Traveller as Hunter-Gatherer

I took it slow when I finally dragged myself out of bed. I had no definite destination for that day. My goal was simply to break the inertia that had started to grip me while waiting for the rainy season to end. Even if I only made it to the far side of Addis and slept in a new hotel it would be enough. I’d at least have started moving.

Most of my packing had been completed the night before and getting ready was a simple matter of gathering up a few odds and ends and stuffing them into the pannier bags. When everything was ready I went out and next door to the Jokey Bar for a cup of coffee, a journal session, and a last pre-departure look at my maps.

My plan was to complete the 2000-km loop through the north going in a clockwise direction. I’d leave Addis following the Gojam road (so called because it led into Gojam province). Once on that road all risk of getting lost would be gone, since it was essentially the only road out there. It continued north through Gondar to a point just shy of the border with Eritrea, then turned east through Axum and linked up with the Asmera road at Adigrat where I’d turn south and work my way back to Addis.

It looked fairly simple on the map, but there was still a great deal in practical terms that I didn’t know and I had a few butterflies floating around in my stomach. I didn’t know, for example, where I would be sleeping most nights, whether in my tent or in local hotels. I didn’t know if there would be any hotels at all other than in the big towns. I didn’t know what I would be eating, whether I could get meals somewhere or would have to cook my own food. I had a stove and a pot and cooking utensils so I was prepared to that extent, but I wondered if perhaps I shouldn’t have stocked up on ‘provisions’ while in Addis. And on top of these concerns I had those thousands of warnings ricocheting around my brain about the dangers I would be facing. The warnings about lions and hyenas I knew I could dismiss out of hand. If I saw either in the highlands I could count myself very lucky indeed. The shifta were an unknown factor, but the risk of robbery is always there when travelling and if I took such things seriously I never would have left my home. But there were other warnings that I couldn’t dismiss so readily.

Many people had said that the roads were so bad as to be impassable by bicycle. Others claimed that the tensions along the border with Eritrea would mean that the army would not allow me past Gondar. I’d even heard rumors that the unusually heavy rains that year had washed out the bridge across the Takeze River between Gondar and Axum and I would be forced to turn back.

Whether true or not these were things I’d just have to deal with as they came up. In fact I’d be quite happy if the difficulties I faced would be of this simple physical variety. I quite liked the idea of bridges being washed out. I pictured myself wading or swimming across raging torrents with my bicycle on a raft that I pulled on a rope held between my teeth. But I knew the real trouble wouldn’t lie there, but in the more mundane aspects of life on the road: food, shelter, physical health and, based on my experiences cycling in Addis, a rather severe form of culture shock. These were the things that really wore you down. Traveller as Hunter-Gatherer.

The Entoto Hills

The Gojam road began from the traffic circle near St. Giorgis Cathedral. To get there I followed my usual route to the Piazza and then up a short but very steep road. Even in first gear I had to stand on the pedals and grind my way through every revolution. Sweat poured down my face and I could already feel the back of my neck start to burn where my new short haircut had exposed fresh skin. I heard cheering and shouting all around me though I couldn’t look up to see if it was encouragement or abuse. If I’d taken my eyes off the road for a second I’d have lost my balance, come to a halt and I wasn’t sure I’d ever get started again.

I was within city limits for several kilometres and crowds of people lined the sides of the road showering me with cries of ‘you you’ and ‘ferenji.’ Children shouted ‘gari gari’ from in front of their homes and then threw themselves onto the ground in paroxysms of laughter. (It wasn’t until I reached Debre Markos where such things were common that I learned that a ‘gari’ was a kind of horse-drawn carriage or buggy. To see a foreigner was strange enough. To see a foreigner on a bicycle actually pulling a little ‘gari’ was too much for these children and they collapsed in laughter, unable even to summon the strength to throw a rock.)

Addis ended suddenly at the base of the Entoto Hills and the road began its long serpentine ascent to the top. As the road climbed it deteriorated rapidly becoming narrow and heavily potholed. Oddly enough this was to my advantage. Trucks and buses were slowed to a crawl as they had to pick and choose their way very carefully. On my bike I could slip between the holes easily.

Traffic on the whole was much lighter than I had expected. Long stretches of time would pass with no vehicles and then I would get one or at most two trucks or a bus. The main traffic were people including an endless stream of women carrying heavy loads of firewood into Addis. There were also lots of mule trains, goats and sheep and a few cows. The cows were by far the most dangerous things on the road. They became anxious as I got close to them and several suddenly ducked their heads and stabbed outwards with their horns. I quickly learned to give them a wide berth.

 

The sides of the road were lined with tall eucalyptus trees, which made the ride somewhat pleasant and shady. These trees had been imported to Ethiopia from Australia when the constant demand for firewood had stripped the country of its own trees. They were ideal because the eucalyptus tree grows quickly and sends out new trunks from the old stump when it is cut down. All around me were fields of these trees being cultivated to feed Addis Ababa’s insatiable hunger for fuel. The trees were allowed to grow just long enough to allow the production of usable branches and then cut back down again.

Addis was occasionally visible through the trees, spread out below me and I stopped often to contemplate the view. The excitement of being on the move was starting to take hold of me and I did a few little dance steps there at the side of the road. I started to sing a few little ditties under my breath to celebrate the moment. These weren’t songs in any real sense but nonsense rhymes sung to stupid made-up melodies that welled out of me when I cycled. “I’m on my way to Gondar,” I sang, “riding up the Entoto Hills. I’m on my way to Gondar, if I get sick I’ve got some pills.” And so on.

At the top of the pass there was a battered sign and I stopped my bike and read off the information: Debre Sige 100 km, Fiche 115 km, and Debre Markos 305 km. Debre Sige was on none of my maps. Fiche was a town which Abiy had urged on me as a place to stay on my first night. He said it was the first town on the Gojam road with a hotel and wanted to know if I could cycle that far in a day. I told him I doubted it and my experiences so far were not making a liar out of me. Debre Markos was days away and was on the far side of my first major landmark and barrier, the Blue Nile Gorge, which, according to most of my informants, was beautiful, but a bit of hell on earth. They predicted that without an armed escort I’d sink down into that lawless land and never be seen again. There were the usual lions, hyenas, and shifta, but also something new. They warned me about the ‘charcoal makers’ who dwelled at the bottom of the gorge. No one could explain exactly what these were and I pictured a scaly creature that lived in caves and cooked on hibachis.

I wanted to get off my bike for a few minutes and savor the moment, but there was a crude roadblock near the sign and the few soldiers lounging around it eyed me with some suspicion. They hadn’t interfered with me yet, but I felt it was best not to push my luck. I put my feet on the pedals, bid adieu to Addis and pushed off down the other side.

The slope was just as steep as on the Addis side and I quickly picked up speed, making a game of swooping between the potholes. I even caught up with some of the trucks still slowly edging their way along. I roared past them with a silly grin on my face. It was foolish to be so careless on my first day. One misjudgement, one surprise pothole and there would have been little left of my bike but a few scattered bits and pieces. But after all, how many days in your life can you say, “This morning I cycled up onto the Ethiopian plateau”? I decided to throw caution to the wind and I reached the bottom in a fraction of the time it had taken me to achieve the top.

“Money, Money, Money, Money”

The sudden change in landscape when I’d slowed down enough to look around me was quite a shock. Gone was any hint of the large city that lay just a few kilometres away. Around me was a picture-perfect rural countryside. The land was a checkerboard of farmer’s fields, each square a slightly different shade of green, yellow, red and brown. Clusters of traditional African tukul huts with thatch roofs were scattered throughout. Each collection of huts had a rough natural fence around it made from rocks, mud and sticks stuck into the ground. The gates were made of galvanized tin.

Farmers worked in their fields. Barefoot children marched along the road with schoolbooks in their hands. Women walked past bowed down under the heavy loads they always seemed to carry. Every kilometre or so I came across groups of people crouched at the side of the road with an array of baggage. They were waiting for the mini-van taxis and truck taxis that plied the distances between towns. There was no schedule and no guarantee that there would be room in the taxis nor that they would stop to pick them up. They simply sat and waited patiently. If there was no transportation that day they would come out again the next and wait once more.

In Addis I’d cycled to the eternal lament “mother dead father dead how are you money mother dead father dead how are you money” (said rapidly and without punctuation as though my name were ‘money’). Out here in the countryside their English wasn’t quite as sophisticated. They had just the one word ‘money’ and repeated it endlessly. “Money money money money money money money money…” The young children ran beside me for a long time shouting the single word. The women carrying firewood still managed to hold out one hand and say ‘money money’ as I cycled past. Grown men sitting in front of the occasional roadside store sipping a cup of tea or coffee looked up, held out a hand and called out ‘money money money.’ Even the farmers in the fields rested from their labors, stared at me quizzically and then almost as an afterthought held out one hand and mouthed the word ‘money.’ If their children were working alongside them they released them and sent them arrowing in my direction to chase me and keep up the ‘money money’ cry.

This begging seemed more like a hobby, a pastime, than any serious attempt to obtain something from me. I got the impression that they were so accustomed to crazy ferenji going by and handing out things that they assumed this is what we did. It wouldn’t have occurred to them naturally to ask for money from me, but they figured that if we ferenji were in the business of handing out money they might as well get their share. What did they have to lose?

Traveller as Entertainer

It was market day in Sululta, the first small town on my map beyond Addis, and the streets were filled with men on horseback. They had come in to buy and sell, wheel and deal, gossip and drink, and tease the ferenji on a bicycle without mercy. I ran the gauntlet with as much grace as I could, but even I could see how silly I looked in their eyes. They were real men as only men on horseback can be. I, on the other hand, with my bicycle and that little trailer following close behind was too ridiculous for words.

I was called over to join a group of men and the local comedian took advantage of my presence to sharpen his stand-up routine. He put his arm around me and with his free hand proceeded to point things out about me that sent his companions into side-splitting guffaws. Here apparently was what happened when a man didn’t have the proper upbringing, didn’t have the proper role models in life, when a man didn’t have any pride or shame. Here was a ferenji on a bicycle.

At the far end of town I came across a small hotel painted a nice blue. There was a small garden out front and I took that as a good omen and wheeled my bike up the short gravelled walkway. I’d only cycled 27 kilometres, but I was mindful of my knees and the unfamiliarity of my surroundings and thought it would be wise to spend the night there.

There was a young man on the porch who spoke pretty good English (I took him to be the manager) and we chatted for a while. We soon gathered a crowd of about 30 people and when they got unruly we went around back and he helped me move my gear into a room.

My first task was to get water and I went with the manager out into the village. He brought me down a few of the cobblestone backroads till we reached a central area with a large cement block in the middle. On each side of the cement block was a water tap and women crowded around them laughing and talking as their containers filled up. Some had big plastic tureens, which they loaded onto donkeys, two on each side. Others had clay urns that they carried on their backs held in place with a tumpline across their foreheads.

A man was holding court here and collecting a small amount of money from each of the women. The manager told me that the well and pump had been installed by an aid group from a European country. He wasn’t sure which but guessed Germany. Now the village owned the well and charged a penny per litre of water to pay for upkeep and maintenance. When I showed the man my black 10-litre Dromedary bag he laughed and said I would have to pay two hundred dollars. He was joking of course and even gave me a discount: 5 cents for the whole ten litres.

When we returned to the hotel the manager and two other young fellows who worked in the kitchen followed me into my room and made themselves comfortable. I wasn’t too pleased with this, but I wanted to be nice. I knew that my arrival was something of a special occasion. To them I was practically a visitor from another planet and I had all these weird and wonderful toys like my water filter, walkman, and binoculars not to mention the bicycle itself. I could very well have been the first foreigner they’d had such close contact with and I wanted to give good value for money. Traveller as Entertainer.

It was a mistake, however, and the rest of the evening consisted of a long and drawn out assault on my possessions. The door couldn’t be locked from the inside and one or two of them would suddenly push open the door, come in and seize whatever happend to be laying about and demand, “Give me.” I would get rid of them, but a short time later they’d come back in, sit down, and grab whatever they could, including the things that I had in my hands.

The fourth time the manager showed up I happened to be looking at my maps. He looked inside my map case, saw a few pens and demanded, “Give me pen,” very rude and loud. “You have many pen. Give me pen.” I didn’t give him one and like an idiot I tried explaining to him why not. I showed him a notebook that I was writing in and said, “Look, I write all the time. I need many pens.” He took the notebook out of my hands, held it to his chest, said “Give me book,” and got up to leave the room.

My First Dula

A few hours later I lay on my bed looking around my tiny room. My mosquito net dangled from a hook I’d screwed into the ceiling. Four and a half liters of purified water sat in my three bike bottles and 2 Nalgenes, ready for the next day’s cycling. My Dromedary bag hung from a window hinge, plump with a reserve of five litres of unpurified water. And neatly holstered in a long slit pocket in one of my pannier bags was the newest addition to my cycling survival kit: a slim but very stiff and strong walking stick.

The Ethiopians called it a “dula” and no self-respecting farmer went anywhere without one. Some were thick and clublike with bands of steel wrapped around the end. Others were, like mine, thinner and yet incredibly rigid, the sort of fast moving weapon that Bruce Lee would use to take out twenty attacking ninjas. A local pharmacist had given it to me as a present when I mentioned how much I admired some of the walking sticks I’d seen farmers carrying in Sululta. He told me that all the dulas were made from a special type of wood called “shillum,” a kind of iron wood.

I didn’t imagine I would ever use the dula as a weapon, but I hoped its mere presence would act as a deterrent in the future. Failing that I felt it could always come in handy for fending off rats, unusually large spiders and other beasties and nasties. I certainly couldn’t argue that it was for protection against dogs. The dogs I’d seen in Ethiopia were so lazy and dispirited that not one had even raised its head as I passed let alone tried to chase me. They just lay in the dirt seemingly half dead, easy targets for the children with their rocks and kicks. They did come awake at night and run in packs, but during the day dogs were the least of my worries.

Tags: bike, Debre Markos, Entoto Hills, Ethiopia Bike Trip