Back on the road, I could not believe how green everything was. Sometimes it was difficult to see the thatched huts among the banana trees and long grass. I could not understand why a country with such fertile soil was one of the poorest countries in the world. In fact, it was hard to comprehend that in a country that looked so bounteous more than a million people had died from starvation in 1984–1985.
The other thing that amazed me on the Moyale–Shashamane road was how popular table tennis was. As we passed through villages I spotted many young stars playing the game. I read, later, that since 2000 the French, in particular, have been supporting the development of the game in Ethiopia by providing equipment, and that Ethiopia came second in the African Table Tennis Championships in 2004.
It took us 11 hours to reach the sprawling town of Shashamane, which looked like one big junction and nothing more. Roads from the south, north, east, west, and southeast all connected there. I booked into a lodge right next to the bus station and was pleasantly surprised to find that a young Somalian guy who had been with me on the Nairobi–Moyale as well as the Moyale–Shashamane bus had also booked into the same lodge. He was in Ethiopia to apply for a UK visa, he told me in halting English.
‘My friend, it is much easier to get the UK visa in Ethiopia than in any other African country within the region,’ he assured me. He also boasted to me how his ‘friend’ had let him through the Ethiopian border without the proper documents. He was convinced that I was either selling something illegal or had travelled all this way to see my wife/girlfriend in Addis Ababa. He could not believe that someone would travel from Cape Town all the way here just for the fun of it.
‘Really that would be very stupid,’ he concluded. After my most recent experiences I wasn’t sure that he didn’t have a point.
Since there was no in-house restaurant in the lodge, I again went to bed without eating. That meant I had not eaten for more than two days. I wasn’t feeling particularly cheerful. I am sure there were other types of food to be found in Shashamane besides injera, but I didn’t want to walk in the streets after dark on my own (two people on the bus had warned me against wandering around in the town after sunset) and the Somalian traveller had expressed no desire to go and eat somewhere else. As in Moyale, my room at the lodge was very basic: an old bed and nothing else. The showers, which were located outside at the back, were far worse. One look at the filth and grubbiness on the walls and the floor and I was convinced that I would get some kind of infection if I dared to use them. Hungry and unwashed, I went to bed.
Although I had been told that there was a large Rastafarian commune about two kilometres from the centre of town, in the direction of Addis Ababa, I did not see a single Rastafarian during the hours I spent in Shashamane. In 1963, Haile Selassie donated 500 hectares of land to a group of West Indians, mainly Jamaicans, who wanted to come back and settle in Africa. The Rastas have lived there ever since, spreading their religion of love, peace and smoking of the ganja pipe.
Early the next morning I left Shashamane, on the final leg of the journey to Addis Ababa. As in Mbeya, Tanzania, a loud call from the mosque ensured that I did not oversleep. It was still dark when my Somalian friend and I flagged down a minibus on the main road running through Shashamane. It so happened that the minibus was on its way to Addis, as the locals call their capital city.
Without further ado, still on an empty stomach, I embarked on the 250-kilometre journey in a 25-seater, with Amharic music blasting from a powerful sound system. I couldn’t help but remember that I had wanted to drive to Durban airport in a similar fashion the day I left. Of course I did not at the time know Amharic music, which sounded quite a bit like the Indian music on Radio Lotus. Not at all like Toto and Salif Keita.
There were mainly men on board the bus. My seat was in the back on the right-hand side; the Somali sat next to me. It was really taking time for me to get used to the Ethiopian style of driving on the right; it felt wrong and outright dangerous.
Soon we entered the Great Rift Valley, which starts somewhere south of Shashamane, a lush greenness surrounding us. Between Shashamane and Mojo, where we would exit the Rift Valley again, there are no fewer than five large lakes. The first that we encountered was Lake Langano, the rising sun reflecting off its sparkling surface. It gave me that it’s-a-brand-new-day feeling. For the first time on the trip, I felt that Cairo was attainable.
That view of utter peace so early in the morning, with no signs of human activity, gave me hope. In no time I was truly glad that I had embarked on the journey. It’s amazing how emotionally unstable you become on this kind of trip. Just the previous day I was seriously considering throwing in the towel and here I was, only one day later, convinced that I was going to make it to Cairo. It helped, too, that we were not stopped at any of the three roadblocks on the way because, I guess, we were in a small local minibus. Buses had to go through the same rigorous procedure every time.
Within three hours of leaving Shashamane we were in Addis. It was still early in the morning and people were going to work in their thousands.
Addis looked totally different from every other city I had visited. Sky-scrapers and shacks, goats and donkeys, beggars and well-dressed people, filthy-rich and poverty-stricken, all shared the same space. There was no city centre to talk of. I am reluctant even to call Addis a city – it is more like the world’s largest village. It was in this village, back in May 1963, that the Organisation of African Unity (read ‘African Dictators Club’) was formed.
When the minibus dropped us off in one of the busiest streets in Addis, I quickly realised that my Somalian companion did not know where he was going. ‘You know, my friend,’ he said in a very soft voice, ‘we must hang out together and support each other here in Addis.’ He also mumbled something about running out of cash and that he wanted me to loan him some money.
At that moment I knew that I was not going to ‘adopt’ a twentysomething-year-old son. I flagged down a cab and took off for the budget hotel I had picked from my guidebook, which by then had more or less become my Bible/Koran, leaving my travelling companion standing there on the street. With so many people in Addis, I could no longer see him when I turned around. Within a second or two he had been swallowed by the crowds. Although I pretended it was fine, deep down I felt genuinely sorry for him.
It did not take me long after checking into my hotel to realise that I was coming down with flu. I was sure it was related to stress and to not having eaten for more than two days. Although it was morning and an ideal time to go sightseeing, I decided to take it easy. I took some flu tablets that I had been carrying with me all the way from Durban and went to bed.
In the afternoon, instead of continuing with the medication, I decided to have three double, locally-stoked brandies. The barman promised that I would awake the next morning feeling like a new man.
I had a good night’s sleep, but I woke up the following day feeling much sicker, and with a pounding headache. I considered sleeping the whole day but opted in the end to go and apply for a Sudanese visa instead, before returning to bed. I was worried about the visa. After all, I had read a lot of negative stories about how difficult it was to obtain one. I decided that, rather than use the letter of introduction from Nairobi, it would be wise to get a letter from the South African embassy in Addis. I was willing to try anything just to get a, reportedly highly elusive, Sudanese visa.
When I arrived at the embassy I was astounded by the number of Ethiopians applying for a visa to enter South Africa. I seemed to be the only non-Ethiopian there. I told the lady at the counter that I was a South African passport-holder who needed a letter of introduction. ‘Why?’ was her immediate response.
I did not expect that question, especially from a South African working there. I was dumbstruck. While I was still trying to explain the reason, she started paging through my passport and told me that I would not have a problem obtaining a Sudanese visa and shoved my passport back at me. She really had an att
itude problem. Judging from appearances, she must have been feeling menopausal.
I left the South African embassy disappointed and discouraged and went to the Sudanese embassy, already in a dejected state. The sign at the gate stated that they dealt with visa applications only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Since it was a Tuesday, I had no choice but to return the following day. I regretted that I had wasted so much time by going to both the South African and Sudanese embassies instead of sleeping. It was still mid-morning and time, I decided, to go back to bed and take some proper medication.
In the afternoon, when I told the waiter that I had travelled from Cape Town to Addis by public transport, he exclaimed loudly, ‘That is fuckin’ beautiful!’ I did not know that Ethiopians used the f-word so freely.
Abstaining from alcohol really worked. I woke up the following morning feeling refreshed, energetic and ready to face the Sudanese embassy. When I got there I could not believe my eyes: about 70 people were already in the queue. I showed my passport to the security guard and he ushered me to the front of the line amid filthy looks from some of the people queuing. I glimpsed men who were obviously businesspeople and young people who could have been students; the rest appeared to be just ordinary folk. My spirits lifted even more at the prospect that, having been shown such privilege, I might walk out with a visa in an hour, as had happened at the Ethiopian embassy in Nairobi.
An officer in the open-plan embassy office gave me an application form to complete. The form, I reckon, had to be filled in from right to left because, when entering information, I wrote, as usual, in the empty block to the right of the question, which left a row of empty boxes on the left and a row of unanswered questions on the right.
When I handed back the form the officer asked, ‘Do you know anyone in Sudan?’
‘No,’ I replied. Mindful of what I was told at the South African embassy earlier, I did not bother mentioning my letter of introduction from Nairobi.
With my application form in his hand, the officer asked me the same question again. I again said no. He asked me the same question for the third time. By then I felt like changing my answer because I could see that he was not impressed by the fact that I didn’t know anybody in Sudan. But I stuck to my original reply.
Looking straight at me for the first time, he handed me a piece of paper and said, ‘All visa applications are processed in Khartoum. Sami is my name and this is my number. Phone me on Monday afternoon.’
‘But today is Wednesday?’ I said, somewhat puzzled.
Sounding irritated, he replied, ‘I know. Phone me on Monday,’ and turned around to help the mostly Ethiopian applicants in the queue, which by then seemed to have reached a total of a 100 or more persons.
I walked out of that office very disappointed and confused. The more I thought about it, the more complex the whole thing seemed. If I had to phone on Monday afternoon and they dealt with visa applications only on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, then even if my visa was approved I would, at the earliest, get it only on the following Wednesday. That meant I could not leave Addis before the following Thursday. And, I asked myself, what if they turn down my application after I’ve waited for more than a week? Another puzzling thing was that Sami took only my application form and not my passport.
Addis seemed interesting, but I did not want to spend so much time in one place, and the places I wanted to visit in Ethiopia – Bahir Dar and Gondar – were both in the northern part of the country through which I would travel on my way to Sudan. Visiting these two towns for a couple of days and then coming back to Addis was totally out of the question.
Maybe I should use the time to apply for an Egyptian visa, I thought, so that I would not have to do so in Khartoum. But what if the Egyptian embassy gave me a 30-day visa, with effect from the issue date? It would mean rushing through northern Ethiopia, Sudan and Egypt in order to ensure that the visa did not expire before I was ready to leave Egypt.
One option was to give a far-into-the-future date as my date of entry when applying for the Egyptian visa. The problem with that possibility was that my application for a Sudanese visa might be turned down and my Ethiopian visa might expire before my Egyptian visa was valid. And if I synchronised my Ethiopian expiry date with my Egyptian entry date and was turned down by the Sudanese embassy, I would be stuck in Ethiopia waiting for that far-into-the-future date to arrive!
My good mood had evaporated. Once again, I was finding that being obsessed with how things would, or could, work out in practice made it very difficult for me just to enjoy life and take things as they come.
With all these confusing thoughts buzzing in my mind, I decided to go, as my guidebook suggested, to the newly refurbished Ethnological Museum.
I asked a taxi driver to take me there and the man dropped me off right outside the entrance. After paying the entrance fee, I was joined by a free guide who, in relatively good English, started going on and on about vertebrate and invertebrate animals. He also talked about Ethiopia’s fauna and flora. Something was wrong somewhere. Only then did I see a big sign: Zoology Section.
I went out even more stressed than when I entered.
As I walked down the street my attention was caught by a very large modern building that, to judge by the architecture, could only be a place of worship. On closer inspection it turned out to be the Holy Trinity Cathedral. I felt in need of some solace and gladly paid the small entrance fee required of tourists, which included the services of a guide.
According to my guide, the cornerstone of the cathedral – its proper name is Kiddist Selassie Cathedral – was laid by Emperor Haile Selassie in 1933. The cathedral was inaugurated by him in 1942, as part of the celebrations following the defeat of the Italians, who had occupied Ethiopia for the preceding five years. It took me two hours to go through and around the cathedral. It was evident that no effort was spared in the creation of that great piece of architecture, in the construction of which the best Ethiopian architects, sculptors, artists and painters were used. The interior is a showcase of religious paintings in both the modern and medieval Ethiopian style.
The Emperor, his wife and five of their six children are all buried in Kiddist Selassie Cathedral, and the locals come in continuously to pray either in the courtyard or the main body of the church. I discovered later that Haile Selassie was, originally, buried next to a toilet and was reburied here only in November 2000 at a ceremony that was attended by, among others, Bob Marley’s wife, Rita, and a large group of Rastafarians from all over the globe. I had to have a photo taken of myself next to the late Emperor’s huge granite tomb, which is housed next to an identical tomb holding his wife’s remains, in a chamber at the front of the cathedral.
Ethiopians, it struck me, are deeply religious. When we entered the cathedral, my guide, like everyone else, made the sign of the cross in the manner of Catholics. I followed his lead, smiling nervously, because it was the first time ever that I crossed myself.
I learned quite a few things during that tour, among others that the seats used by the Emperor and his wife have not been occupied since Haile Selassie was smothered to death in 1974. My guide, a junior pastor in the church, told me that between Haile Selassie and his ancestor Menelik I, the son of the Queen of Sheba and Solomon, King of Judea, 254 kings of the same bloodline had ruled Ethiopia. Menelik had been allowed to visit his father, Solomon, in Jerusalem, where he was showered with gifts, including the Ark of the Covenant, which is now kept in one of the Orthodox churches in Axum, in northeastern Ethiopia. The general public is not allowed to see the Ark, he said. In fact, only one holy priest is allowed to enter the chamber where the Ark is stored. On his death, the duty passes on to another priest.
I understood, after talking to the junior pastor, why there is a lion, the symbol of the King of Judea, on the Ethiopian flag. I decided that when I returned to South Africa, I would study the Bible and other books in detail to check on the claim that King Solomon and Haile Selassie were distantly related an
d that the Ark of the Covenant had ended up in Ethiopia. That was my Resolution No. 8 and the only one I have thus far executed. When I got back to Durban I did read the Bible carefully – you can do so, too: 2 Chronicles chapter 9, verses 1–12, and 1 Kings chapter 10, verses 1–13.
When I emerged from the cathedral, still trying to come up with the best solution to my visa problems, I decided to do some window shopping in Piazza, where a number of shops are found in a relatively small area in downtown Addis Ababa. While looking around, I noticed that some of the women in Addis displayed a distinctly African bum. I had grown up with images of malnourished Ethiopians with kwashiorkor. What I saw in Addis was, by and large, a thin but very healthy population.
I had to concede, again, that I had made a very big mistake. After I had a good look around Nairobi, I had to revise my opinion that the women of Dar es Salaam were the most beautiful on the continent. Now I had to admit that I was wrong to think that Nairobi’s women were the most beautiful. Ethiopian women were far more striking than their Kenyan sisters. I guess it is their cosmopolitan look – a mixture of African and Indian, spiced with Italian blood – that makes them so stunning.
Lying in bed that night, I kept asking myself why the Sudanese official Sami had asked me three times if I knew anyone in Sudan. I decided that if I didn’t get a Sudanese visa I would simply fly from Addis to Cairo. As I dozed off, I thought of another alternative: fly to Cairo, apply for a Sudanese visa in Cairo and then do Cairo to Khartoum. The following day would make it exactly 40 days since I left Cape Town. I was happy with my progress. At the same time I felt that I had rushed the trip and maybe a few days in Addis would not be so bad after all.
The next day I decided I might as well check out Merkato – Africa’s largest open-air market. Upon entering this vast area of roads, lined with small shops of every description, I was approached by several young boys intent on taking me to the ‘cheapest’ stalls. By now, however, I had mastered the art of ignoring hustlers. I hadn’t gone there to buy in any case, only to pass the time. There was plenty to look at: curios, cassettes with local music, crosses, traditional clothes and hand-woven cloth, silver and gold jewellery, spices, fresh vegetables, dried beans and pulses.
Dark Continent my Black Arse Page 15