Part 2 - A plane to Axum
So
here I am on the plane from Addis Ababa to Axum, with stops over at
Lalibela and Gondar. Now flying in a plane like that may be an insane
way to spend money fast, the view is fantastic.
It was a bit eerie to see that nearly all the country is cultivated,
but the geography... A large part of the scene below was highlands,
mostly level or almost level. Everywhere where there is a river, this
countryside has been eroded deeply, creating huge chasms into the ground,
where one can see the river cutting ever deeper into the farmland, coming
at last to a steep drop into a cleft much like the grand canyon. In
the middle of this, there rise the Simien Mountains.
Huge jagged peaks stick out amidst the rest of the land, the remnants
of ancient volcanoes. The captain pointed out to us the passing of the
highest peak among them, Ras Dashen. Finally we entered more broken
lands, with small isolated peaks littered along the land, as we flew
over Tigray. We flew over Axum, leaving it again to go to the airport,
a good deal outside the town.
I was thinking how far I'd have to go, and felt discouraged at having
to spend more money again to get a cab. When the plane had landed, a
small stairway was pushed against the plane, and we were all let out
to walk the final couple of hundred yards to the terminal. I thought
it was refreshing to see the freedom to walk along the airport grounds.
With me on the plane had only been tourists and rich people, pointing
out once more that this was the rich man's way of transportation. I
wondered briefly if the people from catholic church, a Italian priest
in robes among them, were there for the stele being given back a month
or so later. In the terminal, at the side reserved for arrivals, I sat
down to relax, while the other passengers stood like sheep around the
conveyor belt waiting for their suitcases.
Looking out the window to the plane we had come from, I could see the
planes cargo hold still being unloaded and knew they had some time yet
to stand there waiting. To my left, just outside the arrivals area,
I saw a sea of squirming guides and other helpful locals waiting for
the stream of tourists to come walking out. When my bag arrived, and
I walked out to the waiting masses of locals, already yelling and calling
out to every new arrival, a man caught my eye and said to me that he
knew I was looking for the Africa hotel. "Dyou! Dyou want go Africa
hotel! Yes? Come!" He ushered me into a cab and before I could
finish a question about the price I was going to have to pay, he said
it was service for the hotel. I saw the priest and entourage drive off
in a luxurious new UN vehicle.
Africa hotel was a breath of fresh air. It is a well kept building right
on the side of the main road, coming in from Adigrat/Mekele. It has
a pleasant courtyard in the centre of the building, with fruit trees
and flowers (abound all over the country, as far as they haven't been
replaced by farmland). The prices were perfect as well, the manager
asking me whether I wanted a cheap or expensive room, since I paid only
40 Birr a day, where I had paid 120 originally, and 90 later for the
room in Addis.
So, when I had settled in my room, it was time for my usual orientation
walk around the town. As soon as I came out, a boy standing in the shade
of a tree on the side of the road, came walking up to offer to show
the city. I told him I didn't need a guide. I told him, as is the case,
that I wanted to check the city on my own.
Nevertheless, a nice advantage of language differences, the boy kept
walking alongside me. He pointed left to say that is a shop. Then he
pointed right to say there was a souvenir shop there. He turned back
to the left to show me the bank, a sign hanging outside, the size of
bus, with 'Bank' written on it in letters the size of a man. I told
him again I did not need him to show me this, and I certainly wasn't
planning to pay for it. He told me it was alright, since he was going
to his friends anyway, and would walk along with me, until he had to
turn away. This is a nice thing about Ethiopians I kept noticing time
after time, they are initially planning to get money, but not maliciously
and they do not walk off angry if you reject them. (They only get angry
if ever you try to get a discount, as I were going to find out)
We came up to a fork in the road, one well-travelled leg going left
towards Shire, the other going right, along the hill, at the foot of
which Axum lies, into the city. He told me I had to follow that road,
keeping to the right to get to the stele field, and left down the left.
As I had walked along with the guide, I had already been targeted by
many children, asking for money. Everyone that came near though had
been kicked aside hard by the guide. One time he hit one kid so hard
I almost felt it myself. The Ethiopians are harsh people, who do not
feel afraid of hitting or kicking anyone of their own people. The most
amazing thing was the kid looked at him in a hurt way, rubbing his head,
but not even the glimmer of a tear showed. Now that the guide had left
me though I was free game. Loads of people came up begging, but by now
I already had some small coins in my pocket at all times to give to
those who looked most like they needed it. The children who look well
cared after and healthy should not be encouraged, for they will not
get back to school if their parents find they can make easy money due
to their being children and therefore cute.
An old man pushed a couple of very small children, afraid of my size
and colour probably, to go and shake my hands, while he smiled friendly
to me and greeted me in Tigrinya, which was too hard to follow, my language
book only teaching me Amharic. He didn't dream of asking for money,
which instantly made me more inclined to give the children a little
something. (The old people hate begging) So I gave them some cookies
I had with me to eat while walking around.
I got to the stele in the end, having been charged by many begging children
and invalids and sick people, hoping I would ever have the kind of faith
to just heal them right then and there. But for the time being I got
really tired, especially of the children, who used all the energy children
always have, and which has more power in a warm, dry country at great
height, to run towards you and after you, yelling "Dyou, dyou!
Gimme money! Mister, mister! Gimme Birr!".
Standing at the stele for a fleeting moment of rest, I noticed that
I was torn between admiration for the huge, granite, ancient artwork,
and a feeling I had somehow expected something more overwhelming. It's
just a small field with a handful of stele, only one of which is worth
looking at for some time. Then I was approached by someone who asked
me if I wanted to enter the compound, the field being closed off by
a fence with a small gate at the front.
He wanted money, of course, and I was just thinking about how silly
it was paying money to stand a couple of yards closer to a perfectly
visible stele, as I was distracted by the Catholics driving up in a
huge, expensive jeep. I figured they were making a killing on these
people, and declined without remorse, to walk off around the field.
I was wondering if perhaps there was more to see a little while further,
still thinking this town was abound with historical findings popping
out all over the place.
As I turned around the small hill behind the stele field, however, I
came into a poorer part still of the town. Here people were pleasantly
amazed to see a bag of money (as many treat the 'Faranji' or foreigner)
walking all the way over there. So, tired as I was already, I was bombarded
even more by yells and hoots. Especially with the added sentence "Dyou,
dyou! Where are you go?". I pointed ahead of me and said "Over
there". After a while I said "To the moon" or something
like that. I still had some adjusting to do obviously.
Getting hotter and more tired every second, I wondered where the town
would finally end, so I could get some rest. I reached the end of town,
and walked off into the countryside. The rest over there, finally having
left the small streets littered with small houses, made me think I'd
have to get back at some point, and would like to do so by another road.
So I turned around into the hill on my right hand side, and disappeared
into a grove of Eucalyptus trees. I've seen a load of wildlife there,
and heard sounds of even more. I was greeted by the happy singing of
birds in the trees, and all the hardships of the world dropped away.
The only Ethiopian I met deep into the undergrowth was too amazed to
see me to even speak. As I walked back down the hill after hours of
chilling out, I looked down upon the roofs of the town and felt very
pleased for the first time. A large predatory bird came swooping over
my head, landing in a tree. He looked at me for a moment standing there
looking at him. Then he dropped down to swoop over me a second time,
flying directly towards me, to pass about two yards over my head. Then
he flew off towards the town, straight towards the roofs of the two
main churches. I felt elated.
I walked back into town down the road toward the St Mary of Zion church.
When I was still a hundred yards away a man came out onto the street
another hundred yards behind me, calling out "Dyou have to buy
ticket!" Annoyed I turned my eyes from the compound I seemed to
have missed when arriving at the stele field, which I could now see
on my left hand down the road, and yelled back "Do I have to pay
to stand here?", and pointed down at my feet.
The next day I figured I'd get to some internet café, because
I felt the need to talk to people whom I could understand. Ethiopian,
and especially Tigrinya, is quite hard to understand. So I went here
and there, but nowhere was internet. I was sent towards Remhai Hotel,
when I had found that the information in the Lonely Planet, stating
internet was at the Africa Hotel proved wrong. However at Remhai, right
next to the empty swimming pool, they told me they had lost the password
(?). They told me I should check the airport, when I asked if there
was any other place. Little did I know people in Ethiopia want to help
you so much, they'll just tell you anything when they don't know the
answer.
So I decided instead to turn back to the hotel. I met a guide on the
way, who told me I should have gone to some other place. So he'd take
me there. He took me to Cafe Abyssinia, then told me they would only
open at night. He told me they'd ask more, but he only paid a birr/minute,
and so should I. I found out later that, since one email there took
me about 100 mins, this was an incredibly large sum to pay. But for
the time being he took me to the library, because they would be cheaper.
However, at the library I found they had just closed, so he took me
to a friend of his, who worked at the library with the internet, because
he could maybe get him to go back. This didn't happen however, so he
took me to a barber shop where they told me they had internet, but the
connection had failed.
Then he took me to the tourist information centre to hear the same thing
and I became very tired again. I had by then walked for many hours,
having visited every corner of the town, except for the parts I'd been
in the day before, and had had quite enough. I thanked the boy for his
trouble and invited him to a drink in front of my hotel. The day after
that I walked off towards the airport, refusing to have to pay the price
of a taxi, from my rapidly disintegrating funds.
This took a walk for hours into the surrounding countryside. I noticed
loads of Ethiopians, walking along the road themselves, looking amazed
at the sight of a Faranji walking by the side of the road. I realised
that most foreigners behaved disgustingly, throwing around their money
for all the luxury it could buy, making the Ethiopians realise all the
more, how incredibly poor they really are. This had lead, most understandably,
to the thought all the foreigners were incredibly rich, as well as lazy
enough to buy themselves out of every bit of work.
It's a twisted perspective the Axumites will get of the world. Just
when I thought I had walked for long enough and felt like a little rest,
I passed a small hill, on the side of which were huge rocks, stacked
on top of each other, to create a small sheltered spot in between them.
Wondering where on earth these rocks might have come from, I felt blessed
with their being there to give me some shade. As I sat beneath them,
cooling down, I saw beneath me, across the road a watering hole, to
which a small, singing child was leading his herd of cows and mules.
I realised that whatever the situation or location one is in, God would
provide for everything. So this I wrote down on the rocks there with
a piece of chalk rock.
When I arrived at the airport later, I found the area was actually closed
off by a detachment of soldiers. I'd already seen truckloads of them
passing along the road. Apparently there is a lot of military presence
in the country. However, the soldiers just looked at my passport and
let me pass on toward the terminal, still hundreds of yards down the
road.
After I had passed the two sentries, no other soldier I met on the grounds
even wondered what I was doing there. The first surprised look I got,
belonged to the people inside the terminal, who told me there was no
internet (of course) and no flights, since they only arrive in the morning,
if perhaps I was wondering about that. So I turned around to go back
to the hotel.
At the hotel there was I guide who told me he had been waiting for me,
because he wanted to invite me into town that night. So I went with
him to a small cafe, recognizable by the light shining out of the front
door, and the loud music playing. Inside the predominant colour was
red, and there were posters on the wall with women in bikini's and people
kissing. There were about six girls sitting inside, and two men at one
table with an older woman. The boy bought us beers, and the men and
woman we sat beside turned their attention to us.
It seemed obvious after a while they noticed I wasn't enjoying myself,
which I thought was strange because I didn't look half as bored as the
girls sitting around. A girl walked in, disappeared through a door at
the back, then came back in, got a drink and sat down herself, looking
bored. Then, as my guide and the people beside us were slowly coercing
me into looking more like enjoying myself, two men came in, sat down
and invited some of the girls at their table. A while later I was looking
at a fat man of about 40 to 50 years old dancing lustily with a girl
I figured being about 13. I don't know what kind of look I showed on
my face, but seconds later my guide took us to another bar, which was
better according to him.
The next day, as I was walking out to finally go and see the St. Mary
of Zion church, as well as Sheba's bath, the girl behind the counter
at the hotel told me there was a coffee ceremony at four. When I came
to the church, a man in a wheelchair came up to guide me.
He said I needed to pay for a ticket to even enter the compound. I had
hoped that the priests would not be that commercial, and this I told
him. But as it turned out there was no way to get into the compound
even, without paying. But even so, I had to change my clothes (I was
wearing a galabia (arab dress) for the wealth of fresh air it supplies
in the blistering heat), because Muslims are not allowed to enter. So
I told the man I was not interested in a church which would state that
people had to pay money to see what should be God's house on earth,
nor in a church that would deny access to anyone regardless of who they
are. I told him that was not the kind of love that defines a true Christian.
So I told him that instead he could help me find some sandals. I had
asked one of the guides about the prices of sandals, and he had told
me that they cost no more than 8 birr at the most. Little did I know
that he thought I had meant slippers. So I was outraged at the prices
I got, along the lines of 80 Birr or more. I decided not to buy sandals
after all, and went back to the hotel.
The man in the wheelchair went along with me the entire stretch and
then asked me if I had any clothes I could spare. So I gave him some,
which made up about two thirds of what I had in clothing, and bought
him a drink as well. Then the waiter came up to me to tell me I had
to come into the courtyard to have my coffee ceremony. I was taken inside
the centre of the garden, right in the middle of the trees and fruits
and flowers, to a patch where picked flowers had been spread out on
the floor. No less than four girls where sitting there, one more beautiful
than the other, giggling and chattering, much like the birds filling
every gap in the green over my head, fearlessly sitting there in the
branches ignoring me.
They had put together a basket full of popcorn, cookies, sweets and
fruit. I got some cups of coffee and kept being offered the basket of
goodies, while the girls were talking about me in there hard to understand
language. I was slapped in the face by the duality of the town. Every
pleasant instance was met by an unpleasant one, and vice versa. One
person was hospitable, the other regarded you as no more than a bag
of gold. I figured the old way of the people was hospitality, while
tourism had brought about the bag-of-gold thing.
When I was walking in the countryside the next day, going to see another
stretch of surroundings, especially attracted to a monastery on top
of a small rock outcropping, I noticed the same thing. I passed a small
farmhouse, where a man was working outside to build a new room to his
farm. He called out to his son, whom must have been the only one that
knew English, and the son told me there was coffee inside. So I walked
back towards the front door of the house/compound, when the kid asks
me for money. I turned around to walk off once more. The man says something
to his son again, and he runs back after me. He tells me again to come
inside and have coffee.
Apparently the hospitality was more important than the money. I got
inside, drank coffee, got some injera to eat as well, and was joined
by the grandfather also living there, who kept ushering me to eat more.
Of course, when I left I did give the kid some money, and his younger
brother (4 or something) the last small coin I had left.
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