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.