I don't want to write an update because it's going to take a long time and I'm lazy (getting lazier), but as pressure mounts it's becoming more clear that I'll never have any peace until I do. I don't think I'm trying to suppress any memories, but remembering how those things tasted might indicate that some memories really should be suppressed. Ick. There are some pictures in this update, but I must point out that the quality is dismal due to my attempts to make the file size as small as possible.
It's been about four weeks since I announced that I was headed off on a trip into the sticks. Well, there were TONS of sticks. Sticks here, sticks there, dry sticks, still growing sticks, people carrying sticks, houses made from sticks, baboons and monkeys shrieking from within the sticks - you name it. I have seen these sticks, and I have returned alive.
We were planning on heading out from Addis early in the morning. The hospital across the street from the guesthouse, however, was opening a new cardiac wing that morning (I would never trust my heart to that hospital) and the occasion merited a visit from some government VIPs. The government VIPs merited a large federal police presence, which merited a closure of the road into and out of the guest house. I noticed that something was up when I walked out of my room and was greeted by a guy in camo with an AK47. I sort of thought that using the guesthouse balconies to set up snipers was a little overkill, but they had the guns, not me. This surprise event resulted in a slightly later departure. They were nice enough, really, though the soldier who saluted me attests to the Ethiopian military's general sense of confusion.
The first day we drove to Sodo, about five hours out of Addis Ababa. We drove up to a part of the city where the gentleman I was traveling with (we'll call him Mr. F) knew some retired evangelists where living. Mr. F moved to Ethiopia some 35 years ago and was involved in supporting a lot of the pioneering evangelists in southern Ethiopia. Most of the people we met were evangelists he had worked with a long time ago, often trekking for days on end (flies carrying sleeping sickness make mules short-lived in some of the Ethiopian plain areas) into unreached tribes with a reputation for killing outsiders. They were pretty intense guys. We spent a couple hours that afternoon talking (I just listened, and drifted a bit when my Amharic couldn't keep up) and drank coffee with spiced rancid butter. There wasn't a ton of the butter in it, so it actually wasn't terrible if you're used to the butter taste. I tried to be polite (and I drank it all).
The next day we headed southwest to Sawela, a small town in the hills at the foot of a mountain range, where we spent the next night. One of Mr. F's first postings was at a station in the nearby mountains, but he used to have to fly into an airstrip at Sawela on a C47 (a US cargo aircraft used in WWII) and then spend hours going up the hill on mules, family in tow. We were able to drive up to the old mission station (an impressive development in itself) and poke around in the old houses. I took a photograph of a girl who was interested in what a couple of foreigners were doing there.
I also got a picture of the clouds that evening in Sawela. The mountains to the right are where the old mission station is, and the road we left Sawela on runs parallel to the mountains on the left, which continue south.
We were eventually going to go on to Jinka, the regional capital of Gama Gofa, and taking the road we were familiar with would have required us to backtrack to Sodo and then go over a section reputed to be in very poor repair, so we decided to a try a new road to Jinka that was under construction. Ha! You can already tell this is going to work out great.
Things started out well. The landscape dropped out of the low hills into a valley running south with high ridges hemming us in on either side. We crossed and re-crossed the new road, and everything was in good repair. In a town called Beyto we stopped again to visit another evangelist, then continued on. Our Ethiopian driver began asking locals for directions, wanting to know where the road to Jinka began. The unfortunate problem was this: there's an old road to Jinka that was in bad shape ten years ago and hasn't been worked on since, and there's the aforementioned new road that actually goes to Kako before going to Jinka. Locals confirmed that we were on the road to Jinka (they were quite correct) and individuals along the way reassured us that this was indeed the road (to Jinka) as we drove down something suspiciously resembling a cattle track. It soon became apparent that we were on the old road, but we pressed on. The valley we were traveling down at about 2500ft eventually opens out to the east; the new road goes through this opening and then circles around west to Jinka at about 4500 ft. The distance to Jinka as the crow flies from the southern end of the valley isn't especially far, but a narrow mountain range that peaks at about 7000ft blocks the way. Our road was more of the crow persuasion. Here's a picture of us going directly up the side of that high range, which I took out of the window of the car.
A good time was had by all, mostly because we didn't die. Had the road not been dry it would've been impassable.
We spent the night in Jinka at the Jinka Resort. The Jinka Resort is a new development. Jinka was the middle of nowhere ten years ago, and though that hasn't really changed, the place is now overrun by tourists who visit for a couple days to photograph local naked people. The "resort" would be a funny place if there was something funny about paying US-style prices for bad food and cold showers, but there isn't and so it's not. It's fascinating how even brand new facilities manage to be terrible. During dinner one of the staff approached us to sell us pictures of the Mursi tribe for the fantastic price of 50 USD per photo, and I employed my Amharic skills to inform him that this was ridiculous. Mr. F commenced to tell him a story (in his fluent Amharic) about how he used to trek through all of these hills for days on end, one of the first white people the Mursi ever saw, before the staff member was born. It's not always great to play the experience card, but the effect on the staff member was somehow satisfying. Among the town's other delights are younger males who have a habit of harassing foreigners (anything from yelling to throwing rocks), making for exciting walks down the local thoroughfares. Because of all of these things - dehumanizing tourists, bad accommodation, and unproductive youths - Jinka wins an award for sucking ten years ago and still going strong. I suppose there's something to be said for demonstrating consistency.
Gas was not to be found in Jinka while we were there, though some was available from black market shops like this:
I'm not trying to make a political statement here, but maybe the guy running a black market oil-based energy shack is. Institutions thusly named are to be found through the country.
The next day we drove a couple of hours from Jinka to Alduba, where SIM has had a station for quite some time. Alduba is in Bunna territory, and there has been various projects there including translation and literacy work, a clinic, and a veterinary service in partnership with Christian Veterinary Mission. The Bunna are nomadic herdsmen, so veterinary work for their sheep and cattle is very appreciated by locals. That was a place where my family spent a fair amount of time visiting and hanging out, and with the sun setting in the acacia trees and familiar sights and sounds a lot of good feelings came back. It was surprisingly refreshing; I didn't want to leave the south at that point.
The next day we drove about six hours. We passed through Jinka and then northwest; shortly after Jinka the road turns sharply down to a large plain at about 1000ft, which for Ethiopia is pretty low. Tourism has given rise to a couple of checkpoints along this route: first, a checkpoint where they charge you for entering Jinka (charging you to leave would be more appropriate), then another so that the federal government can charge incoming tourists a park entrance fee, then another so that the Mursi can charge a fee and force you to take along a Mursi 'scout'. I took to calling this guy Scout (I don't know his name) which he seemed to sort of enjoy. He hardly spoke Amharic - just Mursi - but he was a nice guy. We crossed the plain and went up a rise, then continued north past Mursi territory to Hanna, which is the largest settlement (and the most accessible) among the Bodi tribe. Few tourists go out so far - most just come out for the afternoon to photograph a few naked Mursi - and Scout was a little worried (though being a Mursi warrior he did his best not to let on). I can't blame him. We were planning on spending three nights in Hanna, and the Mursi and Bodi were at war not too long ago. Additionally, the Bodi culture's rite of passage for males is killing someone outside the tribe. Scout kept his AK47 close.
There were five evangelists living with their families in Hanna (there were originally ten), and all were from the Mali tribe in the neighboring highlands. There is already a strong Christian church among the Mali, and the Mali and Bodi are part of the same language subgroup though their features are quite different. For these Mali men to bring their families to Bodi land is a big deal, not only because of the general violence of the Bodi and the aforementioned rite of passage, but also because the land around Hanna is absolutely desolate; a blasted grassland marked by flash flood channels twisting through red volcanic rock. It's difficult to find water and nearly impossible to grow any kind of food in the thin soil and equatorial sun. The evangelists who had managed to stick it out so far were great guys (they would've left already if they weren't) but were becoming discouraged. The pressure of an environment like that - threats of violence and limited, expensive food - required the majority of their concentration, making it difficult to give time to the church.
It began to cloud up the first night we were there, and we saw storm clouds piling up in the high mountains to the west. A huge electrical storm passed away south of us as we watched the sunset. It was the end of dry season there, and people were trying to burn slash piles before the rain came. The fires turned the low, dark clouds red as evening came on. During the night the storm hit, driving rain through our uncovered window. It poured rain for several hours. I woke up the next morning and the world had taken on a general glow.
Unfortunately, the next day was just as hot as before. During the two full days we were there we made one trip about an hour to the west to see some other evangelists. Mr. F talked with them about their concerns and they prepared a meal for us. There was half-cooked corn mash, which tasted like an uncooked corn tortilla might taste and wasn't bad; a sort of mead made my leaving milk out to ferment a few days, which had cheesy chunks suspended in liquid you might find sitting on top of sour cream; and there was coffee leaf tea with salt, berberi (a hot red pepper) and ginger. I thought the tea (coffee?) might belong in the bloody mary family of beverages, though Mr. F was skeptical regarding its culinary merit. He liked the mead more than I did, or maybe I should say he didn't like it less. He's a pro.
The kids in Hanna were pretty fascinated with us. I don't think they had seen white people before, so when I had some down time (most of the time) I would go sit outside our place near the church, and they would crowd around me and touch my skin and my hair and sort of poke at me. They were funny, and they spoke to each other in Amharic, so I could hear their comments about how my skin was smooth, and how my hands were red, and how my eyes looked like a cat's. They seemed concerned about the scratches and bug bites that showed up far more clearly on my skin than on theirs, and they would trace the blue lines of my veins across my hands and arms with their fingers. I entertained them my pointing out similar bites and veins on their skin, and they were intrigued by the fact that we were more or less the same. They taught me some Amharic words I had forgotten like "sky" and "blue" and "cloud". The local Bodi people were really nice. Even though they didn't speak any Amharic, the women and kids would come by our room, invite themselves in, and sit down with us for a half hour or so. I wish people would do that in the States.
When we left Hanna, thanking the evangelists for profusely for their hospitality, we headed back down the road we had come in on (you can't go many other directions from Hanna) and took a spur of the road that runs about 20km east towards the mission station at Makki. We saw some dik-diks bounding across the road and some hartebeests in the distance as we drove. You may remember that my family lived in a place called Metser for two years while we were in Ethiopia; Metser is 30km north of Jinka, and the river that runs past the station at Makki has its source in the Metser valley to the northeast. Don't think that Makki is nice and cool because it has a pretty river - an average day was about 102F with 80% humidity. I took a photo of a dragonfly by the river, then left because tetse flies were ravaging my tender white legs. The result was an image of the Microsoft Windows Desktop Background persuasion. More on Windows later.
I had been hoping to return to Metser during the trip either by hiking in from Makki or by driving in from Jinka. The fuel shortage in Jinka had made us change our plans for driving in, so I had radioed the Makki station from Alduba to see if they would be interested in having me around for a while to hang out and maybe do some work. It was becoming clear that a trek from Makki to Metser would be logistically difficult, and equally clear that driving into Metser for a day was a low priority. Mr. F had decided to stay one night in Makki and then continue on to Addis, so I resigned myself to making up for missing Metser by hanging around at Makki for about a week.
The afternoon Mr. F was leaving I was talking with one of the missionaries (Mr. T) at Makki. The missing link in the transportation chain was between Jinka and Makki, where no transport at all runs; buses do run between Jinka and Metser, however, as there is plenty of market traffic between the fertile Metser highlands and the markets at Jinka and beyond. Mr. T mentioned that he would be driving to Jinka two mornings from then, and I suddenly realized that it would actually be possible for me to go back to Jinka that day with Mr. F, spend the night, catch a bus to and from Metser the next day, and then get a ride back to Makki with Mr. T. And despite the fact that going back to Metser was one of my biggest goals for this trip, I suddenly realized that a surprisingly large part of me just didn't feel like it. My sense of adventure had gone into some kind of deep hibernation - the biggest problem with comfort, like being a Hobbit - and I was genuinely apprehensive of testing my language skills and making my own arrangements without any backup. I took 15 minutes and a cup of coffee to realize that I was being ridiculous, and I ran to pack a bag motivated not by actually wanting to go but by the knowledge that I would absolutely hate myself later if I didn't. Thus I went, and 15 minutes down the road I realized I had just barely managed not to be stupid. I was more relieved than anything else.
I stayed the night in Jinka at the Norwegian mission (not the resort), had dinner with Mr. F and Co., then went to sleep so that I could wake up at 5:30 AM for the bus into Metser. I should note that taking a bus into Metser is a novelty. The road is only 30km (20 miles) long, but it used to take us anywhere from two to four hours by four wheel drive, sometimes with mud chains on the tires. Now, I'll have you know, for a mere 1 USD one can take a delightful early morning jaunt through the scenic town (read 'hellhole') of Gazer and arrive refreshed (read 'squished and smelling of humanity') in Metser an hour and a half later! I stepped off of the delightful contraption that served for a bus at the bottom of our old driveway at about 8:00 AM, and began walking back up towards our house on a hill. I made two friends on the bus.
My plan was to go unnoticed for as long as possible, because I wanted to walk around the area a bit and I knew it would be impossible once I stumbled into the quicksand of cultural interaction. It's not that I don't like interacting with Ethiopians - I do - it just has the tendency to change absolutely everything, and my memories of Metser were as a little kid running around doing whatever I wanted. Everything was immediately familiar, though oddly half as big as it used to be, and I made for the water hole in the river near our house. I don't know what made me think a white guy could walk around there without being noticed, and I had acquired a companion within about five minutes, but I went to the river anyway. See?
From there I went to our old house. It had been turned into a Bible school when we left, and I was happy to see that it was being well used. There was a regional church meeting going on that morning, where I met a gentleman I knew who was involved in the translation work there. I walked around the compound a bit and visited our old house, which is now more filled with dried corn than I remember it. Virtually nothing had changed, except for one disappointment; someone had had the ingenious idea to rip out the strawberry patch, raspberry bushes, passion fruit bushes, papaya trees, guava trees, and mango trees, and replace them with absolutely nothing. The sycamore-fig tree behind our house had also been cut down. Oh well. The house was still there, though it's dirtier than it used to be:
My whole family used to fit into that.
I stayed at Metser for the rest of the morning and a little into the afternoon, visiting a place or two and conversing with people we knew when we lived there. Everything except our mission station (not really ours anymore) was almost exactly the same. It was a great experience, though somehow not as wonderful as I had hoped. Sometimes there's more joy in the desire and memory of something than is inherent in the thing itself, though my opinion of Metser as the most beautiful place in Ethiopia remains unchanged. Fortunately the place isn't corrupted by tourists; apparently the Aari tribe is boring because they wear clothes. That's fine with me.
When I returned to Makki I got to work, which I figured was a fair way to earn my keep. My original ride back fell through, so I ended up staying for about a week and a half before returning to Addis. Living in Makki is a bit like living in National Geographic, honestly. The Mursi are pretty distinct culturally. Men are covered with artistic scars and shave patterns into their hair, and the women wear heavy brass jewelry along with clay lip plates and ear plates. They're also very nice, and would go out of their way to greet me and find out where I was from. I mostly did some odd jobs that needed to be done; I did a lot of screening and general improvement on Mr. T's house, and some other things that were closer to my area of experience. I overhauled one of the solar power systems, got the email system back in working order (it's super cool - it uses a 14K modem that transmits data over the shortwave radio), worked on a couple other computer problems here and there, and figured out how to hotwire a tractor before the starter seized and we gave up. There's failing technology everywhere, folks, and sadly, for most of the people I'm meeting, PCs are more of an affliction than anything else. I left the station right about when I was running out of easy work and facing the prospect of returning to repairing hot tin roofs in the blazing sun. The scratches on my arms are NOT from screening. They're from fighting off leopards with my bare hands.
I was impressed by the Mursi church. Mr. F had been one of the first missionaries to make contact with the Mursi tribe and a couple of the elders remembered him from way back. I sat in on a meeting of the church elders and tribal leaders as they discussed some of the problems they were having in the church. The elders were eager to do what the Bible said was right but they had no Bible translated into Mursi, and they wanted to ask Mr. F about some of their issues. One question was about whether a man with three wives who had become a Christian should divorce two of them, and another was about whether a man who had stolen a cow should be allowed to come into the church. The wife question is a common one, and Mr. F pointed out that one clear thing in the Bible is that God hates divorce. He advised that the man should keep all three of his wives, instead of throwing any of them out of his household. Of the Mursi and Bodi who have converted to Christianity, there are some very positive changes coming about in their lifestyles. Men with more than one wife will support all three of them and treat all of them well instead of favoring the youngest, and young men will only take one wife. Christians are more likely to send their daughters to school as well as their sons, and there were some eager attempts at reconciliation with other tribes. One of the Mursi pointed out that if Jesus were to come back, wouldn't he ask why they hadn't told the Bodi about Jesus? And wouldn't they be ashamed if they hadn't? He had found so much joy in his faith that he was excited to travel to hostile Bodi territory and share what he had found. Some people seem to believe that Christian missionaries are out to destroy local cultures and subjugate people, but this was a great example of Mursi who had found real joy in the gospel and were actively addressing destructive issues in their societies while remaining true to their culture and traditions.
I'm back in Addis now, and it's only took me three days to break the law and become a fugitive. It was simple, really. I spent some time at an SIM-affiliated office trying to help them set up their shiny new DSL connection (it's twice as fast as dial up, and surfing the web is akin to a slow, crappy wooden roller coaster that you don't quite trust) and in the process I poked around in the modem to check the settings. When I called Ethiopia Telecom to ask them what they were smoking, I learned that accessing the modem "is illegal in Ethiopia, sir". Oops? So instead of helping me on the phone they had to send a technician (When can I expect him? "I dunno") out here to flail around for half an hour trying to fix a 30-second problem. It wasn't frustrating. Not at all. It was sort of my fault for expecting things to work. The police showed up for a few minutes today, believe it or not, but I escaped their attention by sitting in a chair and staying perfectly still.
This brings me to my next topic, which is IT related in an attempt to balance out the lack of technology in the other environments I've described. I've been working in this office since the beginning of the week - mostly bumming around on the internet, reading, corresponding, and the like - and fixing various computer snags that have popped up. The office runs entirely on Apple hardware, and I haven't really worked on Macs before (how this qualifies me to fix problems I don't know, but I've managed) and let me tell you something: you should go out and get yourself a Mac. It'll make you happier because you won't need to call me to fix your computer, and it'll make me happier because...well, you won't be calling me to fix your computer. Macs are amazing because they actually work they way you want them to. I'll likely continue to punish myself with PCs for various hardware reasons, but for just about anything normal people do Macs are way more productive. Having experienced OS X Leopard firsthand, I will only reconsider when Microsoft discovers a method of turning their huge wads of cash into a decent operating system.
The fact that I've gone off on a tangential rant proves that I have nothing left to talk about. Thanks for reading!
