Archive for March, 2009
Photo?
Tuesday, March 31st, 2009
But not everybody likes to have their photo taken…
local women reaching down for some rocks to throw at a nosy photographer
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Love Ethiopia
Monday, March 30th, 2009
I couldn’t shut up for the first few hours after we had been reunited with our “partner in crime” – there was just so much to tell! But then ten feet tall termite mounds in white and red, broke the monotonous scenery, and we finally remembered what planet (Africa!) we were on, and not wanting to miss a second of it we instantly went back to our usual MO – screeching of brakes followed by clicking of the shutter.
My camera caused the usual fuss – whole villages, ages three to one hundred and three, would gather to see what did the faranga* find up in that tree? There is nothing there but some of the usual marabu storks with some chicks!
The countryside is lovely except for some tourist spoiled spots. You never know if the subject of your next spontaneous rural shot will give you a big smile and then come see what’s on the screen, or will bend down for a rock – tired looking women with enormous heaps of straw, grass, and wood, are surprisingly agile and have excellent aim!
And the food! Ah, the food is the greatest I’ve tasted in traditional Africa so far. A huge flat spongy slightly sour pancake called injera is topped with meats and vegetable in spicy sauces to be eaten with your hands. Yum!
at the market
*faranga – white person, foreigner (Ethiopia)
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Getting to Ethi
Friday, March 27th, 2009
“Enough milking the mzunga*!” I was beginning to get really annoyed bargaining for the price of seats that the truck didn’t really have. There was the sleeping space in the back of the cab and maybe a free seat next to the stick shift, but this was way better than the cheaper alternative: sitting on top the truck for hundreds of kilometers of a dirt road and eating sand for an undefined number of days. “The Mazunga is not a cow!” The truck driver smiled, but pretended not to hear me. We were told an armed convoy of trucks, leaving only twice a week, is the only way of safely getting from Isiolo (the end of paved road) to the border with Ethiopia. We were in a hurry to meet Vova, so we paid quite a bit to make sure to be here this morning before the convoy leaves. Of course, when we got to Isiolo, it turned out the trucks go daily and there is no armed escort, even though there has been some shooting there recently, so we weren’t about to overpay again. Only after we grabbed our bags and pretended to head back to the hotel, the driver finally backed down.
After several hours of idle waiting, visiting every gas station in town, and a quick stop in the mosque to pray, we were finally on the way. As we inched out of town the driver stopped again. “I visit my wife!” he told me with a wink and jumped out before I could protest (not that I would). In ten minutes he was back with a packet of meat, a bundle of fresh clothes, and a big smile.
“Give me this watch,” said a nicely dressed Muslim girl sitting between me and a fat old merchant with an embroidered hat and a colored orange beard who’s cargo the truck carried. She tapped on the watch again -”Give me. I want it.” – “Why?” – “I want it” – “No, why should I give you my watch?” I didn’t wait for her to answer and instead went for a counter attack – “Give me your ring. I want it!” – “Er…” the girl didn’t expect this “it is silver,” she eventually blurted out looking completely confused. I swear, if I find that motherforker that’s been giving locals all they ask for and spoiled them to think I am here for the sole purpose of bending over and producing presents on demand, we’ll have a serious talk.
We didn’t need to worry about our legs getting stiff sitting in the uncomfortable cab – the truck broke down every few kilometers and we were let out while the cab was flung forward and repairs could be done. Muki – the mechanic, fixed not only our truck but also cars we found on the way. No cellphone reception meant slow death for some poor souls who were unlucky enough to break down in this desert. The driver had mixed feelings about helping random acquaintances. It all depended on the amount of the cheap whisky he had drunk. Once, Muki took some three hours fixing somebody’s broken suspension and it was all in good faith and fun as the driver strutted around enjoying the break and sipping the brown liquid. But then the alcohol level and body temperature reached a critical point, and with little warning to Muki he took off without him. Muki caught up a few minutes later on the car he had fixed and after a short shouting match with the driver got into the back of the truck, and we kept on going.
During our frequent stops I watched from the sidelines together with simple villagers in dusty western clothes. They would start a pleasant conversation asking me about my life and telling me about theirs. Somehow, the conversation would always lead to how poor they are, and how I should help them (and their Sunday school or motorcycle business…) with some money. Eventually, I figured it’s safest and more interesting to park myself among bold Samburu women and study their earrings trying to figure out if they connect to the thousands of beads on their necks. They would study me with the same, if not greater, interest; and we would have whole conversations with our eyes and facial expressions – we understood each other perfectly.
Over seven hundred kilometers and three days later we reached the Ethiopian border. We walked across, knees bucking under the weight of our backpacks, and fighting off various helpers who only got in the way. We barely had one foot in Ethiopia when Vova found out we had arrived – by now most the town already knew we were coming.
*mzunga – white person, foreigner (Kenya)
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My Peak
Wednesday, March 25th, 2009
It finally happened – I got there first. I’m never first. Not when it comes to mountain peaks. No, I’ll make it, to the day I only have one “white whale” and it stands above six thousand meters high in Bolivia. On the bright side, I now know the limits of my body when facing elevation sickness.
Mount Kenya we decided to do rather slow, even though we were still faster than everybody else, and as much on our own as we could, even though everybody else had porters. The hike was easy enough, but after more than six month of African safari game drives (excluding Madagascar because there all we did was hike) it was a challenge. All in moderation, the first day we did only nine km uphill, the second day – twelve, but on the third day we got up at two in the morning with the rest of the hopefuls, drooled over their all-inclusive breakfasts while gobbling down some instant noodles, and set off to the top. Another twelve km, a steep climb over volcanic rock in the dark.
We had a group of Stanford grads on our tails, but I wasn’t going to let them pass me. Yesterday the scenery was distracting enough for us to arrive to the high camp last. Giant cabbage-like lobelia plants were at our feet at the start of the day and Syke’s monkeys hung from mossy trees, then the lobelias moved on to grow on thick stems and were joined by more of their sort that looked like giant candles of ostrich feathers. Finally, the peak itself loomed on the horizon. Far, but there. Now, hiking up in the dark to meet the sunrise, carefully stepping on frozen puddles and gasping a bit for air – feeling the five thousand meter mark approaching, I only wanted to be the first. Just this one time.
“Aha, ha-ha!” I yelled down to the rest when we were finally on top, but the hikers below did not share my enthusiasm.
After the sunrise we left the peak to overflow with climbers. All the way down. We ended up walking over fifteen hours that day, and my sore feet somehow drowned my little victory, but this is what we have memories for. Climbing mountains for the sake of getting there, turning around, and getting back down, is (at least for me) only fun in retrospect.
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Mommy and I
Monday, March 23rd, 2009
I miss my mommy and baby sister…
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See Africa
Thursday, March 19th, 2009
You think you’ve seen enough lions until you stop by a huge lioness carefully licking clean her young, who meow and scramble to get away, eager to explore a nearby bush. You think you’ve seen enough gazelles, until you spot the long neck and gentle features of a gerenuk. You think helmeted guineafowls are not worth another look, until one comes really close and you admire the casque on its head – a horn that makes the bird look like it’s wearing a mitre.
The safari* will end when there will be nothing interesting left to see, and it looks like there is no chance of that happening any time soon.
*safari – journey (Swahili)
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