Prepping for an Ethiopian Expedition
Date: 3 March 2012
Location: Itegue Taitu Hotel (aka, Hotel Rwanda), Addis Ababa
After 18 hours of air travel, five of which involved painfully having to listen to a Somalian mother
scream at her relentless offspring, I finally arrived in Addis Ababa - at 2 in the morning local time. My first taste of this
highland city was unlike anything I was expecting. The dimly-lit streets were completely void of people or cars, the air utterly still and deathly
silent. It certainly did not evoke the vivacious attributes expected of a nation's capital, which gave me every reason to revel even more in the mysteries that lay waiting outside of the provincial looking Bole International. Navigating the labyrinth of narrow streets, I finally arrived
at a stretch of single-room bars and nightclubs, classic Azmari rhythms
pulsating from dark, hidden chambers and faceless characters lingering in the
shadows. Coming upon the Itegue Taitu Hotel, a 19th century building
sporting dilapidated grandiose architecture reminiscent of colonial
military barracks, I was welcomed by the all too familiar apology and explanation that my reservation was either canceled or nonexistent. Reservations are practically
meaningless formalities in many developing countries, and if I had a nickel for every time I arrived at a bizarre hour to no vacancy... Thankfully, a single room of broken furniture,
rotting walls, empty electrical sockets, and randomly hanging live wiring was
available for my taking. This type of "Hotel Rwanda" accommodation is
nothing new to me and quite frankly, I was too exhausted to even remotely care.
The bulk of my first day in Addis was devoted to travel "chores" in preparation for my off-roading and camping excursion in the wilderness of the lower Omo Valley, a literal "End of the Earth" at that obscure point where the borders of Ethiopia, Kenya, and Sudan meet (not that anyone is really keeping track down there). The warlike tribes of this region, including the Karo, Hamer, and the NatGeo-famous, lip-plate-wearing Mursi, have long tantalized my wildest imagination. Just the mere sound of their names makes my anthropological senses tingle with delight, ingenuously envisioning my meeting with these ancient communities like some vintage film reel of a "first contact" encounter. It has long been my dream to visit these archaic communities, whose "stone-age" lifestyle (figuratively compared) has recently and tragically come under serious threat in the name of development and "progress" at the hands of the Ethiopian government. It is heartbreaking to think that their ways of life and fascinating traditions may cease to exist several decades from now. With the strongest desire to set off and document, I spent most of my first morning discussing the logistics, supplies, and payment of the trip with my organizer and recently turned friend, Adimasu. I first met Adimasu online via the Lonely Planet Thorntree Forum, where we talked about the feasibility of tribal visits. Having just started his own guide service, he was ready for business and quoted me a price for exploring Omo that, in comparison with my extensive research results, was almost too good to be true: 800 USD per person for a week-long trip, including the 4x4, fuel, equipment, accommodation, permits, and all food. Barely a month after that conversation, I now find myself anxiously knocking on his door.
With the supplies being gathered and the 4x4 being prepped, my sightseeing in Addis began with the (in)famous Merkato, the largest market in sub-Saharan Africa and Ethiopia's most exuberant bazaar. The Merkato's infamy surely lies in the idea that most visitors who go in do eventually come out, but often with their pockets emptied and jewelry missing. I clutched my camera bag as if my life depended on it, and thankfully nothing negative was experienced. A relative of Adimasu's friend, the 21-year old Mekdes, was generous enough to take half a day off to guide me through the maze of vendors and merchandise, passing hundreds of people, donkeys, and smog-choking microbuses. My first purchase was a small knife of the fierce Afar people from the north of the country (no chance I'd be able to see them and come out alive).
My evening was spent walking the downtown area of the Piazza and up towards St. Georgis church, where elaborate ceremonies involving liturgical chanting and ornate orthodox costumes were being conducted in front of thousands of white-robed devotees on the occasion of Lent. During this fasting period, people avoid most food throughout the day and anything involving meat or dairy. In merely a day, Ethiopia proved to represent a stunning smorgasbord of ethnic, cultural, and religious influences resulting from thousands of years of fusion incorporating African, Middle Eastern, and sporadic European elements. The morning call to prayer by the Muslim muezzin is immediately followed by Orthodox Christian sermons, broadcasted via loudspeaker across the city. The faces on the street echo every shade of the ethnic spectrum, from fair-skinned Amharas to the golden-hued Tigrinyas to the deep ebony complexions of the Nilotic minorities. Everything about the land and people seems so ancient, even in spite of the nation's hurried attempts to become more contemporary.
Today was quite delightful, as my father was successfully able to reunite with an old high school friend and his Ethiopian wife. My father's friend has been living in Ethiopia for 6 years now, working with developing a facility for orphaned children. Hopefully, our small contribution of an outdated laptop will be of some use towards his work. With the luxury of a private car and "local" friends, we received a wonderful personal tour of the capital's many sights, finishing off the afternoon with a traditional Lent meal and coffee hour in a cultural tukul setting. Ethiopian food has never failed me, and I wallowed in the spicy flavors of various "wats" (stews) eaten with the hands using the crepe-like injera.
Tomorrow, we embark on the long journey south. I'll likely be away from any form of communication for the next week, but I hope to describe to you the adventure that is to come upon my arrival back in Addis on Friday.
Tribe-Hopping Through the Lower Omo
Date: 12 March 2012
Location: Outside at a stone table on the mountainside, Lalibela
6 days.
1500 km.
10 tribes.
The sights and experiences of the past week have been as fantastic as they've been life changing. Coming to Ethiopia to witness first-hand some of the world's most unique and endangered ethnic groups has long been merely a fantasy for me, as a child tantalized by images of beaded bare-breasted natives in National Geographic. Twenty years later this dream would ultimately be fulfilled. Starting off from Addis in a 1980 Nissan Patrol 4x4 filled with equipment, my father, our Kafa guide Sumsum, our Amhara driver Mohammed, and I slowly meandered along dirt roads from village to village, taking in the exotic inhabitants and vast landscape. Sumsum, whose tribe discovered the coffee bean, speaks nearly 6 different tribal languages in addition to the national Amharic and English. Mohammed, who has years of experience as a commercial truck driver, is an expert at navigating rough muddy trails and avoiding collisions with cow herds and flocks of goats. They make a great team, always looking out for our comfort and helping to mediate our interactions with the tribes. The stories are too numerous to document in detail here, but I hope to share with you some of this week's highlights in brief.
Traveling rough trails out into what seemed like an oblivion of arid bush, filled with thorny shrubs and iconic African acacias, we ended up deep into a valley whose emptiness appeared to spread hundreds of kilometers in every direction. It was hot and dusty as we forged our way across enormous dried river beds into the territory of the Hamer tribe. Sumsum was constantly on his mobile phone, losing connection every few minutes and anxiously staring at it until the signal bar would reappear. Word was (very vaguely) spreading around in the area that a tribal pre-wedding ritual was going to take place, although no one really knew where or when. Ten calls and 300 km later, we ultimately found ourselves off a dirt path next to a river bed, where a handful of other 4x4s where parked under an acacia grove. From the path, it didn't seem like there was any sign of life in sight. We made our way down to the shore where we were shockingly greeted by a hundred Hamer women and men, everyone chattering and moving about with a great sense of excitement and anticipation. Like a vision from pre-history, the women donned flaps and tresses of raw goat hides, decorated with an array of gleaming white cowrie shells and brightly colored beads. Shimmering brass bangles stacked up the length of their arms while massive iron anklets clinked with their every step. The most defining feature of the tribe was the elaborate female hairstyles, formed from rolling red ocher and ash to form delicate chin-length copper dreads from their hair, ultimately giving the appearance of life-size, wig-wearing terracotta figures. We were so fortunate to be able to witness this rare pre-wedding ceremony, which consisted of three parts. The first involved the women singing and dancing in a circle before coming together in the center and jumping voraciously, all the while blowing small metal horns and shrieking. Following this dance, the women then approached the men, who wore nothing but a small loin cloth and plenty of beaded jewelry. One by one, the women began to single out a man for each of themselves, calling out to him and harassing him, even pleading with him. Eventually the man would pull out a long stick and literally flog the woman, inflicting a ghastly large and bloody slice in her back. All of the women would endure around 6-8 whips, their backs dripping with blood and dust. As horrifying and abusive as it sounds. the women actually beg to be whipped of their free will by the man of their choice, serving as both a sign of her devotion to him and his mutual attraction to her should he respond. It was grizzly and truly a shock to the senses upon hearing the sharp snap of wood slicing through soft skin. The final part of the ceremony was the "jumping of the bulls", performed by the groom-to-be. Completely nude and sporting an interesting mohawk, the groom was expected to demonstrate his honor and prowess by jumping onto a bull's back and running along the backs of a line of 7-8 additional bulls restrained by the "groomsmen". Should he fall during one of his 5 runs, he risked bringing dishonor to his family and would be beaten in shame. Thankfully this time around, the pre-marriage ritual passed smoothly. Interestingly, we never saw the future bride, as this day was clearly not about her. I wanted to make this rare ceremony worthwhile, going as far as to get my face painted with red ocher and white chalk in the fashion of the other men. The tribe found it quite amusing that I was taking an interest in their customs and even offered me a pinch of red powder, after which they signaled to my nose. In an effort to not offend them, I snorted it, with my whole nose burning as if I had just inhaled red chili peppers. They laughed absolutely hysterically, and when I managed to semi regain consciousness, I laughed as well. I would later learn that it was a type of snort tobacco traditionally offered to guests, and man was it a slap to the face.
Nothing says "hello" quite like having a loaded AK-47 shoved into your face by a Mursi tribe elder. The Mursi, along with their cousins the Surma, certainly were the most anticipated of the tribes on account of their stone age traditions, bizarre forms of body modification, and reputation for ferocity. Working our way up from the scorching lowlands to the forested highlands cradling the Omo River, we bounced our way through Mago into Mursi territory. We passed a variety of wildlife, including baboons, dikdiks, and giant vultures tearing away at a hyena carcass. On the top of a high ridge, we came across a small village of several family groups. Immediately we noticed how more primitive the Mursi culture is in comparison to neighboring tribes. Rather than the elegant thatched huts of the Hamer and Karo, the Mursi live in the most basic of structures that resemble little more than a pile of grass with a opening in the bottom. The interior was pitch dark and filled with insects. Their "mattresses" consisted of nothing more than a piece of rock-hard, dried goat skin and they possessed few belongings, such as a grinding stone and machete. An old man came out yelling in an unintelligible tongue, brandishing a Kalashnikov. All of the tribes have them down here and carry them freely, purchasing them from contraband dealers across the border in Sudan for a few cattle. The tribes still attack each other to this day and apparently guns are more efficient at killing than old school spears and arrows. Apart from using his mobile phone to pinpoint the time and location of tribal weddings, Sumsum further used it to steer us clear from areas experiencing inter-tribal warfare, where killings still spontaneously arise between rival clans. Sumsum definitely helped with introductory formalities involving the Mursi, and thankfully we were welcomed once the initial tension and apprehension on both sides subsided. Two women emerged from their hay pile dwellings, exhibiting the beauty accessory that brought this tribe to international recognition- the lip plate. This custom is truly the most radical I have ever witnessed amongst the world's tribal communities. The practice involves pulling out the girl's two front teeth in a gruelingly painful procedure, followed by making an incision in her lower lip into which a small ceramic plate is inserted. Depending on the size of the dowry given for her marriage, the size of the plate can increase, ultimately stretching the lower lip to up to 15 cm in diameter. It was baffling to see these women attempt to speak with giant clay disks swinging from their mouths. Without it, their bottom lips merely dangle below their chins. In addition to the lip plates, the Mursi also insert plates into their ears and decorate their bodies with ritual scarification. Two boys returned from the fields, one of whom was covered in huge bloody and festering wounds to his chest and arms. It was evident that he had recently partaken in a donga, a ritual stick fight involving a violent dual using two meter long wooden rods. In spite of the donga simply being a friendly competition between the men, it is not uncommon for opponents to be beaten unconscious or even to death. After much sitting and staring while our interpreter chatted away, we said farewell and headed off down the dirt path towards the next village. Along the way, we stopped to admire a group of Mursi men walking along the roadside. They were completely nude and covered in intricate spiral and hand-print designs of white chalk that sharply contrasted with their charcoal black bodies. One even wore a headdress of hippo teeth that curved down over his ears. As a group, they looked truly intimidating, but a couple of photos in exchange for a few gifts helped ease the tension. The Mursi are notorious in the region for raiding and taking whatever they want. Interactions with foreigners as well as pressure from the government has helped slightly reduce their aggression and hostility, however their temperaments have been known to turn without warning.
 |
| 5 am outside the Itegue Taitu, our 4x4 ready for the expedition |
The bulk of my first day in Addis was devoted to travel "chores" in preparation for my off-roading and camping excursion in the wilderness of the lower Omo Valley, a literal "End of the Earth" at that obscure point where the borders of Ethiopia, Kenya, and Sudan meet (not that anyone is really keeping track down there). The warlike tribes of this region, including the Karo, Hamer, and the NatGeo-famous, lip-plate-wearing Mursi, have long tantalized my wildest imagination. Just the mere sound of their names makes my anthropological senses tingle with delight, ingenuously envisioning my meeting with these ancient communities like some vintage film reel of a "first contact" encounter. It has long been my dream to visit these archaic communities, whose "stone-age" lifestyle (figuratively compared) has recently and tragically come under serious threat in the name of development and "progress" at the hands of the Ethiopian government. It is heartbreaking to think that their ways of life and fascinating traditions may cease to exist several decades from now. With the strongest desire to set off and document, I spent most of my first morning discussing the logistics, supplies, and payment of the trip with my organizer and recently turned friend, Adimasu. I first met Adimasu online via the Lonely Planet Thorntree Forum, where we talked about the feasibility of tribal visits. Having just started his own guide service, he was ready for business and quoted me a price for exploring Omo that, in comparison with my extensive research results, was almost too good to be true: 800 USD per person for a week-long trip, including the 4x4, fuel, equipment, accommodation, permits, and all food. Barely a month after that conversation, I now find myself anxiously knocking on his door.
 |
| Adimasu in downtown Addis |
With the supplies being gathered and the 4x4 being prepped, my sightseeing in Addis began with the (in)famous Merkato, the largest market in sub-Saharan Africa and Ethiopia's most exuberant bazaar. The Merkato's infamy surely lies in the idea that most visitors who go in do eventually come out, but often with their pockets emptied and jewelry missing. I clutched my camera bag as if my life depended on it, and thankfully nothing negative was experienced. A relative of Adimasu's friend, the 21-year old Mekdes, was generous enough to take half a day off to guide me through the maze of vendors and merchandise, passing hundreds of people, donkeys, and smog-choking microbuses. My first purchase was a small knife of the fierce Afar people from the north of the country (no chance I'd be able to see them and come out alive).
 |
| Hauling goods through the bustling Merkato |
My evening was spent walking the downtown area of the Piazza and up towards St. Georgis church, where elaborate ceremonies involving liturgical chanting and ornate orthodox costumes were being conducted in front of thousands of white-robed devotees on the occasion of Lent. During this fasting period, people avoid most food throughout the day and anything involving meat or dairy. In merely a day, Ethiopia proved to represent a stunning smorgasbord of ethnic, cultural, and religious influences resulting from thousands of years of fusion incorporating African, Middle Eastern, and sporadic European elements. The morning call to prayer by the Muslim muezzin is immediately followed by Orthodox Christian sermons, broadcasted via loudspeaker across the city. The faces on the street echo every shade of the ethnic spectrum, from fair-skinned Amharas to the golden-hued Tigrinyas to the deep ebony complexions of the Nilotic minorities. Everything about the land and people seems so ancient, even in spite of the nation's hurried attempts to become more contemporary.
 |
| Colorful Orthodox rituals being performed in Addis for Ethiopian Lent |
Today was quite delightful, as my father was successfully able to reunite with an old high school friend and his Ethiopian wife. My father's friend has been living in Ethiopia for 6 years now, working with developing a facility for orphaned children. Hopefully, our small contribution of an outdated laptop will be of some use towards his work. With the luxury of a private car and "local" friends, we received a wonderful personal tour of the capital's many sights, finishing off the afternoon with a traditional Lent meal and coffee hour in a cultural tukul setting. Ethiopian food has never failed me, and I wallowed in the spicy flavors of various "wats" (stews) eaten with the hands using the crepe-like injera.
 |
| Ethiopian food: It speaks for itself |
Tomorrow, we embark on the long journey south. I'll likely be away from any form of communication for the next week, but I hope to describe to you the adventure that is to come upon my arrival back in Addis on Friday.
Tribe-Hopping Through the Lower Omo
Date: 12 March 2012
Location: Outside at a stone table on the mountainside, Lalibela
6 days.
1500 km.
10 tribes.
The sights and experiences of the past week have been as fantastic as they've been life changing. Coming to Ethiopia to witness first-hand some of the world's most unique and endangered ethnic groups has long been merely a fantasy for me, as a child tantalized by images of beaded bare-breasted natives in National Geographic. Twenty years later this dream would ultimately be fulfilled. Starting off from Addis in a 1980 Nissan Patrol 4x4 filled with equipment, my father, our Kafa guide Sumsum, our Amhara driver Mohammed, and I slowly meandered along dirt roads from village to village, taking in the exotic inhabitants and vast landscape. Sumsum, whose tribe discovered the coffee bean, speaks nearly 6 different tribal languages in addition to the national Amharic and English. Mohammed, who has years of experience as a commercial truck driver, is an expert at navigating rough muddy trails and avoiding collisions with cow herds and flocks of goats. They make a great team, always looking out for our comfort and helping to mediate our interactions with the tribes. The stories are too numerous to document in detail here, but I hope to share with you some of this week's highlights in brief.
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| Our Kafa Interpreter, Sumsum |
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| Our Amhara driver, Mohammed |
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| Setting off into the bush |
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| A wild camel out in the bush near the border with Sudan |
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| Vultures on the road indicated something dead was nearby |
Traveling rough trails out into what seemed like an oblivion of arid bush, filled with thorny shrubs and iconic African acacias, we ended up deep into a valley whose emptiness appeared to spread hundreds of kilometers in every direction. It was hot and dusty as we forged our way across enormous dried river beds into the territory of the Hamer tribe. Sumsum was constantly on his mobile phone, losing connection every few minutes and anxiously staring at it until the signal bar would reappear. Word was (very vaguely) spreading around in the area that a tribal pre-wedding ritual was going to take place, although no one really knew where or when. Ten calls and 300 km later, we ultimately found ourselves off a dirt path next to a river bed, where a handful of other 4x4s where parked under an acacia grove. From the path, it didn't seem like there was any sign of life in sight. We made our way down to the shore where we were shockingly greeted by a hundred Hamer women and men, everyone chattering and moving about with a great sense of excitement and anticipation. Like a vision from pre-history, the women donned flaps and tresses of raw goat hides, decorated with an array of gleaming white cowrie shells and brightly colored beads. Shimmering brass bangles stacked up the length of their arms while massive iron anklets clinked with their every step. The most defining feature of the tribe was the elaborate female hairstyles, formed from rolling red ocher and ash to form delicate chin-length copper dreads from their hair, ultimately giving the appearance of life-size, wig-wearing terracotta figures. We were so fortunate to be able to witness this rare pre-wedding ceremony, which consisted of three parts. The first involved the women singing and dancing in a circle before coming together in the center and jumping voraciously, all the while blowing small metal horns and shrieking. Following this dance, the women then approached the men, who wore nothing but a small loin cloth and plenty of beaded jewelry. One by one, the women began to single out a man for each of themselves, calling out to him and harassing him, even pleading with him. Eventually the man would pull out a long stick and literally flog the woman, inflicting a ghastly large and bloody slice in her back. All of the women would endure around 6-8 whips, their backs dripping with blood and dust. As horrifying and abusive as it sounds. the women actually beg to be whipped of their free will by the man of their choice, serving as both a sign of her devotion to him and his mutual attraction to her should he respond. It was grizzly and truly a shock to the senses upon hearing the sharp snap of wood slicing through soft skin. The final part of the ceremony was the "jumping of the bulls", performed by the groom-to-be. Completely nude and sporting an interesting mohawk, the groom was expected to demonstrate his honor and prowess by jumping onto a bull's back and running along the backs of a line of 7-8 additional bulls restrained by the "groomsmen". Should he fall during one of his 5 runs, he risked bringing dishonor to his family and would be beaten in shame. Thankfully this time around, the pre-marriage ritual passed smoothly. Interestingly, we never saw the future bride, as this day was clearly not about her. I wanted to make this rare ceremony worthwhile, going as far as to get my face painted with red ocher and white chalk in the fashion of the other men. The tribe found it quite amusing that I was taking an interest in their customs and even offered me a pinch of red powder, after which they signaled to my nose. In an effort to not offend them, I snorted it, with my whole nose burning as if I had just inhaled red chili peppers. They laughed absolutely hysterically, and when I managed to semi regain consciousness, I laughed as well. I would later learn that it was a type of snort tobacco traditionally offered to guests, and man was it a slap to the face.
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| Unwed women performing a pre-marriage dance |
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| Young Hamer woman |
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| Goat-hide apparel and traditional ornaments |
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| Hamer man donning ocher face paint |
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| Old and new scars from the ritual flogging |
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| The groom performing the bull-jumping ritual of marriage eligibility and honor |
Nothing says "hello" quite like having a loaded AK-47 shoved into your face by a Mursi tribe elder. The Mursi, along with their cousins the Surma, certainly were the most anticipated of the tribes on account of their stone age traditions, bizarre forms of body modification, and reputation for ferocity. Working our way up from the scorching lowlands to the forested highlands cradling the Omo River, we bounced our way through Mago into Mursi territory. We passed a variety of wildlife, including baboons, dikdiks, and giant vultures tearing away at a hyena carcass. On the top of a high ridge, we came across a small village of several family groups. Immediately we noticed how more primitive the Mursi culture is in comparison to neighboring tribes. Rather than the elegant thatched huts of the Hamer and Karo, the Mursi live in the most basic of structures that resemble little more than a pile of grass with a opening in the bottom. The interior was pitch dark and filled with insects. Their "mattresses" consisted of nothing more than a piece of rock-hard, dried goat skin and they possessed few belongings, such as a grinding stone and machete. An old man came out yelling in an unintelligible tongue, brandishing a Kalashnikov. All of the tribes have them down here and carry them freely, purchasing them from contraband dealers across the border in Sudan for a few cattle. The tribes still attack each other to this day and apparently guns are more efficient at killing than old school spears and arrows. Apart from using his mobile phone to pinpoint the time and location of tribal weddings, Sumsum further used it to steer us clear from areas experiencing inter-tribal warfare, where killings still spontaneously arise between rival clans. Sumsum definitely helped with introductory formalities involving the Mursi, and thankfully we were welcomed once the initial tension and apprehension on both sides subsided. Two women emerged from their hay pile dwellings, exhibiting the beauty accessory that brought this tribe to international recognition- the lip plate. This custom is truly the most radical I have ever witnessed amongst the world's tribal communities. The practice involves pulling out the girl's two front teeth in a gruelingly painful procedure, followed by making an incision in her lower lip into which a small ceramic plate is inserted. Depending on the size of the dowry given for her marriage, the size of the plate can increase, ultimately stretching the lower lip to up to 15 cm in diameter. It was baffling to see these women attempt to speak with giant clay disks swinging from their mouths. Without it, their bottom lips merely dangle below their chins. In addition to the lip plates, the Mursi also insert plates into their ears and decorate their bodies with ritual scarification. Two boys returned from the fields, one of whom was covered in huge bloody and festering wounds to his chest and arms. It was evident that he had recently partaken in a donga, a ritual stick fight involving a violent dual using two meter long wooden rods. In spite of the donga simply being a friendly competition between the men, it is not uncommon for opponents to be beaten unconscious or even to death. After much sitting and staring while our interpreter chatted away, we said farewell and headed off down the dirt path towards the next village. Along the way, we stopped to admire a group of Mursi men walking along the roadside. They were completely nude and covered in intricate spiral and hand-print designs of white chalk that sharply contrasted with their charcoal black bodies. One even wore a headdress of hippo teeth that curved down over his ears. As a group, they looked truly intimidating, but a couple of photos in exchange for a few gifts helped ease the tension. The Mursi are notorious in the region for raiding and taking whatever they want. Interactions with foreigners as well as pressure from the government has helped slightly reduce their aggression and hostility, however their temperaments have been known to turn without warning.
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| Mursi women without the inserted plates |
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| Mursi men met along the roadside |
All
in all, we've stopped and visited at least 10 unique tribes, each
sporting their own forms of hairstyle, beaded jewelry, and varying
degrees of nudity. I've had a great experience with each of them. Other
memories include getting felt up by an old Karo women who couldn't seem
to discern my gender. Without having first seen her sagging breasts, I
surely wouldn't have been able to discern her's either. There was also
the time an Arbore girl was fascinated with my hair, as nearly all of the tribes in this area lack the genetic capability to grow it. And I certainly
will not forget the Konso boys who danced a tribal dance in the streets
as our vehicle approached, in an effort to win our empty plastic water
bottles. The entire journey has been mesmerizing and I hope with all my
heart that these indigenous communities will continue to strive in
light of the destruction of their homes in the name of "progress", at the hands of the
government and foreign investors.
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| Members of the Arbore tribe observe us from a distance |
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| Arbore girls in traditional attire |
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| Karo girl with distinctive nail piercing on her chin |
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| Members of the Karo tribe stare with curiosity |
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| A group of Karo boys we met on the road |
Lalibela: Surviving Imprisonment in a Rock-Cut Church
Date: 20 February 2014
Location: The laboratory I work at, on a lunch break
In putting this blog post together, it suddenly dawned on me that I never found the moment to write about the final leg of the Ethiopian adventure I witnessed, having returned from the Omo expedition already with so much on my mind to write about. I'll likely keep it brief and rely mostly on my photos to convey the story, but one experience in particular is worth describing, given how the likelihood of it happening to anyone else is virtually zero, whereas given my propensity for misfortune, it was practically destined to happen to me.
Far to the north of the country is an archaeologist's wonderland, the ancient mountain village of Lalibela. Capital of the Zaqwe Kingdom during the 12th and 13th centuries, Lalibela is essentially Ethiopia's version of a Petra or an Ellora, made world-renowned by the countless medieval orthodox churches literally cut out from the living rock. An artistic and engineering marvel, the churches dot the dry brushy mountainside, with some carved directly into the stone cliff while others are completely free, having been rock-hewn from the roof down. Of these churches, the region's prized masterpiece is none other than Bet Giorgis, or the Church of St. George, whose perfectly cross-shaped structure carved free-standing into a 100 ft deep pit is a blatant testimony to the astounding ingenuity of the ancients. In was in this setting that one of the most hilarious travel incidents occurred for me.
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| The Church of St. George, Lalibela's finest rock-cut masterpiece |
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| The church was hewn straight from the rock, from the roof down, into a 100 ft deep pit. |
We entered the long carved passageway that snaked down into the stone pit in which the church was nestled. It was a lazy afternoon as well as off-season, the most idealized combination for a father-son duo to experience the rare chance of having an entire ancient wonder all to themselves. The church was deathly silent, with nothing more than the sound of an old priest flipping through the crackling pages of a newspaper, frankincense wafting through the few beams of light that penetrated its dark stone walls. Tiptoeing around the massive pillars, we greeted the priest with a humble nod before making our rounds in the haunting complex. With no other people in the entire place, we took our time to absorb the history, finally walking outside and around back to admire the mummified corpses of ancient pilgrims that were so casually stuffed into little carved niches in the trench wall. Having spent a good forty minutes in the church, we headed back around to the wooden door in the stone wall leading back to the passageway. Locked. I couldn't believe what I was seeing, an archaic 1800's padlock linked around the only entrance and exit from the 100 ft deep pit. The priest was gone and the church also locked up. My father laughed, joking that the priest probably got bored and decided to take off early for lunch, forgetting we were still inside. We both figured that the priest would return and we patiently waited, taking more photos and conversing about our favorite parts of the trip. Twenty-five minutes rolled by and I was feeling dehydrated, as the scorching noon-day sun now beamed directly over the pit. We had no water or food in our packs given that just 100 feet above us were plenty of street vendors and village cafes. After 40 minutes, we knew that this could get serious if the priest never came back that day. "Hellooo?!!" We both looked upwards and screamed at the top of our lungs. Nothing. Nothing but the faint sound of a breeze passing through trees somewhere over the edge of the pit that imprisoned us. Sitting in that pit made me question whether it was a sign from God that I should convert and start attending church. By minute 45, however, I was on the verge of threatening God with atheism. Finally, after several more minutes of screaming, the tiny head of a perplexed goat-herd boy popped out from over the edge. We used a combination of sign language and pleading to convey our distressing predicament, which was eventually made clear as he ran off hollering something intelligible. A man finally returned, along with a group of curious villagers, all pointing into the pit and comically chuckling, all in good nature of course. Only after having been released from our stone cell, I can't think of any other unique way I would've wanted to spend my time in this historic place.
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| Struggling to bust a massive locked door |
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| From the bottom of the pit |
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| A priest sits in solitude |
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| Navigating a dark passage with just a camera flash |
Here are just a few photos from village life around beautiful Lalibela. The Saturday market is one of the best days to see traditional peoples bringing their produce and livestock to trade and sell.
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| Traditional Amhara clothing |
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| Amhara girl and her wash bucket |
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| The colorful Saturday market in Lalibela |
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| Writing at dusk at the Seven Olives restaurant |
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| Traditional tukul huts in Lalibela, at around 8200 ft in elevation |
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| Strolling through the village |
