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.
 |
| 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 lip-plate-wearing Mursi, have long tantalized the wildest imaginations of anyone who's picked up a National Geographic. Just the mere sound of their names made my amateurish 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 indigenous communities, whose "primordial" lifestyle has recently and
tragically come under serious threat in the name of development and
"progress" at the hands of the Ethiopian government and globalization (Westernization). It was 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 Oromo 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 Land Cruiser, fuel, equipment, accommodation, permits, and all meals. 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 eventually come out 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 as we wondered the haphazard alleys of produce, butcheries, and exotic home goods. 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
thousands of shoppers, overpacked donkeys, and smog-choking microbuses. My first
purchase was a small knife of the fierce Afar people from the desert 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 construction 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 hut setting. Ethiopian food has never failed me, and I wallowed in the
spicy flavors of various "wats" (stews) eaten with the hands using the soft and delectable 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 captivated by images of beaded bare-breasted natives in National
Geographic. Twenty years later this dream would
ultimately be fulfilled, and while I had to keep reminding myself not to "fetishize" these tribal minorities, nothing about their traditions ceased to allure me. Starting off from Addis in a 1980 Nissan Patrol
4x4 filled with equipment, my father, our Kafa guide Tsumtsum, our
Amhara driver Mohammed, and I slowly meandered along dirt roads from
village to village, taking in the exotic inhabitants and vast
landscape. Tsumtsum, whose tribe discovered the coffee bean (from "Kafa" we get "coffee"), 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.
 |
| Our Kafa Interpreter, Tsumtsum |
 |
| Our Amhara driver, Mohammed |
 |
| Setting off into the bush |
 |
| A wild camel out in the bush near the border with Sudan |
 |
| 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. Tsumtsum
was constantly on his mobile phone, losing connection every few
minutes and anxiously holding it up into the air 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 desolate 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 decorated 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 bob-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 in a ceremony meant to help young girls find a potential suitor. 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 five 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 nervously laughed as well while hoping I hadn't been poisoned. I would later learn that it was a
type of snort tobacco traditionally offered to wedding guests, and by God was it a
slap to the face.
 |
| Unwed women performing a pre-marriage dance |
 |
| Young Hamer woman |
 |
| Goat-hide apparel and traditional ornaments |
 |
| Hamer man donning ocher face paint |
 |
| Old and new scars from the ritual flogging |
 |
| 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
ancient 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 while brandishing a loaded 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 were 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, Tsumtsum further used it via word-of-mouth to steer us clear from areas experiencing inter-tribal warfare, where killings still spontaneously arise between rival clans. Tsumtsum definitely helped with introductory formalities involving the Mursi, and thankfully after some discussion 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, and are often something the women play with using their fingers. In addition to the lip plates, the Mursi also
insert plates into their ears and decorate their bodies with intricated designs of 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. One was completely naked and covered in intricate spiral and hand-print
designs of white chalk that sharply contrasted with their charcoal
black bodies. Another wore a headdress of giant hippo tusks 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 and even bring out a comical side to these warriors.
The Mursi are also notorious in the region for raiding and taking whatever
they want, often pointing to something on our bodies like jewelry or accessories and casually demanding it. 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.
 |
| Mursi women without the inserted plates |
 |
| 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. Although, without having first seen her sagging breasts, I
surely wouldn't have been able to discern hers either. There was also
the time an Arbore girl was fascinated with my long hair, as nearly all of the tribes in this area lack the genetic capability to grow and maintain 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 that they could use for practical as well as play purposes. 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.
 |
| Members of the Arbore tribe observe us from a distance |
 |
| Arbore girls in traditional attire |
 |
| Karo girl with distinctive nail piercing on her chin |
 |
| Members of the Karo tribe stare with curiosity |
 |
| 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.
 |
| The Church of St. George, Lalibela's finest rock-cut masterpiece |
 |
| 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.
 |
| Struggling to bust a massive locked door |
 |
| From the bottom of the pit |
 |
| A priest sits in solitude |
 |
| Navigating a dark passage with just a camera flash |
