from above. We were less than an hour into it and the first mechanical failure had occurred.

To make a very long story short for all of our sakes, I will summarize from here on out.

• 4= number of 1-hour stops made to repair the trucks failing suspension. Driver and crew carved blocks of wood with a machete and hammered them into spaces between the struts in order to avoid continual bottoming out
• 5= number of 1-hour repair jobs for flat or leaking tires (3 were on our truck and 2 were helping out fellow vehicles on the road)
• 4= total number of hours stopped in roadside hovels for driver and crew to flirt with drink-selling women
• 10= estimated number of kilograms of locally cultivated stimulant plant (called mira or chat) that driver and crew chewed throughout trip
• 12=approximate number of other vehicles seen traveling on the Isiolo-Moyales road during the duration of my trip (total trip hours=40)
• 4=number of Landcruisers seen speeding by with empty seats for me
• 5=number of police checkpoints requiring various forms of bribes and document showing to pass
• 2=total number of hours spent waiting for police to accept bribes and open gates
• 15 or more=total number of times driver forced us to listen to the only two cassette tapes he had on board, which incidentally were both initially quite enjoyable Arab-Ethiopian guitar music
• 2=total number of stops for actual sit down meals (both of which consisting of rice, rancid tasting meat in tomato sauce, and stale oily chapatti-bread)
• 5=number of packages of sweet biscuits I ate
• 4=number of sodas I drank out of desperation
• 2=number of cigarettes I smoked for similar reasons
• 1.5=total number of hours driver chose to stop vehicle for sleep (3-4:30am on Saturday night)

In the end, it really was not the hours of organ rattling, dust sucking, mind numbing, bouncing upon the heavily wash-boarded road that made me uncomfortable. I was in fact ok with and even morbidly enjoying the extreme physical discomfort. I learned to sit straight and put a piece of clothing under my ass. I didn’t mind sacrificing sleep, food, and physical comfort for the privilege of traveling with my eyes wide open through one of the most beautifully austere landscapes I have ever seen. The great northern Kenyan Rift Valley is absolutely breathtaking (again too bad the camera was dead). There are only scattered settlements along the road. At times we passed some tribal folks herding animals in a place that seemed so barren and remote I thought no person could possibly survive. And indeed the pleading expressions on people’s faces as we passed them expressed more than a hint of desperation. One particularly older looking Masai gentleman pulled enough pity from our driver that he actually threw him his half full bottle of water out the window of the moving truck.

When we did stop in these remote outposts, I always seemed to stumble upon someone who spoke a bit of English. From these fleeting encounters, mostly with businessmen as the tribal peoples did not even speak Swahili let alone English, I had several conversations that were quite uplifting. Then in the final four hours of the journey, we passed a terminally ill vehicle on the road and picked up a few of its passengers. One was a Moyale Kenya resident who happened to speak English. I spent this itme chatting with him which made me realize one crucial thing: it was actually just a lack of human communication that made the journey truly challenging. Prior to those final hours, I had had a few futile conversations with the Ethiopian guy in the cab, but in the end, it was only the word Mzoongu that I kept hearing over and over. Mzoongo this mzoongu that. Out of everything the driver’s arrogance and lack of respect to me and his crew was what made the whole thing truly exhausting. I guess it just goes to show how much people can suffer physically if they’ve got the emotional needs covered.

In the last stretch before Moyales, after the driver had pulled the vehicle over for the fourth time in as many hours, I made the easy decision in my mind to hail down the first vehicle that passed and pay whatever was required to take me the final two hours to Moyale. Sure enough, a nice Land Cruiser comes zooming up to us and not only me but the other 8 assorted passengers from our truck all decide to jump in. Just as we were pulling off, one of the crewmembers from the truck runs up and jumps on the back. This guy, whom they called Musa, was an especially crazy, mira chewing dude who was actually the only one on the truck that I really liked because he was always trying to make me laugh while avoiding any of the tire changing work that the other crew members did so diligently. The driver of course just sat around and watched.

So Musa jumps on the back of the landcruiser and we’re just about to speed off when the asshole driver comes running after us yelling stop. Musa and the driver begin a volatile argument, that only ends when the driver of the landcruiser says Musa must get off because he hasn’t paid. The driver is happy with this, until I volunteer to pay Musa’s fare. Of course there was a little well earned spite and respite involved in that final interaction.

And off we zoom down the same rutted road but now at speed twice or three times what we’d been doing in the Mitsubiushi. Again my ass hurt as I bounced wildly on the wooden benches in the back of the truck. But this time I knew we’d get there, and indeed quickly we did. One more hour and we pulled in to the joyfully dilapidated old town of Moyale, Kenya. The clock was just about to strike midnight as I checked in to the 2 dollar a night roadside hotel. I set my alarm clock for 6am and went to sleep thinking excitedly about crossing over bright and early into the Ethiopian promised land.

My 24 hours in the Boma

My 24 Hours in the Boma

On Friday morning Daniela split for Arusha Tanazania and left me all by my lonesome for the first time Africa. Gone were the luxury hotel rooms. Gone was my energetic, feisty, fluent Swahili speaking friend. Oh woe to me, I would actually commence my journey in true Sidarthic style. Fortunately Daniela did not completely me abandon me. I considered the absolutes of fending for myself but would remain guided and supported no matter what the dark corridors that I occasionally travel. In fact from last week right up to this present moment, the help of my fellow human beings has surfaced in the most profound and timely ways, making me wonder if indeed life is itself one big guardian angel.

To begin with there was Peter Wa of the Baraka school who picked me up at 9am on Saturday morning and drove me out to the Masai village near the school. This was organized in advance. I was to stay for a full twenty four hours with the Masai, something Daniela seemed to think would make a man out of me or something. Indeed whatever the benefits, I would have some serenity of nature and highly extraordinary cultural exposure, both of which would give me clarity for the coming adventure.

When we arrived at the school gate, Peter introduced me to Taire (sp), the Masai cattle herder moonlighting as Baraka school security guard. In fact it was literally the other way around. Taire spends the daytime working security at Baraka, so he sent me off with his son Josep to follow ze cattles, all day. And follow ze cattles is what we did, all day.

The landscape around the school is seasonal desert, dotted with low scrubby trees, assorted bushes, and cacti. It's rolling and hot. in the morning Josep and I walked and herded for three hours. When I was on the verge of passing out, he took me into a nearby boma (hut) for two glasses of fresh milk and an oversized pile of steaming hut ugali (corn mush). Incidentally, it occurred to me later that these are the only two foods that I ever saw any Masai people eat. Also they drink cow's blood which was apparently not normally available, though readily offered to me when I mentioned it.

Herding cattle around the desert all day would seem to the outsider unfathomably boring. And for me, I went through a bit of that, but in the end of the day as the sunset and we began returning ze cattles to the pen, I felt clear, wise and ready for more. I think it really helped that I was able to carry around Josep's lion killing spear all day. The spear was grounding and let me imagine the full extent of the cultural historical reality that is embodied in the warrior's traditional tools.

I know next to nothing of the true Masai way, and it is indeed changing. For now, the cattle herding warriors continue to hold the spear, dress the dress, and live the life. Josep said he most certainly wanted to be in school but that was not an option, and so he would continue to herd and when time allowed enroll in his next level of computer literacy courses.

Who am I to suggest otherwise? I parted ways with Josep, who was required to sleep with a remote herd of cattle in a pen away from the village. Once the cows were milked and shots given, Taire walked me up the hill to his village boma.

Boma means circle and is both the literal and physical manifestation of life in the Masai village. The Boma is a circular formation of thatched roof, mud walled huts. In Taire's village, his mother and father occupied the biggest and nicest hut. Other Bomas housed Taire and his brothers' wives. My basic understanding is that the men kinda rotate huts, spending an equal, or unequal time with their various wives. It's definitely more complex than that, but in a nutshell, the Masai are polygamous and each wife has her own dwelling.

At night the cattle are herded into the very center of the circle, where they remain protected by the perimeter of Bomas and sleeping people until daylight, when they're taken off to graze once again.

My night began with a photo session with the children and teenage warrior boys (unfortunately my camera battery was nearly dead and would not be recharged until I arrived in Ethiopia). After admiring the cattle and talking more to the children, we retired into the boma to take our evening meal. The meal would have been again straight ugali and milk, but I happened to mention to Taire that I liked vegetables. He quickly harvested some kale from the nearby garden and had it stewed up nice just for the two of us. I felt thoroughly guilty chomping away on my delicious green ruffage while the rest of the family had only sticky mush.

After the meal, Taire's mother woke up from an extremely drunken stupor. (In the dark smokeyness I hadn't even noticed her sleeping on the bed next to me) She surprised me with the degree of her depravity. Taire's youngest sister Susan explained to me that she was a severe alcoholic who made her own corn moonshine and could not be helped. I was utterly blown away by Susan's maturity and ability to not only deal with but compassionately care for her sick Mom. Meanwhile Taire did his best to handle the ravings. He told me she was very sick. Eventually everyone reverted to singing along with her half sobbing, half praying tradtional chants. In the dark smokey clutter of the mud hut, filled to the brim with brothers, sisters, father and mother, the family dynamic was in a way so disturbingly beautiful it moved me to tears. But maybe that was just the smoke in my eyes.

Finally, we lay down to sleep atop a bed made of sticks lashed together with string and covered in cow hide. Contrary to my half joking preconception, I ended up sharing a bed with Taire and not one of his wives. Sleeping was a bit difficult with the uneven logs jutting into my shoulder blades, the thick smoke, and the near continuous drunken banter of Taire's mom who was sleeping four feet away from head.

Morning did come and I awoke happily with the dawn. Taire and I walked 30 minutes back over the hillside to the Baraka school where Peter picked me up to drive me back to Nanyuki. Before leaving I thanked Taire and gave him 1500 shillings, equivilent to about $23 and probably half his monthly salary. Money is the token gift in this part of the world, but it sure means a lot to people.

Anyways, we zoomed back to town, just in time to catch the 7:30 taxi to Isiolo. I was advised that there would be a convoy leaving at 9am from Isiolo for the 500KM haul to the northern Kenya/southern Ethiopia border town of Moyales. Needless to say I was my usual eager naive beaver, anxious to catch the truck and commence the real adventure. To learn more about how deeply unprepared I was for the full physical and mental tribulations involved in this leg of the journey, please stay tuned.

Further ruminations on the mounatin and its ramifications

Above is a deceivingly serene shot of Daniela in the midst of our first day anti-acclimitized slog taken at around 7PM (after 8 hours and 9,000 feet of elevation gain). The mountain was just starting to sock in and the rain beginning to fall. Below is a more representative shot of me and my dismal state of mind

Now it's been a couple of solidly relaxing and gastrointestinally comfortable days back in Nanyuki town and my demeanor is notably less agitated. In fact, I'd say I've almost let it all go; the mourning for the dead dream, the self recrminations, and the lingering angst toward everyone involved in the ill fated mission. I think I neglected to mention that a further complication to the climbing trip was the scambled state of my bowels which crept up on me the day before we left. This was obviously the result of my initial openness to African street foods and generally eating any old fried food, octopus, bbq beef, and the like.

But alas I have returned to my slightly more discerning and happy self. One big push that sent back toward the happy belly state was yesterday's lunch. Before the safari, Mr Wa, Daniela, and I drove about 15 minutes out of Nayuki to dine at the Trout Tree restaurant. This place is named as such because (1) it is a trout hatchery and (2) it is a restaurant built in a tree. The tree is a 125 year old fig tree that is the centerpiece of the entire operation of 15 some odd trout pools all gravity fed and operating smoohtly. Colobus Monkeys swing through the trees above while happy eaters enjoy various delicacies made of the most delicious trout I have ever tasted. And I'm not just saying that. Needless to say, we all left feeling entirely satiated. The special and unique feeling that Daniela pointed out was that we actually felt full and good as opposed to full and sick. In the photo below, Peter Wa and Daniela stand contentedly in the entranceway to the treehouse restaurant. Two trout ponds are swirling below and monkeys are swinging in the trees to the right.


Right now, everything is settling. Daniela is leaving to go back to Tanzania tomorrow morning and I am heading out to stay with a Masai family in their "boma." This the circlular aray of round thathced huts in which one man houses his several wives. Yup I'm going to live with one of the wives for the night. Get your mind out of the gutter -- this is strictly a cross cultural experience and besides Daniela tells me most likely she'll be closer in age to my grandma. In the boma at night also lives the young cows and goats. We all, humans and livestock, sleep in one bed, or at least that's the impression I've been given. Alas, there's only one way to find out what the actual reality will be. After I get back on Saturday morning, I'll take the matata bus to Isiolo and start the long haul north to Ethiopia. And just like that, another phase of this journey will have begun at the very moment that the current one becomes comfortable and deeply appreciated.