(CONTINUATION)

His welcome is warm and genuine and over dinner we caught up on all his news and learn that he is to receive a visit in the morning in the form of some Vatican priests. They wish to look over his stewardship of Vatican Aid package.   Their pending visit has him in a state of high stress. “How can you explain to these Druids the problems I have here? “ Take for instance the other week I attempted to introduce three tribal chief to the joys of eating shell-fish” “ You would not believe the reactions when I put a lobster on the table” > Two of them jumped out the window while the other unsheathed his knife and attacked the lobster as if it was a monster.

While Paulo rolls his fifth joint a change of bedding is secured and the girls retire for the night.

We are late rising. Paulo Papal visitors are getting an ear full as we slip out on foot to give Dirae Dawa the once over.

Established in 1902 to service the rail link from Djibouti to Addis Ababa it was once the second largest populated town of Ethiopia. If you take its name phonically we did not have to explore for long to confirm that Dirae Dawa is indeed a Dour Dump.

Apart from the old part of town with its market it is void of any charm. It’s no wonder Paulo smokes to escape its hot sticky dust-rasping climate and the sense of desolation it etches into everyday living > A godforsaken corner of Ethiopia.

We take a horse-drawn taxi called a Gari back to the shade of Paulo small garden. We find him in good form. Overall the Papal envoy was pleased with his work even if they are completely baffled when it came to understanding the cultures he was dealing with. “Take the Afar people of the Danokil desert which you are going to cross in the next few days. “ They like lopping of the testicles of intruders they don’t like.” Say Paul.

We arrive at a government-run Hotel. Paulo’s man turns up looking rather sheepish. I don’t understand a words but it is more than obvious that the Vatican visit is being discussed and that the cover up operation is being put into action. I am commandeered to drive in the morning to a village named Arabi thirty-five kilometres from the Somalia border. That settled I spend the next hour talking about my coming crossing of the

Apart from getting my goolies cut off by one of the fiercest people in the world. The good news or as the Afar call it the Dagu is that I won’t have to worry about the bureaucracy of getting out of Ethiopia.   Paulo as usual is full of information such as don’t tangle with the Ugugumo   > whoever they are. Never mind the dry sand, dry gravel beds, rocky lava flows, burning salt flats, and temperatures of up to 120º F – along with the odd carcase of camels tanks or goat.

I get him to marks out the route on my map. Follow the railway line to Āysha, and on to Ali SabiŽ, from there you cut inland to Wê’a, and then you are home and dry all the way to Djibouti. A mere three hundred and sixty kilometres without any hitches you should drive it in a day. Returning to his house I can’t help but think of the hitches > Punctures, overheating, fuel, water, not to mention Murphy’s law.

While the girls rest I take a run downtown with Paulo to search out one of his helpers. The short car ride after the Papal visit with Paulo is a running commentary a crash course in Ethiopian problems. “You know that when an Ethiopian say’s he would like to play with you he does not mean he or she want to have sex with you.” All they want is to talk.” “ The problem is that when it comes to aid the Ethiopians are staggering between a good for nothing Western present and a collapsing African past.” “ It’s all to do with the unbridgeable traditions of other cultures.”

Next morning with the wind packing enough sand to scour windshields we set off for Arabi.   In the first few kilometres all signs of human habitation are left behind. Fanny observing that any cultures that had camped out here, had long disappeared. It soon became self-evident why Paulo had invited us. There was no way his clapped out car could have handled the territorial punishment being handed out.

We bump along with him rattling on about the IMF, the World Bank, and Anthropologists. “You know that almost every project that the World Bank is involved in here 24% of them are failures.” “Why you might ask because they know nothing about the weather and how it affects the bonds of friendship.”

“ The only Aid schemes that work are those run by the people themselves.”

“To be successful you must by-pass the local politicians, the government, tribalism you have to knit into how the people tick otherwise they have no interest in making the Aid sustainable.” “Small is beautiful and young a blessing as they are not yet tarnished by corruption or dim-witted by chat.”

We arrive midday into what I can only describe from a distance as a version of an Ethiopian or Somalia Eskimo village. The obvious difference being that this one is set in searing heat without a hint of white or for that matter any colour other than burnt brown. The igloos are built from cooking oil cans. Like giant CD they glisten in the sun with such intensity that I am sure one could see them from space. As to what Paulo is doing or wants here is anyone’s guess and we are made none the wiser as he disappears with a few shady looking characters.

Williwaw as usual is attracting in no time some considerable attention.   What is quite apparent is that this place has a poisonous sense. Once a refugee camp it is now a Timbuktu on the Somalia border. Small arms carried by glazed eye men too dark to be Ethiopians are everywhere. The place imparted a sense smouldering danger.

With an ill of ease nagging feeling of being watched for an opportunity rather than out of curiosity we are left to our own devices. Keeping Williwaw in sight we take a wander over to a few women selling chat. They are less than welcoming. We are not of the tribe, the clan, the extended family, or a Fat cat buying Chat for his loyal subjects.

We are relieved when we eventually depart with a silent Paulo. No matter how I pressed him on the return journey as to what exactly he was doing he gave no definite answer just a load of dribble about how he needed to use his contacts.

Next morning we return to Addis after a long arduous day of motoring.

With a fitful night of sleep under our belts I am waving Adios to the girls and heading downtown to make my own arrangements. Their journey has come to an end as the vapour trail disintegrates in the blue sky on another day.

I am expecting a long day of regulations which no one knows and which are made up on the spot. The shipping of Williwaw from Djibouti to the UK, my flights back to Addis from Djibouti and onwards home to the UK.

After all I have heard and read about the difficulties of exiting Ethiopian to my surprise I have Williwaw booked on ship, my return flight to Addis and departure flight to England all done and dusted before lunch.

I have allowed myself a day’s drive back to Dira Dawa – forty eight hours to cross what is written by the National geographic as ‘hard to imagine a more brutal landscape than Africa’s Danakil Desert’ > A day to see Williwaw off return flight to Addis a day’s rest in Paulo house before my departure from Africa in six days time.

I spend the rest of the day trading in Williwaw tyres for a new set of Perrellies and giving her a pre Desert check over > Oil Change, radiator, brake/clutch fluids, battery, fan belts, shock absorbers, wheel nuts, tyre, pressure, exhaust, in other words – the works.

At the crack of dawn I set off knowing the road the long drive back to Dira Dawa.   Wonderful until I reach the Arba Gugu foothills when the sky’s once again open making a mockery of my preparations for a crossing of a desert with an average 47ºC.   Now there is a high likelihood by the time I arrive the Danakil will have returned to the red sea where it came from 10,000 years ago.

For the next few hours I slip-slide my way along a very muddy road, avoiding miserable looking goats, and the odd donkey mounted by an Ethiopian with white tunics glued to their backs.

It’s hard to imagine that this country suffers from rainfall failures that result in millions dying from famine.

On arrival there is no sign of Paulo.

Luckily in the morning it is back to blue skies. Full fuel tanks, sun, and a high sense of adventure I set out for Djibouti. The rough rocky strewn road out of Dira Dawa disappears before the last building is out of my wing mirrors. The ground still has some drying to do after yesterday’s rain.

Following the railway line the first obstacle is not what I expected to see > A river. Its sparkling brown muddy snaking waters give me an eerie feeling up my spine. There is no obvious crossing point and no signpost pointing up or down to a crossing. The only good thing is that it does not look too deep or wide.

To my right the railway crosses is on a high bank the water passing underneath through two large concrete pipes. I drive up river and on seeing tracks commit the deadly sin of not walking the crossing before driving in. I am no more than two-car length into the water when I take a nosedive up to the bonnet > Williwaw konks out to a resounding Fuck, Fuck, and Fuck.

Who is going to believe this?   We have driven across the Sahara, the Namib, up Skeleton Coast, over the Caprivi Strip, around the Kalahari and here I am stuck in water on the verge of the Danakil.   This is just too Irish to be true. Out I get up to my waist, wade ashore and sit on a rock.   One thing is for certain there will be no help arriving.   The last person I had passed was well over an hour ago.   Walk back to town, which would take most of the day, was also a non-runner. Considering my ETA in Djibouti if I was to make the ship, there was nothing for it but to haul her out > Easier said than done with the nearest excuse for a tree some distance from the bank.

My only option is to winch her out. The first problem is that my hijack is bolted to the front bumper that now happens to be submerged in brown water.

One hour later with much cursing and the odd ducking I have managed to undo it. Next problem is in securing a wincing point.   With no handy tree, and no rocks in a suitable pulling position to jam the high jack behind I have to hammer in my own purchase points for the jack.

Thank god for my rear split pin towing point and more importantly that my chain reached the shore. Click by click, meter by meter, moving and securing the jack for every meter I slowly haul her out. Four hours later the bonnet is open my shorts are dry and now all I need is for the engine to start. A spry of anti damp a turn of the ignition key, a cough or two and eureka the lion roars. For once I want to kiss her.

Repacked I head further up the river losing sight of it for a half a kilometre. I eventually arrive at what looks like from the tracks the main crossing place.

This time I wade in up to my waist and explore the footing. All seem well.   Reaching the opposite bank for a split moment I have my second Ethiopian Everest experience.   An adrenalin shot associated with conquering Everest.   Right in front of me is more water I am on a small Island or I am looking at another river. Cresting the bank I shit myself It turns out that the shock is more sever than the crossing. This water is shallow and its existence of the long strip of land can only be put down to yesterday’s rain that has taken a new split divide.

Midday > having spent most of the morning swimming I have not yet reached the outer parameters of the Danakil nor have I bumped into any Ugugumo so I still have my balls.

It’s now one thirty and I am back on track following the railway line.   The next landmark according to Paulo is an outcrop of rocks on a raised foothill that has a sign on it saying if you have a drop of water to spare pour it on the plant.   From here on it is down into the saltpan and then flat-out for Djibouti. To my surprise an outcrop appears and there is a sign appealing for a drop of h2o.

The view is stunning sweeping away as far as the eye can see, clothed in hues of silver mixed with shades of browns, reds and yellows a vast silent empty landscape dances in the heat.

Djibouti lies Lat 11º: 35´N. Long 43º: 08´E. It is at this point I leave the rail line and become a microdot follow my compass. With windows wide open I disappear into the vastness.

The going is a lot slower than I had expected as my morning dip has put me way behind schedule. Thirty odd kilometres it looks like I am not going to arrive in Djibouti before midnight.   Slowly the piste gets flatter and my speed picks up. With the driving requiring 100% concentration I am pretty exhausted and hungry but there is no time to stop.

With a deafening explosion two Mirage Fighters out of the setting sun pass overhead turning into a blip on a radar screen. I am no longer a microdot the prospects of a reception committee are now more than likely. My late arrival combined with the added likely hood of having to deal with unwanted braid make it touch and go that Williwaw will be on the ship for her departure in the morning.

With the ground turning to hard flat salt Williwaw afterburners are full on > An UFO being tracked by heat seeking missiles on collision with Djibouti. The last sixty kilometres penetrated by my spots lights go whizzing by I arriving miraculously undetected.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

Donation News: Hopefully by the time I arrive in Dijbouti some generous reader will have donated a few bob to the next trip.

Robert Dillon. Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2

Sorting Code 98-50-10.

(CONTINUATION)

We retire to the hotel for a long overdue beer with our heads swimming from images of church paintings, beatified saints, living grey bearded white turban druids either squatting or floating in and out of hidden cold chiselled cracks of light with small crosses, staff, muttering words from consecrated books. After dinner the girls call it a day I venturing out for an evening stroll take in the second half of a football match played on a rock hard pitch. I get invited to the local pub up in the village by Ato wearing green.

Yes you’re right: It turns out to be a stone roundhouse up a very stone steep pathway. Opening the door the stone floor is covered in a fine fresh scenting grass. There is no light and no sign of any other drinking regulars. My new-found friend Ato (Mr) Giday orders two specimen bottles of Tej (That’s the mead stuff made from honey) In his early forties he speaks faultless English. With a sweep of his hand he introduces me to a raised ledge where to my surprise are seated six or seven others. Introductions over a few ishee( Ok) later the unfathomable cultural divide is once again a barrier to any mean full communication. Mr Giday comes to my rescue.

The questions start flying. Where am I from? Ireland. Never heard of it. The grass is swept aside > A map. Ishee Ishee. What to I think of Ethiopia? Where have I been? What religion? Do I like the food?

They find it inconceivable that we have driven from South Africa. By specimen bottle two my round the conversation has turned to politics, the price of things in Addis, woman > Home from home. Bottle three Mr Giday promises to take us around the churches again in the morning. The toilet turns out to be Shita Biete and I am sailing three sheets to the wind.

An old codger is pocking me in the side with his walking stick. He seems to be offering his stick to me, but I am not sure. Five pucks later Mr Giday informs me that the stick is a present to whack the dogs on the way back to the hotel. I don’t quite remember leaving or where Mr Giday said his good nights but man was I thankful for the walking stick. In pitch dark I staggered back to the hotel creating enough noise to arouse very pair of four-legged ivories in hearing distance.

Surprisingly I awake relatively unscathed. Mr Giday is awaiting us in the dinning room. He breakfasts with us out lying the day ahead. Florence is not impressed with another round of the churches she being bribed with motherly know how.

A long day of detail explanations delivered with grace and genuine pleasure brings Lalibela into true perspective than any text could have done. Mr Giday back in the hotel refused to take any monitory payment for his services. However I insist that he should. He is setting up a private guide company to meet the demands of the expected tourists when the airport opens.

Before taking his leave he inform us that if we wish in the morning at 6am we could visit and witness a druid ceremony in Biete Golgolta an experience we should not miss.

We are all somewhat tired so the thought of getting up a 5.30am to see some whaling druids does not appeal to me. Fanny enthusiasms however surprise us so Mr Giday promises to collect her in the morning. The Hotel also has a group of Amhara woman performing a traditional dance, which according to Mr Giday we should not miss.

Later than Fanny would have liked we sit watching one of the most unusual dance form in Africa. A group of five women stand riveted to the floor with the stillness of startled deer’s.   With fixed smiles their shoulders start to shudder in imitation of some sort of exotic mating dance undertaking by our feather friends. Not another muscle moves other than their shoulders, their breasts and necks. The breasts quiver like set jelly while their necks and heads mimic the elastic of any old golf ball unravelling to the rhythm of a rather loud band.

The contrast from rock-hewn churches built by angels too an erotic totally strange dance form makes for an uneasy night sleep.

We awake to find Fanny in a spiritual trance. Her experience has crossed her into another world. The modern world has being left behind. She describes a sensation of being in seventh heaven > A pure and magical event that we lazy good for nothings had missed.   In the cold of the new day she had gone with Mr Giday and stood for an hour transfixed by large drums, tambourines, low chanting priests, frankincense, myrrh all swirling and rumbling around stone walls and pillars. She unlike us had lived the calling of Lalibela. Before leaving we visit the market where low and behold she spots Jesus himself sitting under a brolly.

Fanny still in a haze of beatification we slowly make our way out of Lalibela.

We see our welcoming beggar making his way down from his rocky house to the roads edge. He has heard the noise of Williwaw and knows with our new-found Lalibela haloes he will be showered with gifts. 

Our route back to Addis passed through Dese the capital of the Wolo province. A sprawling forever town it nearly connects to the next town. We cross the Awash River and start to climb up to Debre Birhan where it’s down hill all the way to Addis. Our six weeks circuit in one of the most beautiful countries of Africa comes to and end outside Paul’ House. He has gone to Dire Dawa leaving a message to join him we are thankful for small mercies.

Next morning I call on the bank to collect my US dollar transfer. After a long wait I am informed that it has not arrived. Fax my Irish bank. They confirm the transfer has being sent > Back to the bank. No we don’t have it > Fax. Reply received with tracer number, and acknowledgement of receipt by recipient bank. Back to bank armed with fax. Line up again in queue. One hour later. “No it’s not arrived.” Blow a fuse. Customer behind me, “You think that’s bad I am the ambassador for Sweden, we are waiting on a few million for the last two months.”

Demand to see the manager > another search > Yes it’s arrived > Problem.

They are without the authorisation of the minister of Finance not able to pay me out in US$.   They must pay me the equivalent in Birr. Then I must change the Birr back into dollars. Commission, exchange rates massive loss.

Get into a taxi. Arrive at the Minister of Finance offices > Up to floor four > Open door. Walk in on the Minister. “Have you ever being to Ireland?” Yes.

“Well then you might be aware of what happens when a Paddy looses his temper.”

Explain the problem. Return to bank with letter of Authorisation. Queue. One hour later. Bank won’t accept letter. Ring Minister. State car arrives. Manager red-faced. Queue another hour and half. Teller counts out the dollar bills once, then again and once more for good measure. I recheck count in front of teller.

Hand her a hundred-dollar bill. Change to Birr please (Ethiopian currency). She holds the note up to the light and declares the hundred dollars bill a forgery. I throw a wobbler and all the bills over the counter. Manger Confusion > A recount with each bill scanned by fluorescent light. Having arrived at 8 am I walk out of bank 6.30pm parched.

Very conscious of the wad tucked into front of my jeans I stop at bar. On leaving the bar I start walking towards Williwaw.   Coming straight at me and sticking out like a sore thumb is a dude I had seen lurking in the bank. Out of the corned of my eye his accomplice is standing in a narrow lane way. At three paces with fist closed I run on to him.   Smack > my knuckles sting. Floored his buddy does a runner. I arrive back to the house with four teeth imprints, a headache, and mammoth dislike of banks.

All the next days’ attempts to secure a passage across Eritrea fail. The alternative of circumnavigating Eritrea by way of Sudan is not on the cards so for all inattentive daydreaming purposes our adventure is all but at an end.

The logistics of arranging homeward passage commence. Fanny and Flo will fly back to the UK in week’s time. After the week I will drive the Jeep to Djibouti ship her home as all attempts to sell her have failed, returning to Addis and fly home. Not difficult.

We decide to spend the last few days with a visit to Awash national park and the Filwoha Hot springs along with a stop over in the walled city of Harer one of Ethiopia’s most interesting cities.   We will then go on up and visit our mad Sicilian friend Paoulo in Dire Dawa my set off point to cross the Denakil desert to Djibouti.

Awash park lies in dry acacia savannah land around 200km east of Addis Ababa on the road to Nazert. The road out of Addis has become almost familiar to us, as it is the main exit to eastern Ethiopia.   We have already driven it a few times but the landscape still takes our breath away. Dark lava flows stain the sides of the surrounding small volcanic hills while the northern Rift Valley walls shimmer in the heat as do numerous small lakes of the Aris and Bale highlands before the whole lot is swallow up by the Arba Gugu Mountains.

We follow the French built railway line that connects Addis to Djibouti Ethiopian’s only rail line. God only knows how people travel on this sweat box of a train. It staggers and shutters alongside us from one village to the next at walking pace. Yerer an extinct volcano on our left is envious of the smoke pumping from it engine funnel. We stop in Debre Zeyit a railway level crossing town surrounded by lakes with one lake almost in its center. A herd of long horn cattle with a swarm of goats with a liberal helping of dogs are blockading the rail line so we stop for a drink.

As always it’s not long before Williwaw attracts some faranji hysteria so we decide to give a walk around the lakes a miss.

A half hour later we have passed through Nazret (the Ethiopian for Nazareth) where one exams every donkey/horse-drawn cart for a woman and man called Mr and Mrs Jesus.

Another half an hour we arrive in Awash a mangy forgettable small town that clings to a railway station where long-tongued thirsty train passengers quench their thirst. Our journey leaves the road and enters the Kudu valley in search of the Filwoha Hot Springs. An hour later we bump our way across a small river towards a small bunch of Palm trees that surround ice blue water pool.

There is neither a soul to be seen nor any hint to confirm that this is the Filwoha Hot springs but in the searing heat of the day the water looks refreshing and inviting. 

Without any ado I strip off and plunge in. I can only describe it as the same experience a lobster must get when it is chucked into a pot of boiling water.

My momentum brings me across the pool where I emerge gasping and glowing red with two testicles that pain like hell. Florence the daughter is in stitches, but suddenly goes quite at the sight of two emerging Ethiopians pointing at my man hood. They are also in fits of gleeful laughter at sight a glowing Irish fool who had being looking all day at volcanoes, lava, and who had now dived headlong without dipping his toe in to test the temperature.

There shrieks of hysterics of course attracted the ever-invisible humanoids within hearing distance.  The next commotion comes from Williwaw where my beloved is treating a bloke with bigger knife who has attempted to snatch her handbag. Waving one of our machete she is shouting “You bastard mine is bigger that your.” With my pills stinging we make a hasty retreat all the way back till we arrive on the main drag late in the afternoon.

The entrance to Awash Park is marked by a battered sign and a small hut with an unmanned barrier. It’s difficult to believe that behind the barrier lay a 870 km park supporting 50 large animal species and over 400 bird species.

Our park campsite is up a nine-kilometer long track from the barrier. We see nothing on the way up arriving eventually as what is described in the Bible as a large waterfall carved out by the Awash River.  

The Awash River lamely dribbles over a small waterfall as we prepare Pitch No 118 under huge figs and acacia threes our last and final Pitch of our African journey.

Our chosen site although beautiful soon shows itself to be unbearable with visiting insects and those nuance of all nuances our friend and enemy Blue balls him self the Vervet monkey. There is no choice but to move. Pitch No 119 is back up to a rocky outcrop on raised ground giving us a view out over the river and some cool evening breezes.

While Fanny starts preparing the evening meal I get on with now a very tried and tested routine of setting up our roof top tent, beds, nets, and all the other things necessary to make our camp site comfortable. We have not seen a soul since entering the park.

However while walking around Williwaw I get the feeling that I am being watched. During our whole time in Ethiopia we had not associate it with real African Wild life.   Now here I was face to face with a young lioness that is more than peeved to see me.   In a crouched tense posture sent the hairs on my neck tingling.   With my legs wanting to scamper my mind is telling me not to make any sudden movements. Pointing at the rock I slid back around Williwaw and tell the girls to get on the roof. There is no protest as we all clamber up the ladder.

It takes some time and a large campfire for the girls to relax. Dinner is eaten with a douse of reinsurance that we are perfectly safe. The next visitor is just as much a surprise. A game warden asking for our park entrance fee and insisting that we could not camp where we are.

After two camp pitching’s with highly sensitive balls combined with nearly becoming lion fodder, we or I should say I, am in no mood to move in the dark.   Our refusal turns our park ranger into an aggressive threatening animal, but he eventually leaves us in peace after being told in no certain terms to piss off

The girls hit the sack on the understanding that I stand watch until I hear them snoring. With the sound of the waterfall I sit with my back to Williwaw sipping a beer and sweeping the rocks now and then with our powerful torch.

Out of the darkness to my left a set of green eyes followed by two more sets announces the return of our lioness with two of her girl friends. All three sauntering pass me without showing the slightness interest in my presence.

Their eyes and silent gait nonetheless sends quivers of nerves up my spine until they disappear in the direction of the river. I retire up the ladder with backwards glances over my shoulder. Sleep comes fitful with tingling pills and gaping jaws.

Next morning early we break camp not to avoid a re visit from our lions but to avoid our less than pleasant game ranger.   Arriving back at the park gate entrance we find the barriers down and locked. The rusty chain gives Williwaw bull bars little trouble. We turning right and it‘s not long before we are climbing up the Arba Gugu foothills to our turn off to Harer.

(To be Continued)

Donation News. Still pathetic.

Robert Dillon: Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2.

Sorting Code: 98-50-10.