Abyssinian Beauties

TW – 5 Oct 2008
Earlier that Sunday, Hassen had heard of a tribal beauty contest to be held that afternoon in Konso. We laughed and joked about such a treat. We had both been on the road for too long. Originally he heard it would be at one. We returned from the tribal village after two. A group of men, women, and elders in traditional costumes attracted a crowd near the cultural center. Many children had gathered in festive excitement. Before long, the hillside was covered with local people. It was apparent this remote region had few gala events. By four o’clock, a handful of security people were driving the children to the perimeter of the property around the cultural center. A van arrived with the ten young beauties. The day before Hassen had told me that to get a wife, it was necessary to give cows to her family. The contestants passed in front of us, and I pointed to one and said, “Eight cows?” then explained the ten-point rating of women. We joked about purchasing ten cows for negotiating later. The afternoon rolled into the evening. We received second-row seats and courteous nods from all involved. A professional film crew set up for the production with floodlights and cameras cluttering the view of the stage. Preparations and seating continued as the people and floodlights sent the 75-degree temp to 100 degrees, and body odors rose. My patience was tested, but my tolerance level had been given allowance over the broad travel experience I set for myself. It was after eight before the Deejay cranked up the volume, and the bash began. Too many speeches tested my resolve before the beauties took to the stage. Each contestant represented a dominant tribe in the region. Each girl had stage-time with costume and dance from her group. Our agony was over when the third lady appeared in a very revealing huntress costume. “Ten cows!” I shouted. We waited for the costuming of the final girl, nodded to our host, and slipped away into the dark. I was concerned for the 90 km ride back to Arba Minch, but most cattle had returned home from the fields.

South of Addis Ababa

RTW – 3-5 Oct 2008
Back at the Ghion Hotel where they said to let the hot water run a long time to get warm. After ten minutes, it seemed colder but took a heart-stopping sailors bath. Then while brushing my teeth, the water warmed. Soon it was hot, and I took a real shower. Later I learned that the water came from a hot spring some distance from the hotel. I must have been the only early riser to get it flowing.
Hassen arrived in a beautiful Toyota Land Cruiser, and we headed south. The roads were charming for the first 320 kilometers to Sodo, but the next 120 km to Arba Minch was not so smooth. The scenery was magnanimous, a further extension of the Rift Valley that runs from Djibouti to Mozambique. It was Saturday, market day. Our roadway was an eye-catching hazard, filled with goats, cattle, plus donkeys and people loaded with goods traveling to critical towns along the way. I took the opportunity to stop at a farmer tilling his field with a team of oxen, some colorful homes, women washing clothes at the river, and a small market area.
I think of the settlements along the road as frontier towns. Like when I traveled rural Brazil thirty years ago. Isolated farmers found their way to town for necessities. Truckers stopped for repairs, getting lunch, or just taking a break. Many young men seeking different work from the farm life they wanted to leave behind. A small merchant class developed as most were just passing by.
Our little oasis at Arba Minch was Paradise Lodge, a new / still under construction lodge with safari-style bandas. The private quarters simulated local huts with grass roofs but a well-done sleeping room and bath. Most lodgers were from tour groups of two, as a young couple on an adventure, to twenty, a caravan of elder Europeans. Facilities in this area were limited, so there was a convergence of 4WD tour vehicles at such unique places. It was near dark; my banda was some distance from the restaurant, so I carefully noted my path; lest lighting would not be available later. Thunder and lightning started, and rain approached as I entered the restaurant. As Hassen and I started our dinner of fried fish, a local family and group of friends celebrating graduation were driven from the patio as the rain picked up. Now the place was alive. Soon the windy rain began to breach the venting of the grass roof, and a mist settled over us all. A few tables got more than there share of water, but everyone laughed at the situation.
We set out for Konso some 90 km south. The road had about four bridges and some eight areas where bridges once were. Our Toyota was challenged to descend and traverse the mostly dry river beds. During the rainy season, it is more hazardous. Hassen is looking forward to getting a new 4WD with an air cleaner intake for the engine that extends to the top of the windshield -- ahh, now that could get exciting. To travel beyond Konso, such a rig is most important. Besides, you need to carry your own gasoline, tents, and food. In Konso, we needed to get a tribal guide to visit the native villages. With a little effort, a young man named Chooch was selected. For lunch, there was but one choice, an open compound in the center of town. I had been told to eat only cooked beef. The gristly stuff came in a lighted charcoal pot sizzling in grease. The soft grey dough, injera is like cutlery for consumption. I opted to dip each mouthful in the red hot chili pepper sauce, thinking the hot stuff might kill a few germs. Chooch ate raw beef – it came in chunks with a large knife to carve each portion.
As for how safe that would be -- you get a sense of their hygiene by the body odor and limited exposure to soap and water. Sanitation? I have learned to adapt to toilet conditions by going a full day without and using only those in my hotel room. At my grins and raised eyebrow of the food before us, Hassen said we had been slated to spend the night here, nodding towards a row of doors next to the cooking area. After my desire for a warm shower in Addis, he decided it best to drive back to the Paradise Lodge – I reached over and shook his hand in thanks. Outside the dining compound, the three of us enjoyed a cup of coffee inside a local hut. While a lady at the doorway roasted beans over a charcoal fire, the lady inside fixed the brew. Eight or so gents were chewing on spinach/mint leaves that I thought were part of the coffee ritual. An odd, unfamiliar aroma filled the confines of the hut. I was offered a bunch – Hassen nodded approval with a grin. ‘When in Rome – never touch the stuff.’ He went onto explain some locals can pass the whole day munching on the drug. “Drug?” Contrary to my naiveté – by then, my munch turned bitter – he said, “It works soon.” I had no more and sipped my coffee.
The Konso tribal village was near vacant. It was Sunday, and the people had trekked to church. In these primitive conditions, you would expect more pagan beliefs, but Christianity is widespread. The chief greeted us and told of his role and heritage. He had pictures of his father and grandfather in their mummified form. After death, they are retained for nine years, nine months, and nine days before burial. He said as chief his wife was chosen by relatives – I quipped, “You mean all nine of them.” He grinned and explained his duty was to produce an heir and lead his people. He lived separately from his only wife. The grass-roofed mud huts were amazingly sound with a life of sixty or more years. Raw forms of selected timber were used for arches, fencing, and structural members.

Dirty Little Fokker

RTW – 3 Oct 2008
Our Fokker 50 to Addis landed an hour late. As before, the cleanliness was poor, especially apparent in the stained and spent pillows. With all on board, the cabin door was still open; they revved the left engine to a high ear-shattering speed while the right engine twirled a couple times just outside my window. After twenty minutes, they rolled out a rusty gangplank to the right engine. A young fellow in airline garb climbed up and opened the engine housing. A half a dozen assorted men stood back watching. The ‘mechanic’ was armed with a screwdriver and an old pair of pliers. During his twenty minutes fussing inside the hatch, the onlookers cajoled and smiled, leaving me to wonder the value of his effort. The operation was over, but I was concerned about the prognosis. None-the-less we were off to Gondar at what seemed to be a lower altitude, and they never turned off the fasten seatbelt sign. On the ground, I thought of getting off with those scheduled but held tight, and more souls came aboard. They went through more engine revving, then shut it down and said we would have to wait two hours for a new plane from Addis. Whew, the masses and I were pleased. In the terminal (I should use that word), I was sipping a local beer, and they called us to board the plane after twenty minutes – yeah, the same little Fokker. I was last to come aboard. Well, maybe some good spirit from those ancient churches will sustain our plane. We had one more stop in Bahar, where a nurse from New Jersey sat next to me. She had been working in AIDS clinics all over Ethiopia for the last five years. We held a good conversation to keep my mind off the right engine.

In the Horn of Africa

RTW – 2-3 Oct 2008
Ethiopian Airlines out of Nairobi was a precursor for bad accommodations ahead of me. Arrival in Addis Ababa was late; a Galaxy tour guy picked me up and drove me to the Ghion Hotel. He would be back at 5 AM to take me to the airport. This tourist hotel was dirty, the water was cold, and the room service did not keep their promise for an early breakfast.
The twin-engine Fokker 50 flight to Lalibela made two stops along the way, and my confidence dwindled with each lousy landing. Flying in, the high terrain was quite rugged with very fertile green plateaus. A guide and driver awaited me for an enriching fifteen-kilometer drive to Lalibela. Subsistence farming yielded plenty. Mules and an occasional ox made up for the lack of mechanized farm implements. This area had no electricity ten years ago. I had read there were no banks or petrol stations, but I did see a bank. The Roha Hotel showed three stars, but when I asked about hot water – two hours in the morning and three in the evening. After I settled in, everything started looking better.
The eleven rock-hewn churches about the town were started in the twelfth century. As you look about, there is a feeling that little has changed. The more I observed, the people seem to have the same religious devotion it took to carve this volcanic rock. I have long been inspired to see the results of faith in art and architecture. This area displays the utmost of such creations. The Great Pyramids of Egypt put things in perspective, but this place was presumably done by religious followers of King Lalibela, not slaves as in Egypt. You can feel it with each priest reading scriptures and the homage of pilgrims seeking their blessing. A holiday for St. George the Dragon Slayer was on my second day. The area of the churches was filled with white-cloaked pilgrims. It was a special day for them. Rather than be an imposing tourist, I stood aside and listened to the chants and prayers.

Masai Mara

RTW – 30 Sep – 1 Oct 2008

An early morning start with a seasoned driver and well-worn Toyota Safari Van, we were soon crossing the Rift Valley towards Masai Mara National Reserve. At this point, the bad roads got worse. Before for long, I left the pot-hole avoidance to the driver and watched for an occasion zebra. The edges of the twenty-year-old asphalt had eroded away to a dangerous single lane road for two way traffic. It was safer when the blacktop was gone, where washboards became moguls. Stomach crunches with each contusion.
Isaac had been driving this route for twenty years. He had to know the limitations of the van’s suspension in combination with the road to get maximum speed. I had some concern over breaking down the fluid membrane that keeps the brain suspended in the skull. Two hundred and fifty kilometers one way in four hours was quite a feat. Isaac said it was seven hours before they fixed the road. There was some new construction going on. Of which, twenty kilometers was completed in pieces. About fifty kilometers under construction was an ever-changing hazard.
Upon our arrival at the park, we went to a remote lodge for the overnight stay and found my reservation to be bumped. I was so ready to rinse off the dirt and allow the vibrations to stop. Isaac was able to get through to another place, and off we went. I endured ten more miles of bad roads pouting all the way. We finally got to Sarovo Masai Game Lodge at noon. I quit moping when I realized what a first-class place it was. For sure, Lucy will be sulking at this upgrade as the site was near full, and I got a Club Tent. Branson, the founder of Virgin Airlines, had stayed there amidst a promotion bit for British tourists. Sir Richard also sponsored the construction of Masai school rooms as a likely extension of his ego, but that’s okay.
After a good meal and shower, at three, Isaac and I were off for a game drive. Most other trips were starting at four, and we could avoid the crowds. Several years ago, I was at Ruaha in Tanzania, where you were restricted to the main road, and the game was always at a distance. Here driving across the savanna was better than most of the streets. Isaac was good at getting into the midst of the game. While stopped within six feet of a pride of lions, he said, smiling, “You want a good picture?” Then proceed to put the van in the center of a group of seven. Later near a herd of elephants, he smiled and repeated himself. Even he knew better than to drive in their midst but tantalized the old bull into a couple threatening stances.
The drivers chatted amongst themselves by old radios to alert one another to the presents of the game. Others would often stop alongside and chatter Swahili. Isaac seems to be a senior member in good standing with a respectable following. Most other lorries were filled with four to twelve people. There was one huge bus that may have held thirty European tourists but very little esteem. We stopped next to another lone rider like me. He appeared to be on his last hurrah. Most likely over eighty with very limited mobility and thick glasses, he probably waited a little too long to experience this dream.
Back at the lodge, there was a splendid buffet then a Cat Stevens style singer in the lounge. Sleep came early.
We were off at sunrise for another game drive, exciting but much the same. I asked to concentrate on some big birds. There were storks, plenty of vultures, and a remarkable secretary bird. We returned to the lodge for a quick breakfast then headed for Nairobi where our planned exit was closed due to yesterday’s rain. The alternate route was arduous but by then it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

To fulfill the deal we stopped at a Masai village where the chief’s son took me through after greasing his palm. The village had 20 families, 160 people, 250 cows, and as many goats. It was authentic and all that but after putting the ‘bum’s rush’ on me for more donations I felt the need to get on with my journey.

Jambo Nairobi

RTW – 28-29 Sep 2008
Entering Africa generates a sensation difficult to explain. The continent and its people have suffered extortion, exploitation, and violence forever. Upon arrival, you are stepping into an open wound. You can get beyond that rather quickly in seeing the struggle of so many people having so very little. Most everyone has to walk where ever they want to go and carry whatever they need to take. On the drive into town, all you see are people going somewhere and doing something. These people may live in poverty, but most strive to get beyond their place. There is no welfare here to cripple spirits. It is not to say there are haves and have-nots or predator and prey. Africans know well the role of lion and wildebeest, but that is not humanity. Let’s just call it survival of the fittest to get beyond this thought.
Kenya was of lesser significance than my other stops along the way. I had three days but only booked an overnight stay at the Nairobi Hilton to get a footing, find a driver, and venture into Masai country. It was late Sunday afternoon in the center of Nairobi, where I could see safari offices near the hotel. Seeking a driver, the gal at the reception desk had a recommendation on a crumbled business card for Big Safari Tours. She called; I expressed my wishes, and they said to meet Lucy in the lobby tomorrow at nine. With that in place, I had a Tusker beer at their Jockey Pub and promptly dissolved in my room to rest my well-traveled body.
Early awake, body clock beyond repair, I did some Googling to get an idea about pricing for Masai Mara National Park. I found Lucy in the lobby. Big Safari was ready to get me there tomorrow with a private guide and van. We had to do some haggling over prices, but I did not want to spend a day trying to get something else. We walked to her office to swipe my Visa card, and I found them not to be so ‘Big’ after all. Hey, maybe they will try harder.
Another Lucy was calling, the X million-year-old skeleton found by the Leakeys. The Nairobi National Museum was a tribute to Richard Leakey, a short taxi ride away. The Humanoid Skull Room was the hall of fame for such Homo habilis findings. My taxi driver had wanted to wait, but I said I would be there all day. When I emerged after an hour and a half, he was waiting. The Karen Blixen House, as in Out of Africa, was a bit farther out of town than I thought. Her story and seeing the setting was worth the drive.

Road from Shanghai

RTW – 25-27 Sep 2008
Once on the job site, it was apparent the customer had no concern for my lost day, and they wanted me for the agreed two days. Expecting no less, the night before, I had emailed the details of my agenda to Jason, the young fellow assigned as my host. Here I am again, like a baby dependent on others to do for me. My day in Guangzhou would have to be scrubbed, and Jason spent much of our first day in the background talking with the airline to change my flight. He was coming up with options that would work for him – flying To Shen Zhen and take a train to Hong Kong – get the bus from Guangzhou to Hong Kong. Their local transportation is without English subtitles, and most service people are willing but not educated enough in English to get me through. Alas, Jason came through with the right plane connection and was able to do so without any additional charges. An excellent level of comfort settles in when things keep working.
My work was mostly completed by the morning of the second day. The customer gave me my leave with the right timing. Jason devoted to my cause, went to the airport with me, came inside, and saw to the success of his ticketing effort.
I was now in store for a gruesome chain of airports Shanghai – Guangzhou – Hong Kong – Bangkok – Dubai – Nairobi. Emirates is like airlines were before cost-cutting, and ‘equal opportunity’ came into play. Their HR people are very discriminating to put together obliging, disciplined, courteous, ever-smiling, and most beautiful ladies in flight. The fine cuisine was served with stainless utensils. Our 777 with full Boeing options was impeccably clean. The Emirates image crashed when we arrived in Dubai at 4:30 AM. The huge transit area was overflowing with thousands of people awaiting connections. Management was either in cahoots with the duty-free shops or severely inept. My six-hour layover left me in the same situation as the masses.