Entering Ethiopia

The reading I'd done about cycling Ethiopia had done little to prepare me for the reality. Tales of other cyclists had singled it out as one of the most testing places on the planet to pass; stone throwing kids being the main culprit soon followed by volleys of verbal abuse and highway robbery. How inspiring! The reality however, was a world away.

By this point I'd given a lot of thought to how to appease pebble pelting kids even contemplating cycling all day in a superhero outfit! Alas no Superman and Spidey costumes for two overgrown fellas could be found in Sudan.

So with a breath of hesitation and a pinch of positive bravado Kenny and I rolled across the border.

The change after nine months of being in the Arab world was stark; swathes of brightly dressed people, hustle, bustle, bars and women; publicly visible women. My word, even some cleavage! Steady on – eyes on the road Kenny! It was a riot and amusement to the senses. Brilliant!

Without our superhero outfits, Kenny and I had been honing our Amharic (the national language of Ethiopia) from a phrase book instead, trying to close the cultural chasm that had been laid out in the books and blogs of travellers before us. Our first attempts seemed to go down well; everyone seemed friendly. After 10kms we'd had no rocks in the face; what were we worrying about? We pedalled into the lush green hills with tails wagging.

Middle Earth

I've never visited a fantasy planet or time-travelled but our first few hours in Ethiopia seemed to come pretty close. If you're familiar with the Lord of the Rings, we'd entered the Shire, home to the Hobbits.

The land seemed energised. Ancient knotted and twisted trees branched to fantastical proportions. Plants, flowers and vegetables bloomed. Little wooden huts lined the road. People dressed in garments with more patches than a grandmas quilt. Unanxious animals roamed freely. Hills rolled into mountains. It was quiet; a whisper of wind and the ambience of clunking pans, mothers natter and children's laughter. Life seemed simple and happy. There was serenity; a natural order between people, animals and environment. It was like another world, where life lived in balance.

Our rapture was soon complete. Rolling towards a huddle of humble wooden homes we were greeted by a line of female smiles across the road. We were blocked and soon surrounded by a wall of singing sirens bewildering the two-wheeled sailors who'd floated in whilst in a dream. For all my travels I would not ask for a moment more beautiful than this.

As night fell we thanked our lucky stars and spent the night under the mosquito nets and hospitable gaze of a family we met on the road. Welcome to Ethiopia.

Road to Gondar

We set off early riding towards to the sunrise. Our progress was slowed by the stunning beauty of the light and scenery that the reams of photographs I took still fail to adequately capture.

The road wound its way through successively higher peaks and we ground our way up and glided down the mountain-sides drawing closer to Gondar. The ride provided the trials and rewards of adventure; flung into a new culture and language, tasting new food, camping in mountains, seeking refuge from the torrential rains under majestic trees, and provoking screams of laughter from children with our attempts at Amharic.

It was striking just how many kids there were. Not a rest stop went by be it in a sunny vale or rainy mountain-side where children didn't appear.

Still no stones

The only thing thrown at us to this point was a volley of requests for anything it was assumed we might have. In trying to politely refuse requests we consulted our phrasebook:
No = m'be
I'm sorry = aznalo
Easy enough! So with a touch of self-assurance we regaled this phrase along our route. We found out much later m'be is considered slightly rude and aznalo the kind of sorry you say when someone has died; truly lost in translation. For reference, a better phrase would be 'Yellenyem yikarta, eshi?', 'I'm sorry, I don't have any – ok?'

Despite our commiserating Kenny had truly flipped the script and seemed to be getting the hang of getting kids to push him uphill! Quite a turn-up for the books… and blogs.

That night we watched one of the most heavenly sunsets we might ever be likely to see.

Knowing we'd be very unlikely to find a stealth camping spot, with people seemingly everywhere, we chose to seek refuge in a church. Our request to camp caused an almighty row; the main protagonists shaking rifles at each other. To save a death before dinner we tried politely to leave but this caused even more consternation and rifle wagging at us; easy tiger! In the end it seemed that problem was not if we could stay but with whom. The most diplomatic solution was soon reached and we were given simple but perfect lodging inside a store room.

The following day we passed the world and his wife and their cows walking to market; a procession that stretched for over 10km either side of the town. There are so few cars in Ethiopia it seems that everyone walks no matter how far. Outside Addis the only traffic you'll be held up by is of the kind that munches grass for fuel. Alas cows' constant methane burping is not much better than cars for our environment but here at least there's a natural balance.

Soaking it in

We sat out the afternoon rains in a town surrounded by intrigued kids eager to hone their English, which they start learning in 2nd Grade. The attention could be overwhelming but for now it wasn't, we were drawing close to the ancient capital of Gondar, with its castle, 47 churches and unbeknown to us at this point an inspirational local NGO called Yenege Tesfa.

I will remember the days from the Sudanese border to Gondar as some of the most magnificent of the trip, the kind of adventure I'd dreamed of. The landscape lush and green, the rainy season having restored life, wealth and full bellies, the start of an eye opening expedition into Ethiopia that after six months still continues.

Sudanese Swansong

Weeks and months fly by. The last update brought me to Khartoum, since then I’ve been back to Damascus [blogged here], cycled across from the sands of Sudan into the lush green mountains of Ethiopia. These are the memories of the last days of Sudan.

Getting set

After reuniting with Kenny in Khartoum, we spent a workmanlike week updating this website, building a CV site for our CouchSurfing host, Omar and importantly for me finalising some new tenants moving in to my place at home. Luckily my Mum was on hand to make a smooth transition; without her much about this trip would be considerably more difficult; thank you Mumma. As a result I’ve now got about £250 of income a month to sustain this ever-lengthening adventure.

KRT

Khartoum is an intriguing city, although there didn’t seem much to visit or actually do; especially on a budget. Kenny, by now well accustomed with the city, offered me some options on my second day back; “Well we could go to this nice roundabout… or ... (long pause) … a cemetery”. To be fair options did improve but I felt oddly caught in the ex-pat bubble.

Khartoum is a rapid changing place; the evidence of modernisation is clear, although the regime could be said to be lagging. The goodwill of the Sudanese people is as evident as ever, although nearly all I spoke to felt the repression of the state as a daily feature of their lives.

On Januray 9th 2011, there is a referendum on independence for the south of the country. Who knows what will happen but it seems the vast majority feel the south will vote for independence. Here’s hoping this is a genuine gesture by President Bashir to offer them control of their future.

Israeli Spies

The first few days cycling out of Khartoum were quite brutal; gusting headwinds, searing heat and one of the rare stretches with little distracting natural beauty… although we did get refreshing roadside sprinkler shower.

Looking for some alternative beauty I filmed some plastic bags stranded on a barbed-wire fence blowing in the wind. This innocuous action almost caused an international incident when we were swiftly apprehended and escorted to a police station. You need a permit to film or take photos in many parts of Sudan; a fact I’d conveniently (until now) ignored this.

Normally we wouldn’t have worried but on this day we weren’t quite spot-free. I didn’t have the permit; this was a military facility… and Kenny’s visa had expired. After a little roadside protest, the chief was called; in no uncertain terms he demanded us at the police station.

When we arrived, there were stern looks all around. Our passports were carefully analyzed. Grave looks appeared. My Arabic is improving but still basic but from what I could understand the situation didn’t sound good. More sergeants arrived. The word safara (embassy) was banded about. Then the passports were scrutinized again. We were playing it cool but internally wondering what on earth they were gong to do.

Then to our relief it was discerned that we weren’t Israeli spies, as initially expected; you know the type of hobo-like spies you often find on international missions cycling around filming plastic bags. It must say something about the propaganda these police are fed.

Miraculously Kenny’s expired visa wasn’t spotted despite at least seven set of eyes on it. We were given a quick lecture advising us of the perils of being Israeli and we were soon sent on our way with a parade of smiles and waves. Incident over; free to find it funny and unclench sphincter.

Ramadan

Cultural awareness and sensitivity should be two ever-present travel companions, so it was with some delight Kenny and I were told that Koran makes concession for travelers during Ramadan, allowing them to eat and drink during daylight hours. This was like the best of both worlds, eating during the day and feasting a night.

As sunset drew near on our first night outside Khartoum we were waved insistently off the road by a man with light batons more at home on a Top Gun flight deck. We were ushered into a roadside feast put on purely out of the kindness of the people and their desire to please Allah; what a fitting way to do it.

As the sun fell beneath the horizon, we awaited confirmation of the end to the day’s fast on the radio. A hundred or more men lined the matted, desert floor awaiting the call; gazing and murmuring at the feast in front of them. The call came and in a dignified rush, hands flew from dishes to mouths and back to dishes. There was a fervor only a hard working man who’s fasted over 12 hours in searing heat can muster. The food and the water were quaffed at remarkable rate before being called to an abrupt halt for prayer. I’m sure most of them could have used more than the five minutes or so they had to eat, I certainly could of, but they would get their fill later. It’s quite an oddity that most Muslims gain weight during Ramadan.

That we were not Muslim didn’t seem to bother anyone. Our hosts were delighted to show us their hospitality, and as now had become customary we ended up being given a place to sleep for the night in the nearby petrol station. This was a ritual repeated each night, without fail – without ever wanting something in return. The beauty of this culture in Sudan left us with a humbling lesson: who do you know who would offer their own bed to a complete stranger if he asked where he might sleep? Or the food from their plate simply because they thought he was hungry? What I thought of my attempts at generosity, showed how little I knew.

Sands to Grass

We’d had nothing but sand for well over 1000km and virtually no hills for almost 3000km. 3000kms of flat cycling may sound good but on the other hand from ground level you just don’t see very much. Hills are tougher but even when you curse them, the pleasures outweigh the pain - hidden landscapes are revealed; the unexpected rears its head and of course there’s the downhill cruising with the wind in you hair, glowing with a sense achievement. So with that said when the first hills rose from the sandy pan landscape it was a welcome sight. I scrambled up the first mound we reached. Looking down from high it cast the altered perspective I’d been missing.

Not on the map

As the landscape changed so did the caste of the people; the Arabs of the north mixing with their dark skinned Nubian countrymen from the south and brown gold skin of the Eritreans, Ethiopians, and Somalis to the East.

There was lots more children; running around partially clothed, in fitful arrays colour. There was laughing and screaming. Skinny livestock moseyed along roadside followed by boys with sticks. Circular mud huts appeared with thatched roofs and open doors, at first on their own and then in whole villages. Fires smoked. Towns buzzed. We had arrived somewhere new; not on the map; the Africa of my childhood imagination; ‘Black Africa’.

Sleeping on water

On our last night in Sudan we sketched our memories of our time, almost too much to remember. We found what seemed like a good pitch for our tent and snuggled down listening to the thunderstorms to the east raging over Ethiopia.

A few hours later we were awoken by the rains pummeling our tent. It’s a brilliant tent but not as waterproof as it used to be and the rain fell on us like a mist inside. This was soon accompanied by a buoyant feeling as our sleeping mats began to rise. It quickly became evident where we’d pitched our tent was flat because it was a dried up pond. As we sat tight in the tent wishing the storm to pass we chuckled at our predicament; after spending much of ride through Sudan wishing for water, on our last night it ended up giving us just what we wanted – like the rest of the country – more than we ever could have wished for.