Ethiopia: some ruins, some mountains, some craters, and a whole lot of Suleimans

I forgot what it felt like to dance amongst the clouds. To place my finger over a mountain and swallow it whole. To spot villages no bigger than my pinky, hidden amongst a forest that fit in my palm. To have wings. To greet the moon. Oh, and the way my stomach flips as I become a play toy of the gods. That, too, I forgot.

I’m pretty sure that I have never spent a full year in a single country (though only my mother can verify this with any degree of accuracy). While I like to think that my passions lie in social justice, thinking globally, acting locally, fighting for the underdog, building bridges and not walls, I can think of no place in the world I would rather be than on an airplane. There’s just something about them; no, it’s everything about them. That funny way they smell when you walk on—thousands upon thousands of people forming this wonderfully bizarre eau d’aeroplane. The way that first flight attendant greets you with her perhaps overly saccharine smile, but you can’t blame her because in the past two days she’s probably been around the world and back. The hideously ugly décor reminiscent of an age of poor color schemes. Oh, and airplane blankets. I love those too. But mostly I could spend days on a plane just talking to people (I’m probably that person that you hate to sit next to). There’s something karmic about that gathering of people—that every single person on that plane has one thing in common: their presence. They were there together. And so, with the longest possible introduction lacking all the appropriate waxing and waning a plane deserves, I present my travels (just shy of a month later): the wonderful wide world of Ethiopia through the eyes of the Suleiman sibilings (well really just my eyes, but Ramzy was there too). (Also, this entry is long. Really long. Make a macchiato and get comfortable.)

I was ready to leave Cameroon. Though I have not (hopefully…) overstayed my welcome, I think that Cameroon and I needed a break. My lack of communication during this long Indian summer can be summed up in one word: rain. It happened. There was a lot of it. Work was done, but I was just really wet a lot (as was much of the interior of my house, but that’s a story for another time). So, unapologetically, I boarded my vehicle of delight and headed for Ethiopia, embarking on, what I hoped would be a glorious reunion with my brother, and an added bonus of traveling to a country famous for their spicy cuisine, dreaded Rastafarians, and ancient churches.

hand-woven baskets in Axum

I never thought, quite foolishly I’ll admit, I’d experience culture shock in another African country, but landing in Addis Abba was like walking around downtown Washington (granted, I have been trapped in Bamendjou for a while and might be developing a slight case of amnesia). Regardless, it was paradise: pavement, and I mean the real kind, without the plethora of potholes that your car gets lost in (read: Cameroon’s interpretation of pavement); people from more than one country; cuisine from more than one country (the Italians, during a brief, but failed, invasion, decided not to impose government, language, or religion on the Ethiopians, opting instead to teach them how to make a hell of a good macchiato and some very decent pasta); scarves for every occasion and emotion possible; oh, and hot water. There was that too. With a population of around five million (though I insisted to Ramzy for most of the trip that it was fifteen, and I remain firm in my numerical assessment), it was a city you could get lost in and still know right where you were. And while my amazement with this novel metropolis remains firm, it would be wrong to mislead you and romanticize a city, and for that matter, country, currently, and seemingly perpetually, plagued by famine and disease. For every chic businessman and effortlessly beautiful woman draped in the finest Ethiopian textiles, the streets were lined with row after row of plastic. Only it wasn’t just plastic. It was plastic covering children, protecting Ethiopia’s future from its chilling present.

With Ramzy due to arrive the following day, I had an entire day free filled with excitement for our much-anticipated reunion. I spent much of the first day with this incredible doctor, who happens to be a fellow Middlebury alum, at the Mother Teresa Clinic in Addis. To premise, my beloved history teacher from high school had told me about this doctor praised by many as this demigod on a path to change the world. I somehow misunderstood the connection, and assumed that he was an alumnus from my high school and not from my college. Thus I wrote him what I presume to be a rather hilarious email about my search for Hoppers (as in grasshoppers, my high school mascot…don’t ask) abroad. He did not correct me in my email, probably presuming that I was some kind of science project freak of person that looked for grasshoppers abroad and didn’t want to set me off. Visiting the doctor at the center was one of the most humbling experiences I’ve had in, well, ever. There were hundreds of patients with diseases you only read about in medical books; tumors the size of heads literally blanketed the room. And while I put on my best smile, I was scared shitless. How do you even begin? The doctor seemed to read my thoughts: we’ll start here. And one by one, he greeted them, checked the charts, and moved on. Just like that. We spent much of the day bringing cancer patients from the center to a hospital to get MRIs and CT scans, drinking avocado, guava, and mango smoothies, and absorbing this palpable energy that Addis Abba gave off—it was a city where things just happened.

breakfast companions

I spent the evening living a life that was, again, not my own. A life I so wish was my own: dining at the Sheraton, touted as Africa’s most glamorous hotel, with expats and host country nationals that…changed things. And while I realize that I could not have put that more ineloquently if I had tried, it’s kind of how I felt the entire meal: ineloquent, uneducated, and clueless. It was overwhelming and amazing—you know less than you think you do; yet, you can change more than you think you can.

the Sheraton Hotel in downtown Addis

And as I was wining and dining, living my fantasy of a life I am yet to have, Ramzy was watching his airplane make a nice little u-turn on the screen in front of his seat. Technical difficulties, it seemed, were to make his transatlantic flight that much longer. I woke early the next morning to head to the airport to greet his flight. Seeing Ramzy was better than I imagined. He brought home to a place so foreign to both of us. Matured, and perhaps even taller, he seemed to have found a new peace with the world. Within minutes, we were laughing. I forgot what it was like to laugh with him. Organic and uncontrollable, when I laughed with Ramzy, it was with my everything.

you never forget your first Fokker ride

We left early the next morning for Bahir Dar, the capital of Amharaland, home of Ethiopia’s largest lake, Lake Tana, and the famed (and perhaps fabled) source of the Blue Nile. The tiny Fokker (yes, I know) seemed to board with a general disregard for assigned seats, praising the fact that everyone had a seat at all. I was impressed and refreshingly stunned with Ethiopia’s airline (Cameroon’s airline company went under after someone, I believe, stole one of the airplanes, and the subsequent funds). And while the morning was crisp, conducive to long mornings in bed, nestled under covers and swimming in books, the morning mist demanded our presence. Though many a missionary had attempted the dissemination of their gospel, it fell on deaf ears. Ethiopian Orthodoxy dates back to the time of the apostles. The national language, Amharic, and its people, the Amharas, dominated the political and social atmosphere while Europe was just waking up from the Dark Ages. Indeed, Ethiopia never needed the West to help define who she was.

morning on Lake Tana

Much of the first day was spent on Lake Tana, aboard a feeble, though purportedly unsinkable “boat” in search of monasteries dating back to the 16^th and 17^th centuries. I naively expected the monasteries to be stale, anachronistic monstrosities, reflecting a stolid colonialist mentality. They were anything but; the thatched round huts blended effortlessly into their almost jungle-like surroundings. Indeed, it was almost eerily serene as nature’s vines smothered religion’s door. The monasteries perched themselves on 20 of Lake Tana’s 37 islands. Though many of the islands host a resident community, much of the congregation travels to mass from the peninsula (talk about an interesting commute).

frescos on the inside of a monastery

coffee hour: it's for the birds

The next morning, being the oh-so-intrepid adventurers that we are, we set out in search of the Nile. James Bruce, one of the first European explorers writes, “Half undressed as I was by the loss of my sash, and throwing my shoes off, I ran down the hill towards the little island of green sods…It is easier to describe the situation of my mind at that moment—standing in the spot which had baffled the genius, industry and enquiry of both ancients and moderns, for the course of nearly 3000 years.” And while I was, for the most part, fully dressed (I can’t say the same for others, but we’ll get to that later), I too felt the kinetic pull that had lured Bruce to Blue Nile some 200 years before.

young monk at monastery

sympathy for the devil

monastery--note the original sketches on the doors

We opted to hike the full circuit, traversing the Nile and all. We, rather humorously, decided that we could complete the route sans guide. Bruce did it, why couldn’t we? Accompanied by our fearless Spanish conquistador, a man named Pepe who happened to share a flight with us from Addis to Bahir Dar, we set out to traverse one of the Nile’s famous tributaries. Which one, however, had yet to be determined.

Staying on the trail seemed like a joke. Before we even got to the main lookout point, I was already covered in a layer of mud and had decided that Ramzy should hold my purse, as I needed all the stability I could get. Though we nearly slipped down half the mountain to get to the vista, the view was, to put in mildly, awesome.

The sheer force with which the falls crashed into the rocks was fitting of its Amharic name: Tis Isat, Water That Smokes. Though a hydroelectric project has supposedly harnessed the once uncontrollable source, the Blue Nile continues to throw herself some 120 feet down, crashing onto mafic volcanic rocks below uniformed of the project’s presence.

high upon the hill, lived a lonely goat...

Eventually, a million mud pits later, we reached the crossing thanks to a group of wandering shepherds (sentences I never dreamed of writing). Though they stood firm in their offer to carry me, Ramzy, and Pepe across so that we could avoid getting wet, the fact that my arm weighed as much as their entire body seemed reason enough to refuse. So, fearlessly we threw ourselves to the Nile’s mercy. Only Pepe was a little fearless about his getting his pants wet, so he took them off.

the conquistador and the Suleimans forge the Nile

So a pantless Pepe, a purse carrying Ramzy (I was still unstable, and he looked really good carrying it), and myself crossed the Blue Nile. And like many before us, and many who will follow, we got royally wet. But there’s no water that some warm rocks, and the blazing African sun can’t dry up.

The next morning we boarded a bus and headed for Gondar, appropriately dubbed Ethiopia’s Camelot. Traveling by land afforded us an entirely new view: fallen bridges. When we boarded the bus it was explained to us that we’d have to cross on foot for a while and meet a bus on the other side of the bridge. I, of course, just nodded and smiled when the man explained this, not really understanding what he was saying. The gigantic whole in the bridge, complete with a truck precariously perched inside, made his words instantly clear. So on foot we crossed. Inexplicably, some of the cars thought that since the bridge was broken, they should drive through the river. I’m not entirely sure why, but that left not only a broken bridge, but also cars stranded in the river. My dad used to say, it didn’t make anything worse, you’ve helped me. I guess they missed the memo.

Gondar reminded me of a little Tibetan-Swiss Alps town trapped in mountains of Peru, i.e. a figment of my imagination. We set up shop at the lovely Lameyergeyer Hotel, named after a massive 8 foot bird that spends most of his days flying high, dropping bones on rocks to break up the marrow inside. Equally exciting was the hotel’s claim to fame: Most Promising Hotel of 2007. Ramzy assured me that this was because they were very good at making promises.

We spent much of the day exploring Gondar’s castles and churches with our guide, Yohannes. The churches were filled with history and magic—of time where bees could stop an invading army and rain extinguish the fire of war. And as for the castles, well, the ruins whispered of a time of excess, a time where 65,000 inhabitants made their home amidst three major caravan routes, and most of all, a time of great splendor. Gondar also boasts the world’s first animal rights activist, let’s call him Emperor Fasiladas (but I’m not entirely sure which one it was). As the legend goes, the Emperor placed a bell outside the compound for any and all villagers to ring should they seek an audience with the Emperor. A man came, seeking such counsel, and left his loaded donkey at the gate. The donkey, impatient and burdened, began scratching himself against the bell’s chain. The incessant ringing forced the Emperor to send his page out, despite his already occupied audience. When the page saw that it was no more than a donkey, he returned without a subject. The Emperor asked what had happened, and the page replied, it was just a donkey. The Emperor, confused at why the donkey would ring a bell, went out to see for himself. It was there that he found the loaded donkey. Disgusted at the subject’s lack of regard for his beast of burden, the Emperor made an official decree, making it illegal to leave a donkey loaded, and furthermore a penalty to use an injured animal.

New Year's flowers--Ethiopian New Year is September 11. It also happens to be the year 2001 there. No, really.

From the castle we headed to the Emperor’s personal bath, which thanks to the Norwegian government’s half a million dollar donation, still very much looks like a bath fit for a king. Royals, donning inflated goatskin lifejackets, used to come from all over the kingdom for their bubble baths (though I imagine a goatskin lifejacket might…well, I’m not sure. I can’t say that I can accurately describe how a goatskin lifejacket would change my otherwise peaceful bubble bath). Today, the bath is filled on Timkat, where after being blessed by a priest, the citizens of Gondar take the plunge into history’s bathtub. Since neither royals nor citizens were soaking up the sun, Ramzy and I filled the abeyance with a photo shoot of mock diving pictures. Though Yohannes indulged us, he was confused why we would want him to film us pretending to dive into an empty cement pool. Understandable.

The next morning we left early for the Simien Mountains, where some 40 million years ago, layer upon layer of lava erupted to form the 10,000 ft base that breathes life into the Simiens. At base camp in Debark we met our trekking guide, Israel, and our bodyguard, complete with rifle and all. From Debark we hiked up to our “hotel” (read: a government lodge built in the 60s, in which I would spend the coldest night of my entire life). The trek left me breathless, and not necessarily in a good way. As Ramzy and I huffed and puffed up the mountain, our guide and marksman idly shot the shit. I guess that’s what happens when you live at 10,000 ft. and spend 20 days out of every month trekking. Or, rather, I guess that’s what happens when you don’t live at 10,000 ft.

Though the rainy season offered us a verdant, luscious backdrop, we spent much of our time weeding through clouds to get to it. But it was worth it: amid the clouds lay villages of gelaba baboons. Ramzy took this time not only to observe the fauna, but also practice his cinematic narration skills, producing a short clip entitled: Nura baboon, the biggest baboon of them all. Hilarious. The gelabas, though quite popular with the trekking community, are enemies of the mountain-dwelling population. Local police reports site that the gelabas are responsible for local thefts, burlgaries, and even murders—an adult man was dragged almost a mile before he was shoved off a cliff. Talk about some monkey business (I had to).

The next day we set out in search of the “waterfall.” By late morning, the rain had finally lifted the cloud cover. Israel paused, perhaps thanking the clouds for the brief respite of sunshine, and remarked, it is okay, it is their time.

When the clouds parted, I expected to see a normal waterfall. But this one happened to be a waterfall that fell over 5,000 ft into an infinite abyss some thousand feet further below. Teetering on the waterfall’s edge, clouds engulfing and then, again freeing us, lameyergeyers and buzzards circling for their prey, rainbows lasting only as long as my breath, yet with splendor enough for a lifetime, my presence was irrelevant. It was one of those places that reminded you of your beautiful insignificance; that unapologetically made you feel like nothing, noting neither your coming nor your going.

giving power lunches a whole new meaning: lunch at the highest resort in Africa

From the mountains we flew to Axum, “the last great civilization of Antiquity to be revealed to the modern world,” according to Dr. Neville Chittick. Laying just a mere stone’s throw from the Eritrea (okay so it’s actually like 30 km away, but let’s just suppose that I’m an authority in stone throwing), Axum was the Queen of Sheba’s capital in the 10^th century. Though most of the ruins are not well preserved, their awesome power transcends preservation. In front of a swimming pool dating back to the 4^th century, tombs from the 3^rd century weighing 360 tonnes (I don’t know what tonnes are, but you can bet that they weigh a lot), how can you claim importance? As I rubbed my fingers across Ethiopia’s version of the Rosetta stone (I know it’s wrong, but I wanted to touch history), it seems laughable the way Americans keep relics 50 years old behind glass and bars. Perhaps some things are just built to last.

Our guide, Haile Selaisse, was on the archeological team that found Lucy (the 3.2 million year old skeleton, previously thought to be the oldest and most complete hominid). He was a walking encyclopedia of ancient history, much to Ramzy’s dismay.

priceless? thank me when you finish laughing

Together we explored the underworld of tombs, and Axum’s famous obelisks—one of which was returned by the Italians just a few weeks before our arrival.

The Great Stele, believed to be the largest block of stone that humans have ever attempted to erect, lies defeated amongst its upright siblings. Indeed, attempted is the operative word, as the obelisk has lied in pieces since its 4^th century fall.

Our last stop is perhaps the most incredible of them all (if you’re getting bored, I’m not entirely sorry. Surely whatever you doing can be put aside for the fantastical world of epic history). So, if I have this right, the Queen of Sheba, left Axum to visit the sagacious King Solomon of Israel. Upon arrival, the two agreed that their visit would not be one of traditional acquisition—they were to take nothing from the other. After what I assume was a rather wonderful, spicy feast (I mean I wasn’t there…), the Queen awoke with an unquenchable thirst. Anticipating her thirst, the King had placed a glass of water next to her bed. However, in order for her to take this glass, the Queen had to give him something in return. So, in the spirit of symbiotic agreements, the Queen drank her water and the King gave her a child (yes, I know. The parallel that is drawn between drinking a glass of water and impregnating a woman was also lost on me. But, hey, it’s all Greek (or rather Ethiopian) to me). But the plot thickens, the Queen of Sheba gave birth to Menelik, who like every illegitimate child, went in search of his father. Menelik arrived in Jerusalem in search of his dear old daddy. Leaving, perhaps unsatisfied (again, I wasn’t there), Menelik pocketed the Ark of the Covenant, a wooden chest containing the tablets of the laws of the ancient Israelites, which they supposedly carried wandering the wilderness (I understand that it seems impossible to pocket a wooden chest). The Ark of the Covenant still rests in Axum’s Church of St. Mary of Zion (we’ll get to that soon). The one hang up in the story seems to be the timeline, the Queen of Sheba is thought to have lived a thousand years before the Ark came to Ethiopia, but in the scheme of things what’s a couple thousand years?

So, we went to see the Ark of the Covenant, which you can’t actually see because you’ll burst into flames. That, of course, hasn’t stopped countless brigands from attempting the heist of, well, millenniums. Now, the only person in the world who’s allowed to see the Ark is its caretaker, a specially appointment monk who is rumored to eat and drink only on Sundays. We, however, got a glimpse of the monk (he’s on the left-hand side of the church), which is supposedly very, very lucky. If you can sense my skepticism with this whole affair, it is quite possible that you have successfully completed first grade. And yet, I find my skepticism, albeit it founded, utterly depressing. The ancient world knew a magic that we cannot even begin to contemplate. They had to. Pyramids, castles, hidden tombs, secret languages—there was a faith in the inconceivable that we have lost. A scientific impossibility rooted in reality. Believe.

I spent much of the evening drinking tea on the side of the boulevard. The streets of downtown Axum were filled with life, color, chaos, and spirit. Girls frolicked, singing songs in hopes of a coin or two for a new dress or hairdo for the upcoming New Year. People were everywhere—some out of an evening stroll, some walking their animals’ home after an honest day’s work, and some just beginning the night. Juxtaposed against a city, which for the most part, has been dormant for the past 14 centuries, the irony was lost on no one.

Our last stop on the historical route was Lalibela, where a most annoying pair of American tourists followed (though they consumed the better page of my journal, I’ll leave you with just that sentence). Our guide Fikru, who just so happened to be Bill and Chelsea Clinton (good tourists), and Donna Karen and Calvin Klein (bad tourists) guide, greeted us at the airport and took us to our hotel, the Tukul Village. Owned by an 80-year-old Dutch woman named Nora, and her thirty something Ethiopian husband (how scandalous!), the Tukul Village was one of the quaintest (and not in the creepy, kitschy kind of way), hotels I’ve stayed in.

Heralded as the Petra of Ethiopia, Lalibela’s 11 rock-hewn churches, connected by dark passageways, hidden crypts, and grottoes, rank among the greatest religio-historical sites in the Christian world. If you don’t know what a rock-hewn church is, don’t worry, I didn’t either. Instead of piecing together layer after layer of bricks, rocks, and smoothing over the cracks, King Lalibela and his 12^th century companions, decided to carve into (down, around, near, really everyway possible) the red volcanic, leaving a single entity: a church carved entirely out of one rock. “I weary of writing more about these buildings because it seems to me that I shall not be believed if I write more,” noted 16^th-century Portuguese writer Francisco Alvares. Alvares’ fear that his Portuguese comrades would not believe him was entirely founded. Modern architects estimate that it would have taken a workforce of 40,000 to complete these churches. Some locals say that the King’s wife built Bet Abba Libanos, with the help of some very industrious angels, in a night.

We set out early the next morning (I realize that this is a phrase I repeat several times throughout this entry, but explorers have to set out. Saying “left” would not properly set a tone of adventure), this time on horseback for our destination: Ashetan Maryam. Perched 11,000 ft above, Ashetan Maryam is one of Lalibela’s least impressive monasteries.

In truth, I was so winded by the time we reached the summit (though we had brought mules, when my horse started uncontrollably wheezing, and Ramzy’s ran him into a eucalyptus fence, we figured we better dismount); I had forgotten entirely what we were hiking to. But one rarely hikes to see what’s on top; it’s what’s below that they seek. And one, certainly, does not need a structure to appreciate God from a height like this.

From Lalibela, we flew back to Addis and headed overland for the Crater Lakes. Though Ethiopia is a landlocked country, traveling around the South made me feel like we were on the coastal plains of West Africa (I know, I haven’t been to the coastal plains of West Africa, but I imagine they’d be like this).

We spent the morning swimming in Lake Langango. Set against the 13,000 ft. blue Arsi Mountains, our guide book joked that this was dream of every Brit: swimming in the world’s largest cup of English tea (the water was murky). But since I’m not British and I don’t like swimming in water that looks like tea, I found this citation to be neither funny nor a fulfillment of my life long dream.

Nevertheless, the cool waters were refreshing. The rest of our Southern exploration was spent hot springing, taking in the gorgeous sunsets, playing with monkeys, and watching these gigantic birds dislocate their necks to swallow fish at the local fish market. You know, the usual.

As we made our final trek back to Addis, the finality of our vacation set in. Being back has been good. Hard, but good. Summer break is over (I’ve decided, of course, that every job I ever have needs a summer break), and like many of you, I have high hopes for this year. To do more, to seize every fleeting moment. Crazy to think I was just starting this whole adventure this time last year. Year one done, one more to go. Here’s to making the most of what’s left: carpe diem, my friends.