The grimy bus station was a hive of activity swarming with men, women and children rushing to their desired bus while scattered herds of donkeys, goats and sheep chewing on discarded and rotten mango skins and corn cobs meander through the crowd of people. The station looked more like a bus grave yard with twenty or so sad looking busses lined up in higgledy piggledy rows, no signs stating their destination. Grubby street kids dressed in ripped and torn clothing grabbed at my bags and tried their hardest to get my attention and business. Keeping a death grip on my belongings and a stern look on my face I pushed my way through the throng of hassling kids trying to find a bus going to Debark, a three to four hour journey north. Drivers and ticket boys approached me, yelling and waiving, trying to get me on their bus regardless of the direction they were heading. I finally found a bus which looked as though it might actually start and climb aboard, feeling a little uneasy and not totally certain I was on the right bus.
Frayed stringy tassels dangled from the old fabric which lined the ceiling of this pre historic bus. It was crowded, much too crowded with men and women from the town and nearby villages wearing multitudes of shamas (cotton wraps) hanging from their proud, square shoulders all the way down to their cracked and hardened feet. Women had tattoos of religious symbols around their neck, chin and forehead while the men wore layers of cotton wrapped around their heads. Bags of grain were dumped on the already cluttered floor, shepherd’s crooks poked precariously out into the aisle, bike tires, bags of rags and small children were passed in and passed back out of the bus. People chopped and changed their seats or miraculously created a new one out of, well, out of anything they could.
All eyes were on me; villagers were whispering and pointing, looking at me curiously. The word “Forangie”, meaning foreigner, was repeated and passed on down the bus. Being the only forangie aboard, I was given guest of honour status, dragged to the front of the bus and given the best seat in the house. The privilege thrust on me was a large rectangular velvet cushion wedged between the driver’s seat and the front passenger seat, right on top of the engine below – it was apparently the prime position. My legs were cramped under the dashboard, circulation practically cut off, there was no back rest and my bags were scattered around me.
My velvet cushion quickly became communal as I found myself having to share it with six villagers as more and more people squeezed themselves on the bus, shoving their goods into any spare nooks and crannies they could find. During my travels I had learnt enough Amharic to get the basic gist of a conversation and the ladies around me were debating about my nationality amongst other things I couldn’t follow. One woman then looked at me and said "betam conjo" which in English is ‘very beautiful’. They must say this to all foreigners because by this stage I had barely showered or worn clean clothes in nearly a week, I was anything but beautiful. To this I replied ‘thank you very much" in their language and watched with amusement as her face became animated with shock that I had understood her. This triggered off a whirl of excitement amongst the women and clasping their hands together they threw a millions questions at me, now assuming that I was fluent in their language.
Thankfully, a beautiful young girl with brown fawn like eyes (the daughter of the lady sitting next to me) knew a little English and so became the translator between us all. For the next hour while we waited for the bus to leave I scribbled notes in my book and added to my dictionary of necessary words, asked questions about how to ask questions or make statements, then practised it all on the woman around me. They applauded and laughed when I got something right or corrected me when I made a blooper. The grandmother of the young girl looked over me with kind eyes, saggy and watery from old age and smiled at me fondly as I struggled to get my pronunciations correct. The motherly warmth which radiated from her was comforting and I felt completely at ease in this strange circumstance knowing she was watching over me as though I was part of her family. I felt as though I had became one of them and together we laughed and joked, shared food (roasted barley and wheat) and made sure each other was comfortable while we waited for our driver who was no where in sight.
He arrived only an hour late which is quite good by African standards - a young man with one lazy eye and an infectiously happy smile which quickly had me forgiving him for being late. His eyes shined and his face was loving and kind, his English however, was non existent! Slowly he turned the key and the engine woke up like a grumpy old man from a deep sleep, coughing and spluttering the bus manoeuvred around the remaining busses and people in the station and rumbled its way to the main road. Still, there were people scrambling on and off the bus arguing and shouting over goodness know what as we slowly started the journey. We made it to the main road and finally picked up a bit of speed (50km p/hr) and bounced our way along the main road north, a dirt road with pot holes that could swallow a small car!
With no back rest or support my back was killing me. My legs were crushed under the dash board at every bump and every time the driver changed gears my left thigh received a thumping blow from the gear stick. Yet when ever I moved to get more comfortable, all the mothers and grandmothers around me shuffled to make more room, the driver dug under his seat to find another cushion or asked someone to move for me. My heart was swelling with affection for these people and I asked myself when had I last been so hospitable to a complete stranger ?? You often hear people say, after a visit to a third world country, that we don’t know how lucky we are but what I was experiencing here was so much more than any organized group adventure could offer. Tours are censored, safe, pre-tested – this was live, no dress rehearsal. These beautiful Ethiopian people were not on display for tourists, not dancing for money, they were unbelievably real – living out their day to day lives. This day, this bus were real and I was feeling more alive than I had ever before.
We soon came across road construction (those pot hole craters) and our bus slowed from a crawl to a stand still. Sitting a few seats back from me was a very old man, draped in his layers of white robes and wearing a pair of sandals, made out of tyre rubber and bits of string, typical foot wear, if any at all for the villagers. The skin on his face was like old worn leather, dark, heavily wrinkled and sunken, only just clinging to his cheek bones. Protruding from under his robes were ten calloused and warped toes, all spread far apart and with toe nails so thick and riddled with cracks they rivalled the Grand Canyon. He looked two hundred years old and worthy of a place in a museum – a walking antiquity.
With his crook in one hand and using the rail to balance himself, he steadily and purposefully made his way down the steps, off the bus and shuffled onto the road, right in front of where I sat on my cushion. Fumbling through his layers of cotton he seemed to be looking for something - then I caught on as he stood a little taller and a yellow stream spurted out of his robes. Right, of course! I figured with all the bumps we'd driven over he had done well to hold it in. Instead of climbing back on the bus after smoothing down the front of his robes, he shuffled to the other side of the road and tried to disappear into the bush. The driver poked his head out the window yelling and gesticulating at the old man, calling him back. Arms waiving and pointing at the bush, the old man seemed adamant that he must go in there. At the next protest from the driver the old man seemed to give in and shuffled back to the front of the bus - what happened next still has me in fits of squirmish laughter.
Hunching over with knees slightly bent, he hoisted the back of his robes up with one swinging motion so they settled on his shoulders, revealing the shiniest, blackest, tightest pair of buttocks that I have ever seen. His long firm legs, toned slender muscles and flawless skin glistening in the sun resembling that not of an old crippled man, but that of a twelve year old boy. Stunned, I continued watching unashamed; it was happening so quickly I didn’t have time to think about turning my head. As he began his surprisingly nimble decent into a squatting position, a gush of diarrhoea shot out of his behind like someone had turned on a pressure hose. Spurting out in waves of high and low pressure as he continued lowering his body down to a comfortable squat. I never thought I would ever see "shit fly" but on this particular day I had front row seats. A gasp of horror escaped my lips as I witnessed the brown stream firing through the air and not knowing where to look, I dropped my head to hide the flabbergasted expression on my face.
It happened all so quickly, this was just too funny and horrendous at the same time. The driver knowing this would shock me was in his element, laughing and digging me in the ribs with his elbow. Thump, thump, thump in my side, so pleased with the show he had arranged for me. I was bursting at the seams! I just wanted to howl with laughter, slap my knee, clutch my stomach and release the pressure brewing inside me. (No, not rear end pressure)! Not wanting to insult anyone on the bus, I managed to hold myself together while the old man called for toilet paper to clean himself up. Clenching my eyes tightly shut, I concentrated on not laughing. With immense effort I tried not to think of it, I strained to put different images into my head, nevertheless, it just kept coming back! Those child like buttocks and the airborne stream of liquid poo played over continuously in my head like a broken record. The driver, still giggling and gloating made it hard for me, but knowing if I released even the tiniest peep, all control would be lost and I would be cackling like a mad hyena! My head was pounding, I was on the verge of rupturing as laughter seemingly seeped out of my pores. Still with concerted effort I held myself together and settled down with only a few moments of weakness.
Climbing back up the stairs inch by inch onto the bus and gradually easing himself into his seat, the old man was ready for the journey to start again. Thus, off we went continually winding around steep mountains, sweeping down into valleys, passing farms and villages and stopping to pick people up along the way. The land was barren, stripped bare of any greenery or plant life. As far as the eye can see dirt, dust and erosion have replaced the forests which once stood here, the land is dehydrated, tired and over worked. (it was dry season, yet there is enough rain fall during the wet season to withstand such drought if adequate farming and irrigation was in place.)This heartbreakingly harsh appearance seems to be echo in many of the village people. They too are covered in dirt and dust, they too are riddled with erosion in the form of dis-figuration and crippling diseases such as polio, they too are starved of nutrition. Its a heartbreaking vicious cycle which has been in motion for hundreds if not thousands of years with locals cutting down trees so they can plough the land and use the timber to build. Yet without trees the land becomes sterile and dry, as a result, less food, in quality and quantity is produced, so more land is cleared to create larger crops, and so the cycle continues. A dark mood took over me and I wanted to scream at the next person I saw felling a tree. To me, the answer seems so obvious, but who am I to judge one of the oldest civilisations on earth? I swallowed hard and pushed my anger and frustration aside. I am not educated about these people or their practices and so had no right to be so opinionated about them. Still, I felt as though I was watching the National Geographic channel. Surely I’m not really here, here amongst it, living it, breathing it? If I close my eyes and re open them, would I find myself here on this derelict bus or back at home, watching the television from a safe distance on my cosy couch with the ability to turn off the screen when it all got too much?
Another pummelling blow to my left thigh as the driver changed gears snapped me out of my sliding doors frame of mind. His wonky eye and perfect smile lighting up as he excitedly pointed out the harshly beautiful and rugged mountains through his window. His attempt to make conversation and explain things as we drove past and his keenness to show me everything about his country was enough to change my saddened mood and so the roller coaster of emotions continued. I was on a high again, absorbing, learning and trying to understand these incredibly resilient people with hearts the size of their country.
Settling into the trip now, I had a bum groove in my cushion and circulation flowing through my legs. People were quiet and content, the bus was picking up speed and we were making up good time from our late departure when a shocking crunching sound came from underneath the bus. The serenity on board disappeared immediately as we noisily clunked our way to a standstill, the driver giving me an ominous look and begrudgingly climbed out to inspect the damage. Something had obviously snapped under our bus! With the driver and ticket boy putting their backyard mechanical skills to the test, the passengers started to get restless. Once one person made the decision to get off, the rest followed like a heard of sheep, myself included. Standing outside the bus, staring down the road I could see the shimmering mirage effect, caused by the extreme heat. If it had not been for the breeze blowing it would have been stifling yet it was a relief to get out of the stuffy bus. Uneducated and even some affluent Ethiopian people believe that a breeze coming through an open window on a bus will make them terribly sick, so even on the hottest of days, on an overcrowded bus with unwashed bodies and soiled children all windows are generally closed. The hot air outside was unusually refreshing as I sat on a heated rock with the women from the bus. Children who were sitting at the back of the bus now had their chance to come and look at me or ask questions. I was as strange and unusual to them as they were to me. As a group they were all discussing me when one girl asked how old I was, everyone looking on, eager to hear my answer. To get around the language barrier I had learnt to express myself in the same way I do to my two year old nephew, with over exaggerated expressions and movements. With obvious humour I gave a gesture of mild offence, waved my arms, shook my head and said no! The Ethiopian people have a wonderful sense of humour and love to joke and together we all laughed at my pathetically dorky reaction. To follow this I did however give away my age “higher amist” (25) and they all had the same reaction as the ladies at the beginning of the bus ride, shock and appreciation that I was attempting to speak their language.
Time was passing quickly. I had endless entertainment with villagers asking questions, poking and prodding at my belonging and jewellery or watching the younger, more nimble men throwing their bags on the top of passing trucks and climbing aboard, tired of waiting for our bus to be fixed. In a nearby paddock a barefooted man was ploughing with two oxen, swinging his whip in a circular motion above their bodies, forcing them forward, dragging the plough through the rough hard ground. Young shepherd boys, some as young as seven or eight years old, bounded down from their posts to look at the white girl, leaving their donkeys, mules and goats to tend to themselves. Insisting on having their picture taken they stared down the lens of my camera with a nervous smile then laughed delightedly when I showed them the shot. A well to do villager trotted passed on his noble steed, a short stunted mule, which was adorned in traditional attire.
Over an hour had passed when our driver, covered in oil stains and dirt, appeared from underneath the bus announcing for all passengers to get aboard. Scrambling back onto my cushion, I found I had more room as many people had smuggled themselves onto the passing trucks. Stretching out a little and attempting to chat with the driver we headed off again, now only running two hours behind. Slowly picking up speed, we had achieved all of a whopping 150meters when that same crunching noise rang in our ears again. The look I received from the driver was a little darker and more menacing than previously as he pulled over to the side of the road. There was no hesitation this time, with everyone gathering their belonging, there was a mass exodus off the bus.
Lugging all of my bags to the side of the road, I prepared myself to jump on whatever transport came passed us next. Whilst sitting on my back pack under the beating sun, a young man who had been on the bus, though I had not seen him approached me and with very good English introduced himself as “Tamrat”. He was a well educated and knowledgeable young guy, very formal and serious, which was quite unlike any other Ethiopian I had met. He was on his way to Debark for work as a hotel inspector. For another hour Tamrat sat with me, both of us getting coated in dust and my white skin burning, discussing Ethiopia and the world in general. His strongest Ethiopian trait was his belief and unwavering love for God. With deep sincerity he told me of his struggle to find work and how after eight years of preying, god finally awarded him with this job. Everything in and about an Ethiopians life is “in gods hands” or “god willing”. He wanted to know what my religion was, so as subtlety as I could, I broke the news to him that I don’t believe in God. With bulging eyes and an open mouth he looked at me dumbfounded. “How do you get through life without God”. “How do you live, how are you happy without god”. I delicately explained my reasons and where my beliefs begin and end and slowly Tamrat stopped looking at me as though I was insane and started to see my reasoning, though not being able to relate to it. We discussed Ethiopia’s slow development and current problems the country is facing, issues regarding agriculture, the endless clearing of land and the education of young people in villages and small towns. It was fascinating to hear his thoughts and we openly discussed and compared his Ethiopian upbringing and views to my Western opinions.
Buses passed us but didn’t stop, trucks were going too fast to climb on and I began to wonder if we were ever going to get to Debark. A small modern bus with air-conditioning and padded reclining seats full of tourists came sailing down the road and slowed to manoeuvre around our craggy old bus. The tourist on board peered at me through their tinted windows, with pity on their faces as they saw the lone white girl, surrounded by rugged village people, sitting on her back pack in the middle of nowhere with no shade in sight. But what these people didn’t realise is that it was I who pitied them. Not in a million years would I trade the day I was having for a seat on that luxury coach. I couldn’t have wished, planned or payed for a better day. Those people in all their comfort and style were missing out on Ethiopia, missing out on its people and its culture, the two most fascinating things about this country. I felt smug and content sitting on my bag as I watched their bus glistening in the distance, driving away from my little slice of paradise. I actually willed them to leave, to drive faster down the road so I could get back to my Ethiopian life.
With the grumbling spluttering noise of the engine being turned over, our bus was apparently road worthy again. Heaving my bags on board, I shared my cushion with Tamrat so we could continue our seemingly inexhaustible conversation. Our bus WAS road worthy again, however it could no longer travel any faster than 20km/hr or their repair job would once again fail. At a snail’s pace we crept along slowly around bends and up hills with dry dirt paddocks everywhere I looked. For the next two hours we trundled along, the driver once again in a good mood used Tamrat to translate his questions to me and the three of us chatted and laughed until the bus could go no further. At approximately three o’clock, this grumbling, choking old bus rolled to its end and took its resting place on the side of a hill just on the edge of a tiny village. RIP old bus!
Everybody unloaded once again, nothing was left on the bus and for the third time that day, I found myself on the side of the road with no idea of what was going to happen or how I was going to get to Debark. A patchy old tip truck pulled up and people started to climb aboard so I quickly gathered my things to do the same. Tamrat looked at me stunned and confused. He was a town boy and hated travelling on the public busses let alone getting on top of a truck. I explained that I didn’t care about the dirt and dust; I just wanted to get to Debark. By the time I’d convinced him that I could handle a truck ride, the darn thing had taken off and we were left once more sitting in a cloud of dust. The ladies I had been sitting with at the beginning of the trip were still with us and several others, all waiting for the next truck, bus, mule or donkey; whatever form of transport would get them to their destination.
Finally an old bus came around the corner and without wasting any time Tamrat grabbed my big bag and together we ran after it until the driver pulled over. Practically full, we shoved our way onto the bus after allowing the older ladies to climb on first. We didn’t manage to get a seat, but at least we were on our way again. Standing in the aisle with my backpack shoved between my knees, day pack hugged to my chest and my dirty oily hair sticking all over my sweaty face we left for Debark, still another two hours away if all went well. “God willing”!
Choking on dust as it stuck to the inside of my throat and to the tiny hairs up my nose, and blinded by it as it scratched and dried out my eyes, I still couldn’t help but smile. From ear to ear I was grinning, having flash backs of the days events and trying, though struggling to believe it had all really happened.
Looking at me puzzled, Tamrat asked why I was smiling? ‘You don’t actually like travelling like this do you? ‘Its crazy!’ He said. ‘Its dirty and unreliable’! After thinking about Tamrats statement I explained how I was enjoying this day and its continual hiccups as an outsider to it all. Agreeing, if I had to do it every day that the novelty and excitement would be likely to ware off, however here and now I was living one of my greatest dreams and couldn’t be happier.
Arriving in Debark was a little saddening. Not quite ready for the day of adventure to end, I prepared my bags to make an easier escape off the bus when Tamrat instructed me. Having Tamrat with me was a Godsend, however due to his constant company the older ladies who were originally looking over me, now no longer were by my side. And once off the bus I didn’t get the chance to thank them or even say good bye.
It seems unbelievable, but I felt as though I deeply loved these women. I loved them for their acceptance and generosity, their care and decency, their willingness to teach me and then learn from me and their open hearts. They showed me an insight into their culture which I had very little concept or appreciation of before. If openly displaying affection was common practice here I would loved to have wrapped them up in my arms and hugged the endlessly, thanking them repeatedly for their friendship and protection. However, this was not to be, and now off the bus, the whole day was becoming just a memory, an astonishing memory.
Offering to help me find accommodation (as locals get charged only half what a foreigner pays) Tamrat walked with me down the main street which was littered with rubbish, goats and feral children. After looking through the first two hotels I was happy to stay at either as they were only 40Birr a night ($4.40AUD). The fact that they looked and smelt worse than any decrepit run down slum, didn’t deter me. Mud and filth were everywhere and when the hotel owner showed us the bathroom, we walked in on a man squatting over a hole in the ground! For a second time in one day I had witnessed someone doing a poo! Backing away, holding my nose to keep the putrid smell of the bathroom out, Tamrat told the man we would keep looking and led me out of the hotel. Shocked that I was still half thinking of staying there he led me straight to the best hotel in town, the only ‘high rise’, approximately eight stories, decked out in cream tiles, mostly chipped or cracked and 1970’s furniture. The Imet Gogo Hotel was in complete contrast to the mud and stone hovels which surrounded it, and I knew that a property of such sophisticated style was going to be well over my pathetic budget. Telling Tamrat that I could afford no more than 60Birr for accommodation, he marched into the reception and began bargaining with the hotel manager. I sat and waited outside until he reappeared looking very pleased with himself. A room here was normally over 100birr however I was now getting it for 60birr a night. And what a room it was, I had a television, even though it didn’t work, a private bathroom with running but cold water, a surprisingly soft double bed with warm cuddly blankets (no fleas) and a view out over the whole town from my fourth floor window! I was in Ethiopian luxury. A part of me, my Western side, was delighted to be there, to be able to wash and rid myself of the hours of gathered dirt and sweat, to have piece and quite and somewhere to stretch out. However a larger part of me was pining to be back on the bus, back with the old ladies who shared their barley and laughed with me, back with the old man who had the bad bowel movements and back with my driver who I never wanted to cease smiling, as the world seemed so much brighter when he did. If I closed my window and shut out the rambling activity of the streets below I could have been anywhere in the world, in any cheap hotel in Asia, South America or Europe. Not here in Ethiopia, one of the worlds most ancient and overwhelmingly fascinating countries. Here in my room I was isolated and alone, so after a nippy cold shower I headed back out into the unpredictable world of Ethiopia, a little anxious yet irresistibly curious to see what this country was going divulge to me next in this epic journey. No words can explain how wonderful and enthralling this day was. It was more than a dream come true as even the wildest imagination couldn’t possibly conjure up a day such as this. Joining Tamrat for dinner, we shared a dish of tibbs (fried meat) and shiro (chilli & chic pea pure), eating with our fingers off the same plate, we continued our unstoppable conversation about the country and its people who now consumed my mind and all thoughts and who were taking up an enormously unproportional place in my heart.
