Jinka, Konso, Arba Minch, Dorze, Sodo, Wondo Genet, Bale Mountains NP.
Day 239:
The Double Dutch gang we had met some months before let us know that the Mursi tribe was terrible to visit! They reported being at the village at 9am and being witness to nothing more than a bunch of angry, aggressive and drunken people fighting amongst themselves while waving guns around. Our solution was to get there early and our guide, Tesfe, brought the hired Land Cruiser and driver to the hotel before 7am as agreed. I was impressed that he obviously understood the difference between Africa time and Farenji time. Our ride was a thirty something year old Land Cruiser 60 series. The speedo cable had snapped after 681 000km and the 2F petrol engine was humming like a Swiss Clock. The rest was falling to pieces, but we did not care that much. Andrew, Lucy, Catt and I jumped in the car and raced off through the village towards the Mago National park gate.
Our skilled driver did not seem to mind the rough roads very much and I was again very happy that we were not driving Maggie on that rocky surface, especially not trying to keep up with the madness of the man behind the wheel. The landscape transformed to something resembling a muddy rain forest as well and we were obviously fairly high up on the mountains. The temperature was cool and the ground damp. The rattles in the poor 60 series were so severe that we couldn’t really hold a conversation, but Tesfe relented to shouting bits of useful information to us. At the park gate he jumped out to pay our fees while some local dudes tried to sell us bananas through the window. He came back fairly quickly and the engine roared as we sped off down the mountain. The views were incredible and the ground seemed to open up to a vast valley below and it was almost as we were being swallowed by its grandeur. It was still very green around us but a little dusty and having the windows open was simply not an option. We saw many Dik-Diks along the way and almost hit a few of them. I jokingly asked Tesfe if he liked the taste to which his stern voice replied “no”, but at the same time the driver shouted “yes”, so the secret was out, I think. We bounced down through the hills and into the valley below and around a rough corner in the road we spotted something crossing the road. The driver yelled “Lion”, but I knew it was not one of them! It was in fact a couple of young Leopards. I mean, seriously…. We were not there to see Leopard and any kind of mammal apart from cattle, shoats and donkeys were just not on the cards. I was not sure how these two managed to survive man’s onslaught on nature, but they stopped briefly in the thick bush next to the road where we could see them and they were in fantastic condition! I guessed that they had enough Dik-Dik to feed on.
At the end of the park we arrived at another gate with a horde of armed guards in uniform and a few local women showing off their lip disks and trying to sell their wares. It was all a little bizarre, but Tesfe got onto the roof and the guard, complete with AK47 jumped in the passenger seat. I was just about to ask him to point the barrel of his gun away from my face when the driver shouted some abuse at him, grabbed the gun and turned it around so that the barrel was facing the floor. I felt a little better. As we drove through the gate it was like going back in time. The locals did not wear any clothes and the body painting was very prominent. The driver explained that these were young men who were waiting to “get a wife”. While the waiting was gong on they had to live off the land and sleep in the bush and they were not allowed any comforts. This was to prove their manliness to the tribe. The guys looked stoned to be honest. The whites of their eyes were actually more red than yellow and they had the look of animals about them. The fact that they had at least one gun each made it slightly uncomfortable, but we were assured that they were harmless. I wasn’t convinced.
We arrived at a small village and our trusty guide went to greet the man in charge. We were granted permission to enter the village and the cost per photograph was explained to us. The Mursi tribe had been subjected to ogling tourists for long enough so that they had come to realize their commercial potential and played on it really well. They were reported to count the amount of times the camera clicked and charged a set fee per click per person in the photo. This meant that they were prepared to make an effort and model for the photographer though. I was allowed to hand pick the individuals I wished to photograph, position them the way I wanted to and click the shutter once for about $0.20. While I was concentrating on that Andrew, Lucy and Catt was allowed to interact with the people there and have a good look around the village. Tesfe was phenomenal as a guide! He explained the working of the village and the different dress of the people. He negotiated rates and organised change and even followed me around to pay the fair price for the photographs I took. He was fluent in English and the Mursi language and even had heated arguments with people who were trying to take a little advantage of us.
The Mursi was a fantastically interesting colourful and impressive people. They had been in one or more conflicts with other tribes for as long as time had been running and it was not really a surprise that they were heavily armed. They had cattle and shoats and a whole culture to protect and that was the only way that could do that. They had a small part of the available land to live on and the western way of materialism to contend with. Tesfe explained that they were seen as second class citizens and often referred to as “almost human” by their own government, so it was hardly surprising that they were not easy to communicate with. To allow tourists to spend an hour or two in a working village while taking some photographs of the people in this ancient tribe was an obvious socio economic step for them and the controlled, safe and slightly bizarre way in which we experienced it all was fantastic! We managed to spend two hours in the village and learned and understood a tiny bit of their way of life.
As we jumped back in our battered old 60 series we looked at each other and could only utter one thing: Wow… We were all agreed that it was a fantastically impressive and worth while experience. We also recognised that it would have been incredibly intimidating, scary and perhaps quite dangerous without a suitable guide and placid, but armed guard. The drive back was even faster that the drive there and I started to understand why people reported an unsatisfactory or unpleasant experience with the Mursi. We passed no less than 28 other vehicles on their way into the area. Most of them were brand new 200 series Land Cruisers with tinted windows full of tourists who were pointing cameras in every direction. I shuddered to think about the way the simple tribe would receive the obvious show of wealth in their village and how they would react to being outnumbered in their own area. Saying that, we could not be hypocritical about paying money to see the “Human Zoo”, but perhaps the solution would be to create a special “show village” for the Farenji to ogle at in the way that Shakaland and Lesedi in South Africa explains local culture to visiting tourists. Until that happens, my advice would be to get their early, before the massed had had a chance to piss off the savages with the guns.
Driving out of the valley was quite interesting and our chosen vehicle often required 1st gear to manage the steep hills. We stopped briefly to look at the view, but made it back to our lodgings in time for mid morning coffee. We sat at a table in the restaurant sort out the final payments and to my pleasant surprise, our guide seemed truly thankful for the fee we had agreed on and did not try to charge more money, or solicit an extra tip. He really was worth his weight in gold, so I did actually give him a little extra. He smiled from ear to ear and left as happy as we were with his awesome service.
We had a quick lunch in the restaurant before hitting the road back down the mountain and past the Key Afar village we had stopped at the previous day. Our Key Afar guide, Elvis, had offered us a “village experience” consisting of some Bull Jumping and a night’s camping in the village. The fee was quite formidable and Tesfe told us that the Bull Jumping was put on the tourists only and charged accordingly, so we decided against it. It was time to head out of the Omo valley and our destination was a small town called Konso, home to a tribe by the same name. The drive was beautifully scenic and descending into the next valley was interestingly different. We drove out of rain forest into an agricultural haven and saw fields as high up in the mountains as the eye could see. It was not dissimilar to Uganda or Rwanda in that respect and the soil seemed very fertile indeed. There were masses of people and animals on the road, but the light was good and they were easy to spot… and miss.
We were following the Finch mobile at that time and saw a group of young men standing across the road. As Bob drove closer they parted to let him pass, saw us, let us pass and started throwing sugar cane pieces at the side of our car. I was not impressed! Andrew and Lucy who had been using public transport were given a lift by the Finches. They could not believe the extra amount of attention we were getting because we were driving our won vehicles. We were obviously not welcome in that area at all. We left that valley and climbed over another mountain before heading into Konso. We had one more “throwing incident” where an over ripe mango hit the wind screen. I hit the brakes and came to a complete stop. I fully intended to catch the little shit and cable tie him to the bull bar for the rest of the ride to the police station, but my dear wife had pity on the “oh but they are just kids”. I strongly disagreed and wanted to call a spade by its real name, but took a deep breath and drove on unsatisfied.
Our chosen place of accommodation was the Strawberry Fields Perma Culture lodge just outside of town. We arrived in the late afternoon, dead tired after a long day and was greeted by Gede, the manager. He was a slight man, but very friendly and he did not seem to know the word “no”. I asked many questions about where we were allowed to park the cars, where we could shower and where we could buy some beer and the answer to all the questions was: “It is possible…” I liked that! It was, to be fair, the standard Car Park Camping we had been forced to accept in Ethiopia. And at first glance I was sceptical about the “possibility” of being left in peace in the car park right next to the main road. The guard that was appointed to look after us did however know just how to stop people from bugging us. The one man that slipped through offered to change our Kenya Shillings for Ethiopian Birr, which was something we needed done anyway. The man returned with green smudges around his mouth. He had chewing “Chat”, a highly intoxicating green leave that is not illegal in Ethiopia. He was high as a kite, but still seemed to manage his math pretty well. It was the first time I had traded currency on the black market that the trader did not try to cheat me.
We had a dinner of Lentil Samoosas and some cold potato and drank a few beers which Andrew managed to procure in the village. We had a camp fire with the wood from the lodge to sit around. They almost insisted that we made a fire and use most of the wood provided as their dry compost toilets needed ash to keep the smells at bay. We didn’t mind much and enjoyed the “bushman TV” for a few hours before crawling into our comfortable bed and falling fast asleep. It had been an eventful and fun day!
Day 240:
We woke up late and brewed some coffee in a calm and almost lazy manner. The sun was warm and bright and the wind was calm. It was a beautiful morning in Africa. The guard had gone to bed and the kids who were walking past the lodge tried their luck at the begging game. They put no effort into the process, so we got the idea that it was more “the thing to do” than trying to get actual currency from us. We braved the cold showers on the hill and visited the composting plant on the other hill before spoiling ourselves to another mug of the good stuff. Our travelling companions ventured back to town to return the empty beer bottles and get their deposit back, but we decided to hang out in the sun and chat to Gede. He was highly amused by the way we patrolled the fence with our hands out shouting “You you you you… Birr birr birr birr” to the kids who tried their luck with us. Pointing a camera at them seemed to work a treat as they scattered into the hills at he sight of it. He was very worried that we felt disturbed, but we assured him that we were just having our bit of fun.
The others drove past and we headed off instantly. Our destination was the town of Arba Minch which was only about 90km away, so we felt confident that we would get there early. We had not really planned anything special for that town, but we were in desperate need of an off day. It had been almost two weeks since we slept in one place for more than one night. The drive was pleasant enough, but the one thing we did not keep in mind was that it was market day in Konso. The tar road had obviously been built along the old transit routes and it was absolutely covered with people and animals heading to the market. It wasn’t like you had to slow down to avoid stray animals every once in a while. The herds of shoats and cattle were literally filling the road from side to side and for kilometres at a time. The kids tending to the herds often rode the beasts as well and smiled as we drove past waving. They obviously had more serious things to do than beg a few Birr of some Farenji.
Arba Minch town was in two parts on the shores of two lakes… if that makes sense. We climbed a mountain in second gear at high revs to reach what we started calling “uptown”. According to our information the place offered two possible camping spots and the first was at the edge of uptown overlooking the vast Lake Chomo. Bakele Molo Hotel was terribly run down and the disgusting state of the facilities made us decided against it as an option. Catt and I left the rest of the gang there and headed to the well known Paradise Lodge to enquire. The town was covered in detours and road works which was obvious testament to some prosperity, but also made finding the right turn off fairly challenging. We prevailed through uptown and into downtown and after a man in uniform checked Maggie for hidden bombs with the help of his mirror, we were let into the compound.
It was as if we were lost. The place was in the same hotel group as the lodge we had camped at in Turmi a few days before, but obviously much more upmarket than what we could imagine to afford… or so we thought. We were told that the camping would cost us $8 per couple and that we would be able to use the massage room’s showers close to the camp site. The reception lady confirmed that they even had hot water and that the hotel’s drinking water was purified, so we could fill our tanks. Apart from that, they had a restaurant and a beautiful deck overlooking both Lake Chomo and the bizarrely red coloured Lake Abaya. Lastly, and importantly, they did not offer car park camping, but actually had a patch of grass deep inside the compound for us to park on. We were sold! We drove back up the hill, found the others and shared our findings. The Finches were excited about the prospects, but Andrew and Lucy needed to be closer to town, so it did not really suit them. They went in search of something suitable to their needs and let us continue to “paradise” on our own.
Catt and I spent the afternoon on the deck. I had much writing to catch up on and she was about to finish yet another book, so the shady lounge chairs in the place with the magnificent view was exactly what we had in mind. We also met the owner/manager of the lodge. He told us how they were building another 100 rooms because they were always over booked and how although they had a swimming pool picture on their brochure, they were actually still in the process of building that to. I had to smile at all this. I had always described Africa as “the land of false advertising”, but in our short experience in the country Ethiopia definitely took the prize for the worst of the worst. Every place we had stayed had showed credit card signage, but none of them actually accepted cards. Every place had said that they had hot showers and even had the plumbing for it, but we were yet to feel anything warmer than melted glacier in a shower. Every transaction that we had been involved in had had some kind of false bit of information about price ort services offered and we were just starting to get to grips with the “rules of engagement” as I started calling them.
That evening we decided to have dinner in the restaurant. Anne and Bob decided to have a shower before dinner and when they walked to the massage parlour we were allocated, they found a Farenji couple in the room where the staff had magically materialized another bed to turn it into another bedroom as the lodge was completely full. The main man in reception’s answer was to suggest that they wash in a basin outside the toilets by the restaurant… See, we never actually asked what times the showers were going to be available. So without showering we sat down at our table and after spending a considerable amount of time browsing the very extensive, impressive and fantastically cheap menu we all made our choices. I called a waiter over and while Catt was ordering her food we were interrupted by the manager again. He explained that because they had a full house, they did not offer an ala carte menu that night, but that we were welcome to join in the set menu… for twice the price the of the most expensive dish on the ala carte. See, we never actually asked if the menu we were handed first was the actual menu for that evening and it was late enough so we had no choice in the matter. We ordered the set menu and a couple of bottles of local wine. Anne and Bob received a bottle of dry red as requested and Catt and I received a bottle of dry white as requested. When the bill came we saw that they automatically added 15% VAT and a 10% service fee to the advertised price, which we were obviously at fault for not asking about, but the total was still only about $10 each.
Little did we know that the phrase “That was not what we had expected, but it is only….” Was going to become a thing we would say often.
After dinner we ventured back to the campsite and found that the very level concrete slab that the Finches had parked their vehicle on was in actual fact the top of the septic tank… We never asked what the concrete was for, so I supposed it was our fault for parking there. To be fair, there was only a slight whiff of the bad stuff when standing at a very specific place and it did not bother us or them at all once we crawled into our beds. I had to concede that the premium we had paid to camp at the lodge was for the fact that we were able to remove ourselves from the relentless madness of the country for the time we wanted to relax and sleep. Besides, it was only $2 per couple more than the alternative, which was nowhere near as good.
Day 241:
Rest day… I liked rest days! We slept until 8:30 Farenji time, which was actually 2:30 Ethiopia time and shamelessly walked to the massage room to have a shower. We had seen the guest vacate the room minutes before and locked the door from the inside before housekeeping had a chance to get there. Catt and I had a fantastically brilliant hot shower with amazing water pressure and refused to leave until we had wasted every drop of the hot water in the place. I did not feel one iota of guilt either.
After two cups of coffee and a morning chat with our travel companions, I fired the computer up to catch up on Blog writing. I opened the document I had been working on the previous day and finished off the week’s story. As I hit the “save” button I noticed that my anti virus program had updated itself and to my utter surprise and great delight I found that I was connected to the lodge’s broadband internet connection via WIFI… Unsecured and unlimited WIFI. When I mentioned this to the gang Anne said that, according to the manager, they charged about $0.12 per hour, but she could never get an answer as to how it all actually worked. I figured that since I did not ask, and I was able to connect without anyone’s help, the rules of engagement dictated that I could use as much of the bandwidth for as long as I wanted without paying. So I updated all my software and even the software on the Mac. I uploaded all my photos and updated the Blog with the latest entries. I checked and answered all my emails and Catt had a conversation with her mom on Skype.
By the time we had finished the WIFI abuse the sun was low and the Farenji clock read 16:45. We decided to have a coffee on the deck before going in search of dinner. While sitting on the deck a big male baboon came by and sat within a meter of us, watching us. Catt asked the staff to chase it away, but they seemed fairly uninterested. Perhaps they knew it would be a free service, I thought as I picked up a stick and walked a little closer. The animal knew exactly what that specific stick was for, so it ran off and jumped onto the table of two Dutch woman close by. They jumped up, knocking over glasses and fruit bowls while screaming and running away and I stupidly chased after the bugger until he perched on the railing and faced me. It was a standoff and it was too late for me to back down. I lifted the stick, he bore his teach, and I lashed out, catching him off balance and whacking him across the back. He looked utterly surprised and jumped off the banister so violently that he actually rolled down the hill towards the lakes and the national park far below. The staff cheered in awe and came to shake my hand one by one. Apparently this specific Baboon had been terrorising the guest for weeks and no one had had the guts to take it on. I tried to explain that it was fairly silly to do what I did and that I had managed to get myself into a situation without leaving space for backing down, but they didn’t care. The ladies who lost their drinks and fruit was also suitably impressed and asked me to stay as their body guard. I declined the appointment, but handed them the stick with stern instructions instead.
Catt and I had decided to venture into uptown for dinner that evening. We had heard about a restaurant that specialized in fish and was quite keen on that idea. We had also decided to walk the 6km there in the daylight and organize a Tuk-Tuk back after dark. As we walked through the gate a driver of a “Farenji bus” stopped and offered us a lift, which we gladly accepted. We were, as it happened, on his way to his suitable accommodation in uptown, so he agreed to take us as far as his hotel. The hotel happened to be within spitting distance of the Soma restaurant we wanted to go to, so we ended up there an hour earlier than we had expected. We decided to go for a stroll. It was strange, but pleasant to realize that we were not getting anywhere near as much attention while walking as we had been getting in the car. The people on the street seemed friendly and courteous and no one asked anything of us. A few guys game to greet us in the traditional manner and seemed impressed, but almost slightly disappointed that we already knew the custom. It was as if they wanted to welcome us into their midst and teach us “a little something”. In the hour that we walked around town we had only one kid who nagged us for Birr and decided to take Catt’s hand and walk with us. She had effect on all dirty children in Africa it seemed. I suggested that we cross the road and walk into a bar to get rid of him, which worked a treat. As we started crossing the street another, older kid came by and whacked him in a scaringly similar manor to how I had whacked the baboon earlier. The dirty small kid instinctively knew what he was getting whacked, so he let go of Catt’s hand and returned to his friends. The older kid held his hand out and said “one birr” as if expecting a reward for being cruel to his fellow human rug rats…
We still used the Friendship Bar as an escape and chose a table far removed from the road in the darkest corner of the establishment. A waiter came by and offered us a choice between Mango and Avocado juice. I asked for a beer, but he explained that it was not that kind of bar and they only served juice. Catt chose Avo, I asked form Mango and within a few minutes the man was back to tell us that they had run out of Mango juice, so we had a choice between Avo and Avo… We both chose Avo. The half litre glasses appeared shortly after complete with a long tea spoon to assist the consumption. It was a pretty as astonishing concept for us. It was clear that they had simply cut up some Avocado, threw a few teaspoons of sugar into the mix and blended the whole lot. It was thick and sweet and seemed like a meal on its own. Arba Minch was an average Ethiopian town with average Ethiopian people in uptown. It was not a tourist destination and we were the only Farenji around. It was very unlike the image of Ethiopia that had been created by the NGO tossers with their fat bellied African baby with the masses of flies around it… not that I have any strong feelings about NGO’s with their brand new Land Cruisers and $250 a night hotels.
Almost too full for dinner after the Avo juice, we walked across the road to the restaurant we had identified. It was a deliciously simple and slightly soiled establishment, but they did burn an ample amount of local and natural incense to keep the flies and mosquitoes at bay. They had one menu in English, which was handy and we each chose fillet of fish with vegetables. We also asked for a bottle of local wine and specified the dry white we had sampled the night before. The wine arrived first and was room temperature sweet red, but it was palatable, so we did not try and correct the order. The fish arrived on plates of their own. Each plate consisted of two massive hunks of lightly battered and fried fish fillets and was accompanied by two more plates of vegetables and potatoes. There was a third basket full of bread rolls and I had to ask when the rest of the people were due arrive. The waiter frowned and asked what I meant, so I explained that the amount of food on our table was enough to feed at least four hungry people. He smiled…
The food was, apart from being an insane amount, absolutely stunning! I was not sure what the species of fish was that we were feasting on, but it was light and tasty and had very few bones. The wine was complementing the tastes in an almost strange way and by the time we could not fit anything else into our stomachs, we had managed about half the food on the table. The bill arrived after I requested it and after we had finished the bottle of wine and I had the correct amount of money in my hand. It was 40 Birr per dish and another 40 Birr for the wine right? I decided to include a generous tip, but to my surprise the waiter told me that I had not paid enough money. I looked at the piece of paper and noticed that they had added the 15% VAT (Fair enough), but that the wine was 70 Birr, so I asked to see the menu again. I pointed out that the menu clearly marked the wine as 40 Birr, but he insisted that the menu was wrong and that the price on the bill was the correct one. “Oh well, it’s only $0.20 difference…” I heard myself say and instantly hated my brain for doing that. I did not leave a tip and explained that if they had actually taken the time to correct their menu, they could avoid that kind of confusion and actually receive tips from the few Farenji that visited the place.
We decided to walk back to the lodge and took the main road around the slums. It was probably about 10km far, but it was down the hill and easy going. It wasn’t late, but the streets were fairly deserted and every person we came across smiled and said “Seulam” (hallo) as they walked past. It was almost as if the darkness had disguised our pale skins and as if we were suddenly accepted as “normal” in the madness of the town. We reached the lodge after about an hour and a half and after building up another thirst, so decided to visit the bar for night cap. This time the bill was no surprise as I managed to ask if the milk in the tea came at an extra cost and after drowning our drinks and relaxing a while we headed back to our tent. We were both suitably tired, so sleep did not elude us for long.
Day 242:
We had decided to leave the hotel early, but the comforts of our bed prevented us from getting up at the planned hour. Besides, we had already worked out that we had to wait for the massage parlour/spare hotel room was usually only vacated around 8am, so there was not much point in getting up earlier. We made some coffee and watched the door until the poor sods who paid full price for a make shift room left and grabbed the opportunity to have a shower. This time we did not abuse the hot water as we knew that the Finches had not managed a shower the day before and they were desperate enough to deviate front heir usual washing time.
We paid our bill and were not surprised at the amount and rolled out of the hotel, solo, after 9:30. Our destination was the village of Dorze, which sat right on top of the mountains inland from Arba Minch. We expected the 40 odd kilometres to take an hour or more. We drove a few of downtown’s roads before heading out of town and past a brand new and very shiny fuel station. We were yet to sample Ethiopian fuel as we were still running on the good stuff from Nanyuki in Kenya, but I was not about to fill our tanks before climbing hills. We left the tar roads with 12km to go and started going up.
The track was in good condition, but I shuddered to think about the bravery of the poor grater driver who had to service that peace of country side. Most of the time we did not even manage second gear and often the kids shouting “you you you you” ran at the same speed we were driving at. Behind us we could see the lakes growing bigger as the horizon moved further and the views became more and more incredible with every meter gained in distance and altitude. It was a truly magnificent mountain pass and I suddenly felt privileged to be able to experience it. We also passed scored of woman carrying massive loads of things for the weekly market in Dorze. It was totally beyond me that one human could carry that much weight and I commented that they would make excellent porters on Kilimanjaro, which was not as steep as the road they were walking.
We arrived at the Dorze Lodge, the only place of accommodation in the area according to our maps. It was perched on a hill side with insane panoramic views over the same lakes we had seen from thousands of meters below. The manager explained that the red colour of the Abaya Lake was due to the continuous feeding frenzy of the many Crocodiles it housed. When he saw that we were just not going to believe him he said that it was due to the Ferrous Hydroxide in the area, which we kind of knew already. The rooms of the lodge were built in the traditional Dorze way and the restaurant and bar was at the highest point. We were just about 2 600m above sea level and even a simple walk to the toilets had me out of breath, so we ordered coffee. As the waiter was walking away I checked myself and asked about the total price for the coffee, which he confirmed to be 5 Birr ($0.03) each. It took half an hour for the thermos flask and two tiny cups to arrive. We were poured a cup each and offered milk and sugar, which we declined due to the possible hidden cost. We were learning fast… The espresso type black sludge was however exactly what I was after and I found it delicious! I drained my cup way too fast and while waiting for Catt to finish her few drops I was offered a refill. I accepted without thinking, but then stopped the man and asked if that was going to cost another 5 Birr. He smiled, admitted that it was priced per thimble and not per thermos, so I declined on the principal that he should have told me at the start of our negotiations.
It was a fantastically beautiful place so we decided to ask about their accommodation. We were quoted 300 birr ($20) for a double room which had two double beds in and 200 birr for a single room with only one double bed in. We also confirmed that if we wished to share a bed, we would be charged for a single only. They had flush toilets and a cold shower, fed from a water tank that I noticed was completely empty and when I asked about sleeping on Maggie’s roof in our own tent the man told me that it would cost the same as a single… We greeted him politely and started leaving by the time he insistently started offering his expert guiding abilities. Oh well, it was only $20 for a room, but by that time I had learnt that in Ethiopia, that was top dollar!
We drove into town shortly after and found the Finches by the weekly market. We had already established that we would need a guide for the market and village and that we would no doubt be approached by one as we parked. Dorze was no different. Our man Joseph was there in a flash and shooed away the horde of small kids who gathered at the speed of light. We even chased away the thirty or so other men who wanted to offer their services and with a big boyish grin told me that he did not like to be crowded. I liked him instantly! He explained the fees to us and we agreed a reasonable and fair guiding fee. I explained that we would NOT pay a single Birr more than agreed and provided that he confirmed his understanding of that, we would employ him. He understood, so we employed him.
Our first stop was a traditional Dorze Village on the top of the hill. Joseph stood on Maggie’s running board as we struggled up the steep hill in first gear and stopped us outside a woven banana leaf fence. We were greeted by a Rasta whose name no one could pronounce, but who was obviously in charge. We instantly and fondly started referring to him as Bob. We stepped inside his world and the explanations that followed were insanely interesting!
The traditional huts they built started life as a 12m high dome shape. Looking at it right form the front, one could be forgiven for thinking that you were looking at an Elephant. As the huts got older, the termites moved in and started eating them from the bottom, resulting in the huts literally shrinking into the ground over time. The oldest hut we found was reported to be 85 years in age and was only two meters high. That was being used as the village honeymoon house at the time. Joseph explained that they were framed with long bamboo poles and decked with false banana leaves and that the inhabitants of that specific hut were a family of five. The Dorze tribe also shared their huts with their livestock to protect them from predators, of which there were not so many left. He did say that they still occasionally saw Leopard and Cheetah in the hills. I could believe that. He also explained that the shape of the huts were indeed to celebrate, or remember the big herds of Elephants that once roamed the hillside. He did however not want to elaborate on why they were there no longer. I smilingly told him that I blame AK47’s and the ivory trade for the demise of the gentle giants which obviously made him slightly uncomfortable. Bob the Rasta nodded his head in agreement though.
We learned also that the Dorze people relied heavily on a plant known as a “false banana” for their sustenance. We were shown how the woman scraped pulp off the strands of the leaves, ferment them and use that as a kind of sour dough to bake a pancake like thing they called “Enset” or “Kotsho”. We watched the process from start to finish and then sampled the dish with some ridiculously hot chillies. We did have some local schnapps to wash it all down, but that also took the breath away quite efficiently. We were marched past the obligatory curio sellers and pottery makers and took stroll through the village. We met an old lady with a 3m long smoking pipe who insisted that one of us try her tobacco. The pipe itself was had a long stem and a bowl with water in which stood on the ground. She was very proud of her creation and posed wonderfully for our photographs. Catt was our sacrificial lamb and reported that it was indeed nothing more than tobacco in the pipe. The old lady had obviously been smoking this thing for many years as the emphysema in her coughing was quite pronounced and fairly worrying.
On our way back to the compound we bumped into the two familiar faces of Andrew and Lucy. They had made their way to the village by bus and had decided to stay in the traditional compound, owned by Bob the Rasta. That sounded pretty fantastic, so we also enquired about prices. The deal was: Birr 50 per tent for camping and 50 Birr per person for a buffet dinner. That totalled about $9 per couple for dinner and a safe place to camp which was really hard to argue with. We were also invited to a traditional dancing extravaganza that evening. So with accommodation sorted we headed back down the hill to the market under Joseph’s expert guidance. It was, as expected, a very similar market experience to the one we saw the previous week in Key Afar. There were less people in traditional clothing and more jeans and T-shirts and they sold more cotton weaving products and fewer goats and cattle and they still sold pathetically little fresh produce. The kids were still begging in the relentless way that had become the Ethiopian norm, but this time we had a gang of five men keeping the peasants away from the Farenji. It was all quite bizarre.
At the end of our market experience was the obligatory “Tej Bet” where we were served the sweet alcoholic honey wine in glass goblets that looked like they belonged in a chemistry lab. I asked about buying a few bottles of the good stuff and cooling them in the fridge. The proprietor explained that one could not close a bottle with the stuff inside as the fermenting process continued and your bottle would turn into a bomb before the night was through. We laughed and ordered another glass each at the princely Farenji price of 2 Birr ($0.12) a pop. Local price was half of that, but we didn’t argue too much.
With the heat of the day setting in nicely and the best of the Tej continuing it’s fermenting process in our stomachs, we drove back up the hill, into the compound and found our perfect and comfortable camping spot on the lawn in the shade. The compound was pretty small resulting in our camp being mere meters away from the restaurant, but we didn’t mind too much. The place had a great and friendly feel we soaked up for the rest of the afternoon. As the sun started going down the tourists started arriving though…
By sunset we had organised a crate of 24 St George beers to be delivered to our camp and the compound was filling up with Farenji at a steady pace. It wasn’t really that unexpected as it was obviously the best place in town. By the third beer the compound was however full to the brim. There were about 9 vehicles in a space that should have been able to accommodate six. Our tent ladder was touching the bumper of an old 60 series squeezed in between the restaurant and the last huts and there was standing room only inside. Bob the Rasta came to apologise for the lack of space. I assured him that there was no need to apologize for being successful and that we were happy to eat at our own table and sit on our own chairs. That seemed to lift a great weight of his shoulders but also resulted in no less than five guides sharing our small space and our crate of beer. The space was no hassle for me at all and when the second crate of beer arrived with the food being presented all troubles seemed to melt away.
The food was an incredible spread! It consisted of at least fourteen different traditional dishes including meat and vegetables and Injera and fresh fruit. Most things were quite spicy and one or two were damn right dangerous, but all of it was brilliantly presented and much appreciated. I stuffed my face to the point of my insides bursting and grabbed the second last beer from the crate to wash it all down. By that time no fridge was necessary to keep the drinks cold either. We were dressed in our best thermals with woolly hats on and the mountain air even tried to cut through that. When the dancing started right outside the compound gate Catt and I employed our Masai blankets for the second time and wrapped up warm enough to venture away from the vehicles.
I had seen some amount of traditional dancing and dances from various different tribes in my life, but this was very different. The most impressive tribe I had seen had to be the Zulus in South Africa. They always seemed to take much pride in their display of power and the impressiveness of their dress and choreographing. These guys, high in the mountains of southern Ethiopia just seemed to have fun. They were no warriors. Sure, they had some shields made from Hippo hide and some spears with blunt tips, but they were dressed in brightly coloured cotton trousers with crotches down to their knees. They had pink hats on and scarves to keep the chill of their throats. You had the idea that they would never enter into war for the fear of messing up their hair. More importantly, they did not dance for the tourists or to try and display power or force respect. They simply seemed to have a whole heap of fun! They did a snake like follow the leader thing and jumped over the flames of the bon fire and laughed and shouted and beat their drums and sang their songs and entertained in a greatly comical way which we all loved.
The show lasted two hours and with the last of the flames trickling away into the night the cold set in and chased us all back to the compound and into our tents and underneath all our blankets. The night fell dead silent and sleep came instantly.
Day 243:
The morning was chilly and we tried to stay in bed until the sun warmed the earth. The other Farenji busses had a different idea as their schedules were obviously a lot tighter than ours. The old 60 series with the big diesel engine started first and blew plumes of black smoke into our little camp. I could not complain that much as I knew that Maggie would do the same at that altitude and in that temperature. I reluctantly left the warmness of the tent and made some coffee and by the time we were done with the normal morning chores the sun was warm and the temperature comfortable. It was not warm enough to brave the glacier water shower though.
Our Joseph met us around 8am and accompanied us to the local weaving house for the last part of our tour. The place was pretty much a barn with rows of old and traditional weaving looms. The women were responsible for spinning the yarn and the men did the weaving. It was fairly quiet that early in the morning, but the guys who were there working took great pleasure in explaining the process and showing us how the machines worked. It was fantastically primitive, but greatly efficient. I could not help but notice that the shapes and the working of the equipment, although basic and primitive, was exactly the same as the modern equipment we had seen in the Ken Knit factory in Eldoret some months before. This was not the first time I had noticed that modern engineers copied ancient machines in a bid to make them more efficient and cost effective and also not the first time I had notices how modern technology seemed to be set on minimising the use of human interaction. We left the weaving co-op very impressed and ready to move on, but Joseph had one more treat up his sleeve. He took us to the local pottery factory. This time it was the woman doing the hard work, but as with the weaving, their tools and equipment was insanely simple and primitive. They would make their wares from clay they found in a stream some 7km away. The finished products would bake in the sun for one day and then they would bake it in a fire for another day to cure it. I took some pictures and Catt did some shopping and we left within half an hour with great photographs and two small coffee cups to go with Catt’s traditional coffee pot.
On the way back to the compound we were approached by another potter who wanted to sell us more coffee pots. Joseph expertly chased her away but not before I managed to establish that we paid four times the normal price for our two cups. I did not want to say it, but I was thinking it… Oh well, it’s only $3… At the compound we were keen to hit the road and asked for the bill. As expected we were charged for the camping and dinner and the village fee and guiding fee as agreed. However…. It seemed like it was impossible to do a simple deal and agree a simple rate for everything in Ethiopia. We were charged $7 each for attending the dancing ceremony. I flipped my lid! I told Joseph in no uncertain terms that we had had a fantastic time with him and in the village. I told him that we had expected to pay a fair price for everything we did and consumed, but no one ever mentioned a charge for the activities. If we were told the charge before the time we would have easily agreed and been happy about it, but I explained that his way seemed under hand and bordered on being dishonest. We did pay the price asked and I would have liked to believe that my educational speech made an impact, but the scenic in me convinced me that he honestly did not give a shit about what I said and that the next people will get surprised in the same way. We left almost happy though, which was a new experience for me in Ethiopia.
Catt and Anne wanted to invest in some local fabric and Chencho, the next village along the road had their market day that day. We drove into the place and were met by a million and fifty touts trying to “guide” us to the market which we found by ourselves. We had a quick walk around and asked some prices and it was abundantly clear that we were going to get ripped off there, so we left. We drove the 10km back past Dorze and onto a road side stall we had seen the previous day. We parked up and walked into the stalls and within half an hour Catt had expertly negotiated a fair price for the bag full of fabric she wanted. I worked out that the same amount in the market would have cost us three times more, so I was happy with the result.
That marked the last interest in the area for us so we headed north on the road less travelled through the mountains. The track was in good enough condition and wound through villages and hills and through green valleys and picturesque plateaus. The locals seemed friendlier than what we had previously experienced and waved and greeted us as we drove by. We managed to stop for lunch on a steep incline between two villages and it took almost twenty minutes for the first curious bunch to find us. There was a young boy who told us that he was student and poor and therefore we should give him money. My reply was that I knew that in his country school was free until the age of 16 and that we were all struggling and mostly poor. That took the wind out of his sails completely and to the point where he had nothing more to say.
The windy roads took us on to the northern tip of Lake Abaya where we joined the major route to the town of Sodo. We had planned to travel much further that day, but we were definitely running out of time. Not wanting to break rule No 1 again we decided to try and find suitable accommodations there. Sodo was a bustling small town on the edge of some high hills and, like the rest of the country we had experienced, plagued by road works and detours. We saw a few hotels and lodges as we drove in and stopped outside an establishment aptly named “The Tourist Hotel”. A quick survey showed that the rooms were huge and clean boasted en suite ablutions. There was a restaurant on site and a safe place to park the vehicles in a courtyard. The price per room was $6 which could not be argued with so we decided to stay. Communication was slightly difficult as the only person who spoke English knew very little of the language and none of us knew enough Amharic to get by. It was then no huge surprise that we did not manage to establish why the water was not running and why the electricity was no on when we occupied our rooms.
A few strategic hand signals sorted that out though. The fact that there was hot water taps did however not mean that they had actual hot water though, but the cold shower was manageable after the dusty heat of the travelling day. Catt and I had a coffee in the restaurant and waited for our travel companions to turn up for dinner. We were offered a car wash at $3 which we gladly accepted. It was still a fairly relaxing and friendly atmosphere and I was really looking forward to ordering one of the mouth watering dishes displayed on poster menus on the windows. They had Pizza and Burgers and all sorts of yummy things to choose from.
Dinner time arrived unceremoniously and we started asking the waitress about the items on the menu. It was slow going as there was no shared language at all, but over time we had established a few important things: The first was that the display menus did in fact have absolutely nothing to do with what they had on offer. The second was that they had no fresh vegetables that day and that they had run out of meat. The third was that the waitress loved jogging from table to reception and back and that the beer was cold and the fourth was that the only two things they had to eat was eggs and chips… We had a beer or two and walked up the road towards the biggest hotel we knew about.
It was pretty dark in the town and we had no idea how to find our hotel of choice. A Tuk-Tuk stopped next to us and after I said the name of the hotel the driver agreed to a fee of 2 Birr ($0.12) for the ride. That was a no brainer and within five minutes we were deposited right in front of the Bakele Mole hotel’s restaurant. They had a range of traditional and Farenji dishes and did in fact have meat and vegetables and wine and cold beer. The prices seemed local enough so we settled into our comfortable chairs and ordered things we knew little about. My dish was called “Kitfo” which was lean mince friend in a spicy sauce and served with Injera. I asked if it came with vegetables and above all expectations I received a spoon full of boiled cabbage and another spoon full of local cottage cheese. To be fair, it was dirt cheap and phenomenally tasty. I later learnt that Kitfo was made from the best possible quality meat and was considered a delicacy reserved for the affluent only. Catt had a piece of roasted chicken and some more vegetables which also hit the spot!
After dinner we walked back down the hill towards our humble dwelling and got picked up by another Tuk-Tuk. This guy started his price at 10 Birr, but eventually settled on half that when I threatened to walk away. As we climbed into his vehicle I counted the heads and to my utter astonishment got to 10 people in a three wheeled motorcycle made in India… I was amazed that the thing had enough horses in that little engine to move forward at all. It was downhill, to be fair and the ride took about ten minutes, so the price was probably fair enough even though it was an obvious inflation of local prices.
It had been a long and busy and quite eventful day. The bed was as huge as the room and the mattress soft as a feather pillow. It was not as I would have preferred it, but it was comfortable enough and the altitude and temperature voided any chance of mosquitoes, so we fell into a peaceful sleep which lasted all night long.
Day 244:
It was another simple travelling day and we were up fairly early. The power had been turned off but the water was still flowing so Catt had a cold shower before morning coffee was served. I was not brave enough. We met the Finches outside and started to make our plans to leave. I had a quick look at the car washer’s handiwork and was appalled! He missed at least half of the surface area of the car and made no effort to clean any of the windows. It looked like he took about 30 seconds to spread some dust around one or two of the panels and then lost interest in the project.
I called the manager who could speak about ten words of English and asked him if he would have been happy with that work. His first response was that the colour was difficult to wash… the second excuse was that the dust came through the night. I laughed out loud and straight in his face. I told him that I could not believe that his staff took so little pride in what they did and that they were obviously not interested in cleaning the car at all. I proposed a refund to settle the matter but could see that I was not going to get anywhere with silly ideas like pride, honour and fair trade, so we left without. Oh well, it was only $3 I heard myself say and hated the ease at which the sentence came to me after only one week in the country.
The drive out of town was spectacular! We climbed a steep hill and looked back over the creation of that part of the fantastically scenic landscape. The morning was chilly and the altitude still high and the poor old diesel engine struggling on the slopes. I employed first and second gear mostly and after an hour of driving I had not managed to go faster that 30km/h. It was breathtakingly beautiful and I could not help thinking about a fairly profound statement I had heard about the country: “Ethiopia is a fantastic place… pity about the people…” That prophecy had come true for me as well.
Once we crested the last of the hills it was like we were driving on top of the world! The air was strangely hazy and the horizons strangely close to us on both sides. I had a feeling that one could be forgiven for thinking the earth was flat and very narrow where we were. The skies were huge and blue and the landscape a deep and fertile green. The crops of sugar cane, maize, corn and sorghum looked dense and healthy and it seemed impossible to believe that the country suffered a great drought in the not so distant past. We tumbled down the rocky patch onto the bottom of the valley floor and the GPS showed that we had descended more than 2 500 meters in less than 2 hours. We were driving down the side on an ancient volcano once again and the road surface turned into glass like quarts with a dangerous lack of colour and light reflection. It was pitch black and smooth as ice. Once we reached the flatter lands and were confident that we would be left in relative peace we stopped for a mid morning coffee.
As I turned the engine off and got out I heard the dreaded sound of escaping air from one of the rear tyres. We had punctured no 2 of the trip on the same poor rubber than the first one. It was hardly surprising in that environment and I was actually fairly impressed that we managed to make it that far without incident. I could clearly see the place the tyre was slashed and decided to use some foam to inflate the wheel and seal the hole. With coffee in hand we set of again, monitoring the tyre every few minutes. We passed through a small village and waved at the kids lining the streets and smilingly made our way past the centre of the settlement before the inevitable local incident happened.
A kid of some 4 years old decided it was acceptable practice to through a rock at the side of the car. This was the third time in a week we had been subject of that hideous practice and I had had enough! I stopped the car and got out within two meters of the barbaric little shit and while wagging my finger insisted that he came closer. I had no intention to resort to violence but I did want to make it velar to him that he what he was doing was wrong! He stared at me without expression for a few seconds, but with perseverance and my best disapproving look I managed to make him scared enough so that he looked sufficiently reprimanded. An adult came along and asked me what the matter was. I asked him, in all seriousness what they thought their children and how they could allow them to be that barbaric with obvious approval of vandalism. His response… “Give me Birr…” I felt like screaming! I got back into the car, got shat on by my dear wife for stopping and risking danger and quite seriously considered driving straight through the ridiculously terrible whole of a land they called Ethiopia. I had had enough of its shit! I saw two policemen standing next to the road and stopped beside them. I told them about the incident with the rock against the side of the car and pointed out the offender. Their reaction…. “Give me Birr….” I could only laugh.
As we drove on in desperate silence I tried my very best to calm down. I was thinking of the words I would later use to describe the country and its people. Things like: dishonourable, filthy, unreliable, dishonest, barbaric, disrespectful, rude, soulless idiotic misfits with zero respect for themselves or their fellow humans came to mind. I could not wait to leave!
By the time we reached the major town of Awassa I had calmed down enough to stop for lunch. A Pizza restaurant by the name of Dolce Vita was recommended to us, so we headed that way. I had decided to change the tyre in the relative safety of their car park as it was clear that my temporary foam fix was not holding. It was easy enough to find and the car park was safe and secure. We were also the only two vehicles there. We asked the waiter of they were open for lunch, which they were. We asked if they served Pizza, which he said “yes” to, so while the gang sat down at a nice table in the lush garden I went to wash my hands. I had decided to eat before work. The menu was extensive and impressive but obviously geared towards tourists and not locals. We made our choices and called the waiter back to take the order. He wrote every individual order down, looked at his piece of paper and said: “Oh… no Pizza before 6PM” FFFFFUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKKK!
We found a nice local hotel not too far away and sat on their veranda overlooking the car park. They had a very Italian menu of delicious dishes and after establishing that the menu we were looking at actually contained what they had on offer and that they actually had stock of everything I settled on a Veal Cordon Blue which was absolutely fantastically tasty and HUGE! In fact, everyone was pleasantly surprised by their dishes and when the bill came none of us needed to argue about it. So we actually managed to find one place who delivered what they promised at the price they advertised. It was almost unbelievable!
Their car park was on the street and I simply did not have the will, energy or patience to change the tyres in the street. Instead we found a local super market and stocked up on wine and milk, used our compressor to inflate the tyre back to normal, plugged it with the tyre repair kit and left town before mid afternoon. Our destination was the Rastafarian town of Wondo Genet with its natural hot springs and the old hunting lodge of Hailae Selaisse where we could reportedly camp. We briefly stopped in Sashamene for fuel and descended into the right and fertile valleys to the east. The road had been tarred since our maps were made, which was a pleasant surprise and we reached the Wondo Genet Hot Springs Resort by mid afternoon expecting sheer bliss and pampering.
The grossly overweight manager confirmed that we could indeed camp. Their rate was three times the standard Ethiopia rate for camping, but still less than $10 per person. It was standard car park camping where we could use the toilets outside the restaurant. The inspection of the facilities literally made me gag and almost made me vomit. They were disgustingly dirty with ridiculously strong smells of urine and fesses. I marched back to reception and asked the fat man if they were planning on cleaning the facilities that day. His answer: “They are clean…” Seriously? Anyway, we asked about a shower and were told that we could use the showers at the hot springs. They were three hundred meters away from where we were told to camp and when I wanted to inspect them for human suitability we were stopped at the entrance and asked to pay a fee to enter. I pushed past the gate guard, ignored his shouting and screaming and had a look. They were, predictably as dirty as the toilets by the restaurant. There was no visible human waste, but the whole area reminded very much of a water treatment plant in looks and smells. I walked past the shouting idiot and reported my finds to three disappointed faces. We could simply not stay there! On the way back to the car park we were approached no less than five times by different shady individuals who wanted to relieve us of some Birr and show us some waterfall in the hills. I expertly ignored every single one of them while Catt repeated “It’s not possible” over and over again.
We drove the three kilometres back to the town of Wondo Washa and saw a sign for a Pension. I walked inside to find a lush protected garden with green lawn and pretty rooms facing big shady trees. It was as if I had entered another universe! I met the owner and agreed a fair price for one room to use as facilities and camping for us all. We were allowed to make a fire and cook our own food and he would even organise some cold beer from the local bar at local prices. I ran back into the dusty street and reported this to the gang. Everyone was suitably relieved and followed me through the portal and into the heavenly Bliss of the Abyssinia Pension. The rooms were clean and had electricity. When the power cut came the manager started a generator. The shower was hot with great water pressure and we were left alone completely! The beer was cold and plentiful and the price for the four of us was $15. Catt and I decided to sleep in the room.
Day 245:
I woke up with the birds and was trying to formulate an argument for skipping the rest of our adventure in the unpleasant hole of the country I came to despise. We got up at our normal time, made some coffee and had breakfast with the Finches for the last time. They were heading straight to the capitol and our original plan was to head west to the Bale Mountains National Park. My spirit was not broken, but damaged enough that I just did not feel like making any waves or change any plans. I decided to give Ethiopia one more chance and see the Bale Mountains as the last blast before heading to greener… well, browner pastures of Sudan.
Bob and Anne left us as we were packing up the last few things. Our tyre repair was holding fast but as soon as I started Maggie’s engine I knew something was not quite right. We had obviously got bad fuel from Sashamene. I could clearly smell the paraffin in the fumes and the huge cloud of smoke filled the beautiful garden in an instant. I apologised to our host and drove out slowly. It was not a great start to the new day. On the road back up the hills to Sashamene we coughed and stuttered on every incline and eventually made it past the bad fuel station, turning onto a brand new tar road courtesy of our Chinese brothers and sisters. By this time the engine was nice and hot the stuttering was minimal, so we decided to continue our journey without making a fuss.
The brand new black surface snaked through massive corn and barley fields with huge herds of cattle and goats on them. It surely did look like the land of plenty, but still there was not a single piece of fruit or vegetable for sale along the route. At some point the tar ended and the gravel detour was made from something looking like volcanic rocks the size of tennis balls. We slowed down considerably for the twenty kilometres until we found the next section of the smooth black stuff. I was just starting to accelerate when I felt the rear wheel slipping. I hit the brakes, came to a stop and immediately knew that we had lost a tyre completely. There was no air left in it at all and the sidewall was damaged from obviously driving on it. Damn! I cursed myself for not changing that tyre the day before, but then also noticed that my repair was still perfectly in place. It was a brand new cut which caused the issue. This time there was no quick fix, so got the jack and wheel spanner out and changed for one of our spares. The process took no longer that fifteen minutes, but by the time we were ready to roll out a crowd of about fifty men woman and children had assembled around us. They were not bothering us really. They were just curious and pretty amazed that the pale skin freaks changed tyres in the same way as they did.
The tar stopped pretty abruptly and the gravel road was pretty rough and nasty. The going was still steady and we made really good time. We reached the town of Dondola which was commonly seen as the gateway to the Bale Mountains. The main street was under heavy construction though and traffic was routed away from all the shops, hotels and restaurants, so we did not stop to investigate. Some 20km further along we arrived in a small village by the name of Adaba where we decided to stop for lunch. I headed to the shiniest and tallest building and found the brand new Affassa Hotel with restaurant. We were seated away from the locals under a gazebo in a pretty courtyard and ordered some local food. I had Tips which is fried peaces of goat meat on Injera and Catt ordered a version of mixed grill called Mahaberwa. This consisted of five or six different dishes on Injera. It was all spicy, it was all tasty and it was all a little bit too much for us to finish. There were no Farenji prices in this village and the proprietor was very glad to see us. We had a couple of drinks each and the total bill came to about $6. In a country where it seemed impossible to buy fresh produce that was hard to argue with.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon gaining altitude. In Kenya’s Mount Elgon National Park we managed to drive the poor 14 year old Maggie to 3 800 meters above sea level, but that was nothing compared to this mountain! Our Chinese brothers and sisters were also busy building a brand new shiny smooth tar road through the mountains, but the track next to the road works stayed pretty terrible and with the inclines and getting stuck in fist gear for five to ten minutes at a time the going was slow, but spectacular! We crested the highest point at 3 900 meters before winding down into the valleys of the National Park. Maggie’s engine was not happy with the dirty fuel or the altitude and to top things off the brakes seemed to over heat really easily and felt like they were binding in the rear. It was something I had to check out before heading into the mountain passes again. We spotted our first bit of impressive Ethiopian wildlife in the shape of massive Mountain Nyalas crossing the road right in front of us. We saw vast amounts of Warthogs on the muddy plains which changed to huge numbers of horses as we got closer to the village of Dinsho, the location of the Bale Mountains National Park HQ and campsite. We arrived a shade before 15:00.
The park boasted some very interesting attractions. They offered horse trekking and were the home to the endangered and endemic Ethiopian Wolves. My friend Tony Weaver had also told me about prolific Trout fishing in the streams around the village which held great interest for me. The friendly man in the office however explained that the wolves were on the Saneti Plateau, a 6 day hike away. We could do a horse trek in the mountains, but not to that territory. He also explained that we would not be allowed to do anything without being accompanied by a guide. That included the fishing. The park charged an entrance fee per person, a camping fee per tent and a fee for the vehicle totalling about $15 per day for the two of us. That was fairly acceptable to us, so we decided to stay one night to consider our options.
As I was getting paperwork done and handing money over I heard a very excited voice of a young man in the office next door. He was speaking Amharic, but with a funny accent and it took a little while to establish that Pablo was in fact French. He was there with two of his friends and his mom, Mari who had been living in Ethiopia for seventeen years. They could not understand why they needed a guide to a place they had been to a few dozen times and was arguing the fees and rules. I let the game play out for a while before offering to share the cost of a guide if we could join their day hike the next day. The guide fee was only $10 I heard myself say… It seemed to be a perfect solution for all though.
The camp site itself was right on the top of the Dinsho Hill overlooking vast open plains on the plateau below. It overlooked the village and towered high above the Chinese road building camp and had massive trees and thick bush on three sides. It was jaw droppingly beautiful and I was happy to be there. There was no one to beg from us or rip us off and the park fees were all published to avoid misunderstanding. There were no facilities, but we did not need any. We had a cup of coffee to soother away the travel tiredness before I decided to inspect the brakes I smelled and heard rubbing earlier. I removed the tyre and the brake drum with some difficulty and found that the rear brake shoes were completely worn out. We had replaced them in Cape Town and I honestly did not expect to use them up before reaching Europe, but I was staring at a bare peace of metal where brake pad should have been. There was nothing for it; I had to disable the rear brakes to avoid causing further damage.
It was dark by the time I had managed to finish my mechaniching and put everything back together. With the darkness came the cold. I put on extra layers and made a small fire to cook some pork chops. We had butternut left over from Nairobi and feasted on that while drowning a bottle of fine Ethiopian red. By 20:30 it was so cold that we decided to crawl into bed and we even employed our hot water bottle for the first time since we left South Africa. We had two sleeping bags zipped together, a flat sheet, a wool blanket, three Masai blankets and a goose down sleeping bag on top of the mountain to keep us warm. I fell asleep with a frozen nose and wool hat on my head, but the rest of me was toasty warm.
If I had to do it again:
It was not a great week for public relations and there were at least one incident a day that really ruined the country for me. I am glad that we visited the tribes in the Omo Valley, but in hindsight the only two worth visiting are the Mursi and the Dorze. The former needs to be visited before the crowds arrive and with a local guide who speaks the language.
Every single little offer that I got for every single little thing from a glass of water to extra milk in a restaurant I will ask about the cost from now on.
I am busy working on a questionnaire for hotel management about facilities. So far I have this:
Do you have a toilet?
Does it work?
Is there water?
Will it be available 24 hours a day?
Will there be a charge for using the toilet?
Do you have a shower?
Is there water in the shower?
Is the water hot?
Is there electricity to make the water hot?
Does the tap work?
What times will I be able to use the shower?
Will there be a charge for using the shower?
Do you have a restaurant?
Does your menu reflect what you have in the kitchen?
Which items on the menu are actually available?
Please bring me the Amharic menu so I can compare the prices.
Apart from that, I should have changed the tyre when it got a puncture and had it repaired properly. The tyres we have are pretty tired at this stage though and almost brittle from the abuse we have shown them. I am also starting to think that Mud Terrains were the wrong choice despite all the advice I got from those who travelled before me. The gaps in between the chucks of rubber simply leave the tyre vulnerable to sharp rocks, and there plenty of them!
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