(Continuation)

At first glance it looks somewhat unpromising but according to Paul this is where Ethiopia derives it name. ‘ Noah’s son Ham had Kush > he in turn sired Ethiopic from whom the name of the Ethiopia derived its name.

Present day history of Ethiopia begins with the history of the Aksumite Empire’. There is no camping so we book into a small hotel.

Some two hundred and ninety kilometres inland from the Red Sea Axum contains the most important symbols of Ethiopians civilization. It is the foundations of present day Ethiopian history. In short we are about to travelled 3000 years back through the history of Ethiopia to the glorious days of the Aksumites Empire’s.

After the fall of the Aksumite Empire, Ethiopia to a large extent remained isolated from the outside world for over a thousand years. We on the other hand remained after a long but fantastic drive dead to the world for the night.

Venturing out in the late morning the first think that strikes us is the obelisks or stelae’s (huge stone monoliths) of single blocks of granite scattered over a kilometre wide area. Ranging from 33 meters high to a few meters hardly any remain upright. They by some means deeply impart the tumbled power of a mysterious world. Carved with precision these tombstones are without question the most wondrous features of this ancient place. Represent multi-storeyed buildings with imitation wooden beams, windows, doorways with bolts and locks at their bases they lie splattered all over the place. Some of them had imitation viewing galleries at their top crowned by a high pediment with a burial chamber at their base.

One in particular took Mussolini fancy. He had the monolithic block of solid granite weighing one hundred and sixty tonnes nicked. It is no wonder that after humping it along the roads that his boys were wiped out.   Till recently it stood in exile for 68 years in front of the Food and Agricultural Organisation headquarters in Rome. It Remaining a bone of contention between Italy and Ethiopia until last year or so when the world heritage people of UNESCO that look after 812 of the world heritage sites brokered a deal to have it transported back to Axum section by section.

The return journey required a few bridges to be reinforced along the way and apparently also the runway in Addis with the last section arriving in April 2005. Since then a geo-radar and eletrotornographic prospection of the site where the obelisk is to be re-erect revealed underground tombs that await examination to this day. 

In present day modern Axum centre is a 17^th century church called Mariam Zion ( standing alongside it is St Mary of Zion built Haile Sallassie I and opened by Queen Elizabeth II in 1965) the mother church of all twenty-two thousand Orthodox Ethiopian churches with 250,000 clergy.   In its Holy of Holies is now where the Ark of the Covenant lives not that anyone has ever seen it. First built-in 321 AD by Emperor Ezana the greatest of Aksumite Emperors (307AD-333AD) it was burnt down by Queen Yodit re built by King Anbassa Wudim destroyed by Ahmed Gragn rebuilt by Emperor Fasil in 1662.

Ever since Queen Yodit took a look around inside no woman are allowed in.

As far as we know it has never being visited by Indiana Jones.

As to where the container of the original tablets actually are your guess is as good as anyone’s > Hidden on Mount Nebo on the Jordan River or beneath the Dome of the Rock Shrine on the Temple Mount or in the Dead Sea. No one knows. What is for certain is that no one has seen them for a heck of a long time so in the egotism chance that I might be the first lay my hands on the Ten Commandments I pay the church a visit.

Inside the compound of the church the ark is protected by one priest and two cannon. Once they were four cannon. The retreating Italians help themselves to two. Back in Emperor Yohannes IV times (1871-1889) there were forty-six cannon, which he had captured from the Dervishes. In front of the church are four stone pillars a long time ago used for coronation ceremonies. The Emperor to be crowned sat on pillar like a throne.   The last bum to sit was Haile Sellassie I.

All attempts with my Irish blarney to talk the priest into giving me a peep at Moses handiwork fail. I have to content myself with a gander through rusty railings at row of various Emperors crowns housed in a glass display unit that could do with a lick of paint. It seems that everything that exalts life at the same time increases its absurdity.Reunited with the girls we wander around the obliterate ruins of the palaces of the Emperors Inda Mikael, Enda Simeon and Taeka Mariam. What left is beyond our architectural mind’s eye so we wander over to have a look at the Queen of Saba bathtub where she last scrub three thousand years ago.

Once again it take a stupendous leap of trust to visualize her wandering down with her cortege of waiting ladies watched I am sure by the odd peeping tom to take a dip.

On the way back we pop into a tomb containing an empty stone sarcophagus. I try it for size. A little tight on the shoulders other wise it is a perfect fit. Having reinforced the values of family ties we return to the land of the living to be approach by a youth offering to sell a few Asumite coins. Aksum coins have being found in Egypt, Palestine, and Arabia, India and in many a private collection and museum worldwide.

Like Mussolini we can’t resist the temptation to have a bit of history purchasing a small battered coin.   Of the twenty four Aksumite Emperors known from their coins only five are recorded in history we will have to wait till we get home to see which one we got out of the lucky dip.

Back in the hotel over a bottle or two of Ethiopian beer I preferring the St George label to the Bedele (Beer labels) we decide to push on in the morning.

Leaving what only can be called an archaeologists Pandora box in waiting Axsum leaves us with a deep sense of time. The earth they say is 4.6 billion years old and the sun has another 5 billion years before it expires. Another words earth is at the half way mark. Evolution teaches us that humanity will expire some time when is the big question and how is the small question?

Like all before since living time began 3.5 billion years ago us humans are only just one little blip since then.

Our route passes through Ādwa and onto Yeha one of Ethiopia’s oldest sacred places.The ruins of the temple of Yeha date from the 5^th century B.C. are a must according to Fanny. A few kilometres after Ādwa we branch off on to a very bumpy track in search of Yehas Temple of the Moon. It appears on a knoll >   a rectangular edifice twelve meters high with a dollar demanding Youth.

I show little interest in paying to see what exceedingly visible from where we are parked is. Begrudgingly parking Williwaw I follow the girls into what was once a pagan temple, till the arrival of the Nine Saints (a group of missionaries welcomed by the Axum who spread Christianity in Ethiopia)

Now just four large walls enclosing an empty space there can be no doubt that who ever built this place were far from wet behind the ears master masons.

Ever block of limestone without mortar is grafted skin-tight to its neighbour.   Not a squeak of sunlight between them can be seen. Fanny has her more than just interested hat on. After twenty minutes of listing to her saying “there is a feel about this place” I eventually threaten to leave her to walk back to the main drag.

Appealing to all nine saints, Abba Pantelewon, Gerima, Aftse, Guba, Alef, Yem’aha, Linganos, Aragawi, and abba Sehma that her the funny side would reappear on the way back we hit the last bump to rejoin the main drag.  Consulting our map we are almost on the Eritrea border. Fanny is in no mood to make a navigational decision.

All of our enquiries back in Addis Ababa as to the possibilities of crossing into Eritrea, were met with “It is impossible.” In the off-chance that there might be away to cross I turn Williwaw towards the border to have a gander at the potential.

Heading towards the Adowa Mountains the battleground where Europeans suffered their biggest defeat since Hannibal Asmera the capital of Eritrea lies just over 100 kilometres further north.

It is in this region of Tigray that Emperor Menelik II a mere three thousand years after Menelik I mustered an army of over 100,000 fed by 72,000 cattle and practically armed by the Italians went to war against the Italians over the wording of an earlier treaty called the Wuchale Treaty 1889 the origin of Eritrea.

The Treaty written both in Italian and Amharic was as most treaties take to mean one thing to one side and another on the other side. The Italian version stated that Ethiopia consented to use the Italian government for conducting its foreign affairs while the Amharic version use the words “may use.”

Another words Ethiopia was in Italian eye’s a protectorate and on the Ethiopian side an independent sovereign state.

The battle that followed signalled the beginning and the end of the Scramble for Africa but not the end to hostilities between Ethiopia and Eritrea.

Approaching the border one can’t help but see this fact. World war trenches, barbed wire and the odd abandoned tank confirm that any crossing into Eritrea will take a lot more than a dash. We turn back. 

Heading north we arrive at Adigrat. Here we stay the night at the back of a small café. Turning south in the morning we now have the Danakil desert on our left as we enter the land of Rock-Hewn Churches. With over two hundred of them scattered over the mountains and plains it is difficult not to visit one. The one we pick turns out to be the worst nightmare of our whole journey.

Some thirty kilometres east Wik’ro with the predictable guide we set off on foot uphill. Passing well-attended fields we slowly start climbing through one village and then another eventually arriving after three-hour at the base of the cliff. A half an hour later we crest the cliff onto a plateau.The church appears set into the rock it is surrounded by a small stone wall enclosure with a few olive trees. Cut free from the rock behind it is free-standing on three sides with four rock columns and a large door in front.

Looking around there’s not a soul to be seen except an ancient looking druid in his yellow robes.

While our young guide explains the reason for our profusely sweaty state the wooden door to the enclosure creaks in the up draught from the cliff face.

The druid barely acknowledging our presence is asking exorbitant sums to enter the church.   After such a long hike the old bastard knows he has the upper hand. I wander over to the edge of the plateau. The view over the countryside is only matched by the cooling updraft > Wonderful.

“He is demanding four dollars,” says the guide. We are in no mood to haggle. OK.   Woops not Ok all of a sudden he is holding out for more. On the pretext of taking a leak I tell Fanny to keep him occupied while I slip around the back for a sneaky preview to see if it worth the trouble.

Hopping over a stonewall I am completely hidden from view as I walk across the enclosure. The Church door is open. Inside (as with all Ethiopian Coptic churches) the church is divided architecturally into an outer subdivision then an inner section and right in the heart of the church the holier-than-thou housing the church’s replica of the ark, its crosses and manuscripts, and what we are lead to believe an ostrich egg.

Unfortunately I left the camera with the girls so miss the opportunity to take a photo of a central pillar in the holiness of holies wrapped in cotton. This Pillar is what is known as “Amd” the symbol of the unity of faith. Christ is supposed to have touched such a pillar when appearing to King Lalibela. Since then the past and the future of the world are written on it but man is too weak to bear the truth revealed by God so the pillar is kept covered.

Not wanting to raise any inkling in the druid that I had wandered off other than for a jimmy riddle I returned to the girls.

The old codger has now being joined by a young boy and is still holding out for more money.

I tell Fanny that it is worth it and to pay the extra few bucks.

Just at this very moment a puff of hot air rattled the door of the enclosure so that it springs open. With the door opened I start to walk and have just entered the enclosure when out of the corner of my eye comes the druid swirling his stick. In a reflex action of self-defence I grab his stick pulling him on to me and at the same time kick his legs from under him. He falls to the ground suffering a small cut to the forehead and nose.

Like a spring he is up on his feet howling and running. He runs out of the enclosure to the edge of the cliff top where he begins to howl even louder.

Away down below in the fields I see distant figures dropping their tools and advance towards the cliff. I have committed the holy of holies zapped a druid.

Fifteen minutes past before the first five or six of these people appear over the edge. With no warning our guide is being stoned. Receiving a rock to the chest he is now lying flat on this back pumping blood.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

DONATION NEWS: It seems that I am trying to get blood out of a stone wall. May be you are waiting till the End.

Just in case.

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

Sorting Code. 98-50-10.

(CONTINUATION)

Back to our trip >

For once, they got it right. The church Debre Birhan Selassie with a singularly uninspiring exterior is stunning inside.

Tremendously colourful cartoon-like mural paintings depicting scenes from the Old and New Testaments cover the walls. Meanwhile, 80 cherubs (each with a slightly different Ethiopian face) stare down perpetually from the ceiling. Truly breathtaking: anywhere else this would be a World Heritage Site, removed to a museum or closed to the public. Here, it’s a functioning church on the rustic outskirts of a provincial town.   In the middle of all these ecclesiastic frescoes, the 17th-century artist Haile Meskel for some unknown reason painted a rather amusing depiction of the Devil himself.

Perhaps he wished to remind us of the devilries history of Gonder. (Top TIP: Debre Birhan Selasie might not be the Sistine Chapel but don’t miss it.)

By late afternoon we are pulling into Dabark on the foot of the Simien Mountain range.   The day’s drive without coming across one gorging truck has being beautiful through highlands and valleys.   Just as we enter town we stop at Debark only modern looking building. It turns out to be restaurant offering rooms and the main base for arranging trekking up into the Mountains.

Paul’s words ring loud and clear. “If you decide to take a hike into the Simien Mountains make sure you get a guide that you like.” “Not a Faranji or give me give me type.” “He will run you from one camping site to the next as quickly as he can to earn his fee. “ “This is one of the most beautiful places in Africa so take your time in picking a guide.

Over chicken and omelettes, several contenders approach us > all easily forgotten.   With the girls tucked in bed, I take a wander down the town’s main street. There is no street lighting to speak of. Eerie figures mostly dressed in white robes appear and disappear down small side lanes. It’s the nearest I can picture to a scene in Purgatory if it exists. Moonbeams play with the shadows making ever movement startling and every dog twice its size. All sounds are amplified by the almost complete darkness. My nose picks out smells of cooking, paraffin, shit, urine, coffee, and my armpits.

A small light attracts me to the door of flaking white galvanized roofed building. It’s the local shebeen. Pushing the door open my entrance is like a stone hitting a still pool but in reverse. The ripples of sound I had heard before opening the door come to a sudden stop. All eyes watched me as I pointed to a glass and make the drinking signal. My first specimen bottle of Tej.   I say specimen bottle as it arrived yellow in a bulbous shape bottle without a glass. A swig with a few ishee- ishee’s (Ok Ok) breaks the ice.

To my surprise I am addressed in perfect English by one of the shebeen locals. “l am Tedros welcome to Ethiopia.” By the second bottle, I have been introduced to all in sundry receiving a broad smile on each introduction that revealed sets of teeth, which would be any dentist’s nightmare. By the time it is my round I have my guide for a four-day trip into the Simyen > (sometimes spelt Semyen, Simien and various other adaptations from the Ethiopian alphabet) Tedros. I learn that the word Simyen means north in Amharic a difficulty I have a finding on the way back to the girls.

Tedros arrives in the morning. All is arranged. An armed guard, two pack mules, four riding horses, a horseman, a muleteer, a cook, a scout, all will meet us to-morrow at Sankaber where we will leave Williwaw. The girls look a gassed. Have I lost my marbles?   Do I think I am Doc Livingstone? “Come on girls this is the only way we are going to see the roof of Africa. “ “We drive up to Sankaber base camp on a new all-weather road is easy.”

On arrival in Sankaber, we find that Aunty (The BBC) is in camp.   They are making a nature program on the three endemic Ethiopian animals that live in the mountains. The Bleeding heart baboon or Gelada or Lion monkey as it is sometimes called. The Simien fox that they have been looking for the last three-week without seen one. It is neither, a fox or a wolf but a member of the dog family sometimes referred to as the red Jackal. The Walia Ibex a type of wild goat that lives on near vertical cliffs.   We, of course, have never heard of such creatures never mind seen one or the other.

Pitch No 114 at 3230m is somewhat bracing but it is the view that takes ones breath away.

Over the edge of an abyss is one the most marvellous of all Abyssinian Landscapes. The morning’s glory is cracked by the distant sound of a cock’s crow. We on the road to Axum passing our first group of walking crucified (The name we have allocated to groups of walking Ethiopians due to men’s habit of draping their arms over their walking sticks which are carried across the back of their necks.) Axum or Aksum is three hundred and sixty kilometres to the north three hours driving on a good road but we know better allowing two and a half days.

Described by Rosita Forbes, 1925 from the Red Sea to the Blue Nile- A Thousand Miles of Ethiopia.

‘Looking across a gorge of clouded amethyst … A thousand years ago, when old gods reigned in Ethiopia, they must have played chess with these stupendous crags, for we saw bishops’ mitres cut in lapis lazuli, castles with the ruby of approaching sunset on their turrets, an emerald knight where the forest crept up the on the rock, and far away a king, crowned with sapphire, and guarded by row of pawns. When the gods exchanged their games for shield and buckler to fight the new men clamouring at their gates, they turned the pieces of their chessboard into mountains. In the Simien, they stand enchanted, till once again the world is pagan and the Titans and the earth gods lean down from the monstrous cloud bank to wager a star or two on their sport.’

It would be a sacrilege of written description to attempt to describe the view in any other words.

I can only say that it sometimes hard to persuade the mind that it is you that is standing on a spot.   Looking out over miles rolling away beneath you can’t help but get a deep sense that you were meant to stand here. To see your life as a whole, a foretaste, maybe of that promised instant before death when all that you have been, all that you have seen, tasted, touched and been touched by is present at one and the same time. Perhaps it is the feeling one gets on the summit of Everest.

So you can visualize our reaction to the first bleeding heart that appeared over the edge of the abyss. Definitely, this has to be one of the weirdest animals of our trip. Out of thin air, a large male appears to surveys his surroundings. Admitting a sound that is hard to express other than it sounds human in tone he gives the thumbs up for the rest of his harem to hop over and commence plucking grass, digging for roots and bulbs.

Turning towards us I can only think that if this is a strict vegetarian we better be sure we are stakes. Drawing back it lips it exposes the nearest thing I have seen to a Spielberg Alien. Weighing about 16-20kg it has a thick lion-like mane on its head and shoulders and right in the middle of its chest a heart-shaped patch of bare fleshy reddish skin. Only its long tufted tail makes it look any way comical.   The rest of it looks like run for your life. Tedros assures us that it is harmless.

Strictly vegetarian they spend the day when not occupied by you scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours grazing like cows. Seldom found far from vertical cliffs which they plunge over at the first sign of danger they sure made us forget about the volcanic plugs formed over 40 million ago that have eroded into the fantastic crags and pinnacles and flat-topped mountains described by Rosita Forbes.

Morning: Our small multitude has arrived > AK47, seven animals and four and a half humans > the half being a young boy. (Top TIP: Even though you might know sweet fall about mules or horses it’s a good idea to have all four-legged marched up and down in front of you. One limp gives it the flick. Also, remove the saddles any cuts or sores get the same treatment.)

Fanny satisfied that we have only the best of sock equipment and supplies all are loaded and lashed.   A John Wayne tallyho later and we off each of us equipped by the horseman with a stick to be used as a quirt. A tap on the left turns you to the right and a tap on the right to the left. Fast forward tap on the ass with a “Mitch” for a mule and a “che!” for a horse.   All very simple except if you tap on the wrong side it’s over the side.

Our column moves out along a narrow neck into a land of Afro-Alpine meadows and grasslands punctuated by Giant Lobelia and flowering red-hot pokers.   “They use to hide their weapons in the Giant Lobelia,” says Tedros. Standing at eight meters with flowering stalks these plants are called Djebera in Amharic.   “There are over 200 species of Lobelia in the world but this one is only found here.” “It grows for fifteen to twenty years before flowering and then dies”. “How it comes to be here no one knows”.

“Once the whole of this area of the Simien was once covered in forest junipers and olive trees”, continues Tedros. “You see that? It’s a dindero”. (Amharic for Giant sphere thistle) “It grows to the size of shrubs and even trees up here”. The one we are looking at is all of three meters high. Again it is only found in Ethiopia.

Tedros is in element enjoying sharing his knowledge pointing to this and that strange plant with all the enthusiasm of a botanist. Strawflowers or everlasting, clematis, q’aga (Amharic for the Abyssinian wild rose) the only wild rose native to Africa, the kosso tree that takes its name from the Amharic for tapeworm. Its flowers or seed are better than Smarties for getting rid of tapeworms. By any standards the flora is bizarre.

Leaving behind the different types of growth slowly we begin to climb steeper. It is time to give our animals a rest so we are walking. The effects of altitude are noticeable with shortness of breath and a lot of panting. At 3300 meters we come upon our first goat shepherd. A young boy carrying a blanket and the unavoidable stick a coarse woollen hat with a sheep flees slung over his shoulders.  As we pass by there is no give me give so I slip him a packet of sweets.

Remounted we arrive at a viewing point that looks down on the Jin Bahir River, which plunges into an abyss called Geech. Stunning beautiful we stop for a break.  We have now been on the go for five hours with every minute breathtaking. Our horseman, his boy and our arm guard with the cook have walked the whole way without the least sign of any effort. Anytime we have had to dismount we struggled with the altitude. Our destination Mietgogo a large peak according to Tedros lies two hours further on up at 3600 meters he is also on foot.

On we go into the blueness Florence being led by our bodyguard and Fanny riding high with her handbag Photo Opportunity 66. Fanny’s in her wisdom has both herself and Florence sitting on our sheepskins, which she had draped over the basic saddles. We eventually arrive at our campsite Pitch No 115, which is in a hollow surrounded by Giant St; John’s wort intermingled with giant heath.

Watched by thick-billed ravens that protest our arrival with a deep wheezing croak that sounds like a frog with asthma we set up camp for the night.   It’s an unpleasant night due partially to the condition of our faithful tent and the rarefied damp conditions.

Morning brakes with spectacular views to the north and east across the foothills and plains. Perched like gargoyles we watch two Walia ibex on a virtual vertical cliff face hop from one unseen ledge to the next. Mount Everest would be no problem to these fellows. According to Tedros, only five hundred are left due to poaching.   Thousand of feet below a village set in a deep valley cuddle up to the mountains.   The village roofs look like large field mushrooms.   Hot coffee and bread are most welcome before we set off on day three to Chenek our last stop.

Another wonderful day first descending into a huge valley ziz-zagging across streams and climbing again to stunning views in every direction with our first view of Mт Ras Dashen at 4620 meters (15,158 feet) Africa’s ninth highest peak. (Kilimanjaro 5895 meters, Mt Kenya 5199 meters)

Pitch No 116 with Circling Ruppell’s griffon vultures is another miserable night sleep that rules out any attempt on Ras Dashen.   Turning for home Tedros knowledge of birds is accomplished as his plant awareness. He points out bearded vultures that drop bones from great heights to get at the marrow. “You know that they are capable of flying as high as 25,000 feet”. “They are called Ch’ululey in Amharic”. There is not space here to mention all the birds but god forbid I ever get a serious dose of the twitters because a revisit to the Simyen would be on the top of the list. 

With one overnight stop pitch no 117 we arrive back to Sankaber. Aunty has left so we take their prime camping spot looking out over a long narrow valley. Pitch No 118. With all expenses settled we say adios to our Tedros, the horses’ men, the horses, the cook the horse-boy before settling down for an early night kip. 

Unknowing to us the Simyen has one last surprise in store for us. Out of the darkness, a young woman appears with a lanky teenager. In sign language, we gather that the youth has been gored by a Zbou Bull in the groined.

With the nearest aide being 25k away from Debareq there is no immediate medical help to be had up in the mountains. They had walked all day down from the roof of Africa in the hope of meeting Aunty or us whom they had heard were in camp.

The young lad looks pale and somewhat terrorized by the girl’s presence. All attempts to get him to show the wound fail.   Eventually, there is nothing for it but to drop my own boxers. Getting the message he grudgingly removes his. A nasty gash the size of my index figure is exposed obviously infected.   Fanny cleans it as best as she can apply a steri-strip closures plaster. During all time he stood in front of Fanny he nether flinches or makes a sound. In true African manner, there is no thank you. He walks out of the tent and into the darkness never to be seen by us again.

Our humanitarian deed is rewarded in the morning by the sighting of two of the Simyen most unique animals. Its bright rufous coat, white under markings and nearly black tail confirm that we are looking at two Simien foxes. What a reward. Most visitors never see one. We are not even sure if Aunty had any luck. A welcome night’s decedent sleep back in Debark tops the whole trip off. (Top TIP: Don’t miss it.)

Bumping out of Debark Axum is or next port of call. Founded several centuries before the birth of Christ it lies to our north in the northern province of Tigre famous for the notorious famine of 1985.

The road dropping some 2000 meters hugs the foothill of the Simines. It is dramatic and scary, to say the least. Progress is slowly marked by many a broken down truck or recent gaps in the bush where a set of failed brakes launched some poor unfortunate into the blue yonder. The landscape has changed from the rounded hills to a rocky harsh territorial terrain.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

DONATION NEWS:  Every bit as bad as the bleeding hearts of the Gelada or Lion monkey.

Be the First. Robert Dillon: Account no 62259189. Ulster Bank 33 College Green Dublin 2: Sorting Code: 98-50-10.

(CONTINUATION)

Heading north to Gonder Ethiopians capital for two hundred and fifty years (1636-1864) dawn is still without its Ethiopian sun.

Described, as Africa’s Camelot, Gonder is one of the high lights of any Ethiopia trip.

The province, which Gonder takes it name, was the centre of Ethiopia’s religious power struggles. The Moslems lead by Imam Ahmec Ibn Ibrahim Al Ghazi or Graqn (left handed) for short from Harer and Emperor Libne Dingel who sent a messenger to Portugal for help were the main combatants. History has it that the Portuguese lead by the son of Vaso da Gama (Admiral of the Indian Ocean he being the first European to reach India by sea) took over six years to arrive to give Emperor Dingel a hand. By the time the Portuguese arrived to team up with Empress Seble Wangel and Libne Dingle son Gelawdeos (Dingle had snuffed it).

They gave Left hand such a bashing that he was carried off on a stretcher.

Left hand peeved with his humiliation got on this mobile and gave an old Turkish Sultan a text for help. The Sultan came up trumps. Left hand now known as no hands returned to wipe out most of the Portuguese and Ethiopians at the battle of Wafla.   Poor Vaso da Gama son Christopher lost his head in the brawl.   The Empress Wangel and the remaining Portuguese scampered up the Semien Mountains to meet Emperor Gelawdewos who as you can image was mightily pissed off. So in February 1543 at Wynadega near Lake Tana accompanied by a few of his buddies they wiped out what was left of no hands. Christianity was once again established in Ethiopia.

However the story does not end there.

Unknown to the Emperor well hack’s wife Dil Wombera survived Wynadega. She married Nur Majahad Mir of Harrer (he is the bloke who built the Harrer Wall (Jogel) a nephew of what was left of left hand. Anyway she got Nur on the wedding alter to take a vow to revenge her husband’s death.   Emperor Gelawdewos by this time was rightly miffed so with a small army he rushed off to Shewa where Nur and the new wife had being trying for five years to overrun. Against all advice and UN resolutions number minus 6500 Gleawdewos rushed in on Good Friday only to get shot in the head. His head ended up on a pole for public exhibition in Harer. If you are still with me what was left of him was buried in Tedbabe Mariam Church in Wollo with all honour. The church itself was built back in 327 A.D by the twin Emperors Abraha and Atsbeha whom in those times were busy building rock-hewn churches.

After Gleawdewos departure things settled down for a while with the odd dispute breaking out here and there till along came Emperor Susenyos (1604-1632) founder of the Gondarine Daynasty. A Spanish Jesuits named Bishop Alfonso Mandez nobles him into submitting to the Church of Rome. So he set about disestablishes the Orthodox Church by killing a mere thirty thousand peasants causing a rebellion, which lead to him abdicating in favour of his son Fasiladas. Emperor Fasil re instating the age-old church showed the Jesuits the door established Gonder as the permanent Capital becoming the first ruler to have a capital in 600 years. Gonder remained capital of Ethiopia for two centuries (1636-1864)

You might well ask how we came to learn all of this. Before leaving Lake Tana we had picked up in the Tourist Office some leaflets. Believe that and you believe all.

Lake Tana recedes into our memories as we pass through Azezo. The surrounding land is fast becoming the foothill of the Simien Mountains. At one point we descend a winding section of tar laid road that has the first undulating tar corrugations we have come across in Africa.

We cross one small highly cultivated valley after another. Gonder nestling in its own valley eventually shows itself domineered by Fasiladas castle. No sound came from it. No whirling wisp of smoke. It seemed to hover in a state of exhaustion from its past glory and was yet stabilized by the surrounding large trees and lust vegetation.

The Castle reputedly designed by an Indian architect, displayed elements of Mogul, Moorish and European influence. Round tower at each of its corners look out over the surrounding country. Constructed of ruddy volcanic stone and blond brown sandstone, it indeed looked like Camelot but with a mixture of elements from a maharajah’s palace in Rajastan, or a renaissance Florentine stronghold or a medieval castle in the south of France.

On entering town centre one is immediately aware that there is a strong Italian influence to Gonder construction. We check into the Hotel Fagera a Mussolini type villa. Wooden floors, cornices ceilings, large spacious bedrooms with central wobbling ceiling fan and cracked shower tiles.

We eventually surface under a boiling sun for a day of exploration. Arriving at the gates to the Royal Enclosure it is surprisingly guide free. However entering for a mere five bucks it is straight way evident that unlike Tis Abay Falls this place needs a knowledgeable guide. Asking at the gate one appears like a gene. Using our parrot guide avoidance techniques we are satisfied that our guide has a good command of English.

For the next six hours we wander around the enclosure containing five crenulated castles with inter connected tunnels and raised walkways. We enter Fasil castle the centrepiece. Not much to look at inside but its size gives an idea of old Fasil power. Large dining area with a reception room on the ground floor above it another large room, which according to the guide was used for religious services, and addressing the faithful. Up another flight of stairs the bedroom and watchtower. From here you can see Lake Tana on a good day said the guide. Florence is bored till we pass some lion cages. Haile Selasi kept a black–mane lion here till 1992 say the guide.

In flashes of seconds we pass from one Emperor to the next. Tasdiku Yohannis I (1667-82) – Iyasu I (1682-1706) – Dawit III (1716-21) – Bakaffa (1721-30) – Iyasu II (1730-55) – world war two bombs.

Yohannis Castle is a heap of rubble damaged by an earth tremor and a bomb.

Iyasu Castle described by Charles Poncet a French 17^th century who was summoned to Gondor by Emperor Iyasu to treat him and his son for Leprosy was covered in gold leaf, and ivory. Iyasu liked throwing lavish do’s with a mere thirteen thousand of his soldiers in full battle dress just in case of the odd gatecrasher.

Dawit III built the lion cages. He ended up being poisoned.

His brother Bakafa built a castle with a large Banqueting hall.

His son Iyasu II built the last castle in the enclosure in honour of his mother Mentuab who caused untold trouble with her Catholic tendencies.

The whole lot of castles are augmented by, swimming pools, saunas, stables, and concert halls.

For a full portrayal of the life style that existed in Gondar one would have to read Poncet rare but extremely in depth account of his visit.

A small extract to get a feel of what life was like goes somewhat like this.

“Having being lead through twenty apartments I entered a large hall where the Emperor is seated on a throne. A sort of large couch covered in daises flowers and gold. Around the throne are other large cushions fashioned with gold. The throne with massive silver feet is set in an alcove at the bottom of the hall covered by a dome shinning in gold and indigo. He is seated alone on his throne with his legs crossed clothed in silk embroidered with gold. On either side his lords stand in ranks in total silence. He is bare breasted with his hair painstakingly braided.   A large emerald glitter’s on his brow”

Poncet continues,

“The next day clay in a vest of blue flower’d with gold that trailed on the ground his head is covered in muslin with strips of gold. His shoes are fashioned in Indian style with flowers beset with pearls. He walk’s towards two princes at the palace gates who awaited him with a magnificent canopy, with his trumpets, kettledrums, flutes, and hautboys. His chief ministers of the empire who are dressed like him with a lance in there hands follow him. He walks in the middle holding a large cross to his bare breast. After the ministers came the musketeers, followed by the archers and the emperor’s horse harnessed in gold with panther’s skins covering their backs. Awaiting him at the chapel entrench is the Patriarch his pontifical robes wrought with crosses of gold, He is standing with a hundred religious persons clad in white each holding a flaming torch that form a avenue into the chapel. The Emperor under this canopy with the discharge of two cannon walks into the church on a rich red carpet to receive communion. “

By the time the tour is finished the girls have had enough so I drop them back to the hotel before driving out of town to Fasil’sk Pool (entrance to which is covered by the ticket to the Royal Enclosure). Arriving there is not a sinner to be seen. I spend a wonderful hour in a very special place. Here in a small valley called Qaha, Fasil had built a two storied palace that was said to be more beautiful than house of Solomon. To this day in January of each year the baths are used by the Ethiopians many getting a dunking during the Festival of Timkat or Temqat or Epiphany which commemorates the Baptism of Christ.   (Top TIP: Don’t miss it festival or not.)

I take a quick detoured on the way back to town out to the church of The Abbey of the light of trinity or Debre Birhan Selassie to give it proper Amharic name. Built by Iyasu I Fasil grandson it is one of Ethiopia most famous churches. Saved from destruction by the Dervish of Sudan as legend has it by a swarm of bees it is the church with the ceiling of little angel faces so often reproduced in Ethiopian tourist propaganda. Noting the opening time in the morning I return to the girls.

After dinner with the girls long gone asleep I ponder the hotels three-book collection in the bar.

After Iyaus II along came Emperor Loas (1755-70) He teamed up with a bloke called Ras Sihul Mikael to squash a small rebellion. These two blocks feel out with each other when the Emperor Loas had the leader of the rebellion Ras Yemariam Bariyaw tortured and killed against the wished of Mikael > This lead to Loas hiring a contract killer to bump of Mikeal while he was playing a game of Chess in the Royal Enclosure. The Killed missed with the enviable results Mikeal put a match too Loas Palace. Flushed him out, dumped him in prison till he had him strangled with a sash. Mikeal then released all the little princes that the big bad Emperor Loas had locked up in Wohi Amba. He appointed Lyasu the great, Abeito (Prince) Yohaanes as Emperor the first of his Puppet Emperors and thus started eighty-five years of political turmoil called “ Zemene Massafint” or era of Princes.

This period brings us up to 1855 when along came Kassa later known as Emperor Tewodros.   For thirteen years, this boy-o set about to restore unity. He built roads and a large cannon called Sevastopol. He suggested to Queen Victoria that they should team up against the Turkish. Because his messenger came back with no reply he locked up the British Consul along with any other Europeans he could find.

On getting wind of this Queen Vic sent a friendly letter. It unfortunately took a year and a half to arrive only to be wrongly interpreted.   The Queens Royal postman was put in the slammer with the rest. Queen Vic got her knickers in a twist when she heard this. Not to be messed with she sent 32,000 marines under Captain Robert Napier to get back her messenger and release the other. Emperor Tewodros committed Harry Harry rather than surrender to Napier (1868). As to what happened to the letter no one knows or is telling.

Mission completed I can only presume Napier did not hang about as there is no further mention of him.   Emperor Tekle Giorgis was known previously as Wagshum Gobeze of Wag and Lasta succeeded Tewodros. He lasted three years ending up in jail after being captured by his brother in law Dejazmatch Bezbiz Kassa who crowned him self Yohannes IV. This fellow was not to be messed with. Annihilating Turco-Egyptians armies on two occasions instructing those that we left to walk home without shoes and to wash their feet as the left Ethiopia just in case any of it soil was stuck to their feet.

He and his chief of staff Ras Alula Abba Negga a gifted tactician and courageous soldier defeated the Italians in 1887. They for eighteen years while the Suez Canal and the scramble for Africa by Europeans was in full flight fought of all foreign aggressors. He led from the front till he took one and died at Metema in March 1889, Ethiopians greatest warrior. A year after his death The Italians occupied part of Tigrai including Asmara the capital of then the Maritime province of Merrb Malash (beyond the Mereb river or Madrie-Bahri land of the sea.) now known as Eritrea. (Eritrea takes its name from the Greek Erythrea meaning red or from the old Latin name for the red sea “Mare Erithyreum)

The treaty of Wuchallie was signed by Menelik of Shewa (1889-1913) he becoming Emperor after Yohannes IV. Article three of the treaty gave the Italians a foothold in the Ethiopian highlands and Article XV11 in Italian text gave Italy control over the foreign affairs of Ethiopia and made her a protectorate under Italy. The Amharic version of Article XV11 of course said no such thing.   Alor! Another battle this time east of Aksum see’s off the Italians but leaves the Eritrea problem to this day.

Menelik goes on to establish Addis Ababa with his wife Taitu who named it Addis Ababa “New Flower.” They introduced electrical light, the telephone, the postage stamp, schools, hospitals, and the railway to Djibouti. From Menelik 1 to Menelik 11 stretches a period of 3000 years or 237 Emperor’s one of which only lasted six hours. A dynasty leading back to the Queen of Saba with a further 97 sovereigns going back a further five thousand years.

It’s no wonder that Ethiopia is one of the oldest Independent countries in the world.

(TO BE CONTINUED)

DONATION NEWS. THERE MUST BE ONE SYMPATHETIC SOUL.

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

Sorting code: 98-50-10

(Continuation)

Rid of the trucks and with no traffic to speak off we begin to see the land around us. Rolling hills, covered in mélange of colours spread out to creep up far distant mountains. We reach Fiche and decide over a Faranji coffee to rest up for the night in the Alem Hotel.

By mid afternoon we are descending on a scary road that clings and some times hangs on viaducts into the Gorge of the Blue Nile. Windows fully rolled down the temperature raises in unification with the far wall of the Gorge.   With every turn of her wheels Williwaw engine bellyache against the gradient of the decent. The unrestrained views are dazzling with the blue Nile reflecting the steep gorge walls. It takes us a good hour before we eventually stop on the narrow bridge to take a breather before the ascent. A long abandoned sentry post boxes marked by shrapnel looks dejected, on the opposite bank. We are sure it has many a dark stories never to be told. Looking up the winding ascent there is not a truck to be seen.

We start the whole process in reverse but this time thank god in the shade.

In the only way she knows Williwaw of course protests by overhearing. With two cooling off stops and some unadulterated swearing that never again in a Land Rover we make it to the top to be surrounded in Dejen by a herd of You, You, money kids that have being watching our progress for the last two hours.

Dejen sterility matches it’s strangulate strategic position with a clatter of cheap hotels that feed on the northern bound traffic. Strangely we don’t recall passing through a similar positioned town for southbound traffic. We stay the night.

Another paralysing blue sky greets us in the morning. I collect Williwaw and bring her around to the front of the hotel to awaiting the girls.   Sitting behind the wheel I can’t believe my eyes. Williwaw gets a free car wash. With the agility of a deranged cat a young lady totally naked has hopped up on the bonnet and promptly pee’s on the windscreen. I am so startled by the golden shower I don’t dare turn the windscreen wipes on. She is obviously not the full shilling bouncing off down the street in chimpanzee style.

With the girls still not believing a word of the main morning event we reach Debre Markos the capital of the Gojam province. The road now turns to all-weather surfaces till we arrive on the shore of Lake Tana, once known as Lake Pseboe by the Greeks and Lake Coloe by the ancient Egyptians.

Ethiopians largest lake known to the locals as Lake Dambiya or T’ana Hayk it forms the main reservoir for the Blue Nile.

Stopping in Bahir Dar we eventually check into the Tana Hotel a few kilometres outside.

It is clear that Lake Tana is a major Ethiopian tourist attraction. Bahir Dar itself reflecting its earning capacity with many tourist shops, hotels and palm-lined streets.   Our hotel is modern both in Architecture and room costs. There are only Faranji prices here.

We are beginning to understand Paul’s comments when he said that the Faranji element is a curse. It is extremely difficult to camp in Ethiopia due to the consent hassle and gimme gimme attire of its young.

Unfortunately the consent association that foreigners are a source of wealth leads one to have a distinct feeling of distrust so much so that you feel that if you camp there will only be the flattened grass left if you leave your campsite for more than a minute.

From our travels we know that it is only individuals that tarnish the ordinary decent people of a country.

We’ve arrived just as dinner is being served in the hotel. Confirmation of our   tendencies to have dinner with a tip finally gets our room porter to leave us to settle in. With the lakeshore a short walk away our room looks out on well keep tropical gardens. Opening our large sliding window the bird sounds are inexhaustible, so on arriving downstairs we not surprised to be dining with a group of twitches. The conversation is Watttled Ibis, Abyssinian Long Claws, Blackheaded Siskin, Woodpeckers and the like. To tweet to woo none we knew.

Dawn breaks. A visit to the tourist office house in the hotel has us booked on a lake island monasteries trip.

Lake Tana water expanse seventy miles wide by sixty is dotted with islands housing Monasteries dating back to the 14^th century. One of these monasteries is alleged to have been host the Ark of the Covenant for eight hundred years before it was mover to Axum in the 4^th century. Where it is hiding ever since apart from when it was slashed on Dago Istanfanos Island in the 16^th century no one is sure other than Indiana Jones. Looking at map of the lake there are over thirty other small islands where it could have hung about unknown.

No matter we not here to solve the riddle. Finnegan’s Wake James Joyce’s labyrinthine novel is more than enough for me.

All aboard we set forth to our first island that turns out to be a peninsula. Uran Kidane Mihiret or Mehret monastery on the Zege Peninsula founded in the 14^th century is the only one that allows woman inside.

Not knowing what to expect we are met by our first fully robed cross bearing bible bashing Ethiopian sky piloted.

Standing in front of the doorstep to the doorway of the holy of holies he is surrounded by a halo of white-eyed head paintings each with wings and small dark black eyeballs. Every painted face is eyeballing him. In stark contrast to the opulence of his heavy radiating yellow robes white trouser legs protrude with toenails that shine like flecks of mica on bare brown bare feet that match the colour of the wooden floor.

In one hand he is holding a large silver cross-mounted on a staff that shines like the Star of David. A bible in the other suitable opened at a page displaying a picture of the Madonna on the left and St George slaying a dragon on the right. From beneath a skull-cap that rest on his ears his unsmiling beard face pears out at us. Both the Madonna and George have the same black eyeballs, as the on looking host of tightly pinched lipped round lifeless faces on the doors surrounds.

The two enormous doors to the Holy of holies are broken into three painted panels. The top panels of both the left and right doors are covered in life-size paintings of a standing ark angel in clogs with full-feathered wings, sword, and halo. Dwarf size saints at their feet accompany both. Directly beneath them are two further panels. The one on the left represents three white halo veiled priests carrying crosses with another group kneeling in front of them in white robes carrying chin-resting sticks. All are admiring some little bloke who look’s like he is suffering from a sever toothache while standing in a bird box that has a star on top of it. Under this lot is a prancing white horse with a purple robed rider waving a large Arabian type sword that has just chopped off a few heads of some unbelievers?

On the right the second panel has a group of what looks like ladies huddled together in a bus shelter with faces that depict the avoidance of a sudden rain shower.   At their feet is a head of a fish with a three-pronged spear stuck in it nut. The spear seems to be held by the archangel above. Under them to set off the white robes chin resting stick group on the opposite side is a group of mulish assorted sexed individuals. The male’s ID by moustaches. All in brown robes with black hair this group of peering pilgrims has a keen interest in our Pilots shining toes.

In the gloom of the holy of holies just visible a towering mural of another Madonna with folded arms sporting a halo with a wingspread white horse fluttering over her head. She is grace with the presence of a white bearded and white hair saint name unknown.

“Five dollar” says the Druid. Three quarters of an hour later we stagger out with stiff necks.

Like very think when you get an overabundance you become comatose. One prancing horse, two prancing horses, three all with riders busy with either squirting dragons, poking bleeding bullocks or hacking the head off some poor wretch on foot blend into one impression > The Glorification of violence in the name of religion. Not much has change.

On to the next island.

The sun is now frying our fellow passenger turning them into Byzantine Murus (Latin for Muriel’s) that could grace any wall in this century or the next. There is no mercy out here on the water of Tana. “It’s a funny thing about those eyes says Florence.   “The ones in the church they move”.   “Walt Disney pictures.”   “Luckily we have had the some common sense to bring suntan oil and hats. The breeze is superb and the sound of water rushing past the hull is music to my ears.

Slowly we draw close to any other craft. Large butter bats paddles propel a lone peddler in a pink shirt under a tablecloth hat on a boat straight out of Classical Antiquity. A Papyrus canoe. “Tankawa a Tankawa says our driver.

Low in the copper tinted water the peddler is oblivious to us. It’s a long journey of over three thousand miles to the sea.

Our landfall Dago Istanfanos a genuine Island this time is on the bow less than ten minutes if the outboard doesn’t conk. We land. The waiting druid is expecting us. Ten bucks. Five mummified Ethiopian kings that refuse to verify the where about’s of the Ark. A 15^th century painting of yet another Madonna all of which Fanny and Flo due to their womanly functions are refused admission on the pain of death.

I am not interested in a demonstration of large drum beating or a quick gander at the Monastery crowns.   It also seemed pointless (considering that I had just acquired the Amaharic for toilet shintabet,) to take up the offer of reading one of the rare unreadable Ge’ez written holy book.  We retreated to the lakeshore for a pee.

Next stop turns out to be a Monastery full of dubious druids. Once more no woman allowed on more count than just religious taboos we feel.

We put back with our fellow lobster looking Franajis arriving back in time for the evening lecture on avifauna. Leaving the girls languishing in the hotel I drive Williwaw out along the lakeshore in search of the Blue Nile’s outlet from the lake its source.

The Lake ( discovered by a Portuguese Jesuit named Fr. Pedro Paez in 1631 The Jesuits were expelled from Ethiopia in 1632) land locked 11°04.N, 37° 02E, provides over 80% of the volume of the combined Niles making it is one of the most important lake in Africa.

Unlike Lake Victoria the Niles other suckling Lake Tana is still free of the jaw snapping Nile perch and oxygen sapping water lilies. However both lakes at their outlets of life-giving water have hydroelectric dams.

Lake Tana dam is diverting so much water that it is already a festering bone of contention that will either destroy the lake or sour relations with Sudan and Egypt in the not so distant future.

On a bridge overlooked by a palace originally built for Haile Selassie I pull over. Immediately I attract two youth how take some shaking off with their persistence that they should guide me.   Eventually they get the message.   I drive Williwaw as far off the road as possible and take to shanks mare following a well-trodden track till I come to some boggy ground. A set of well-worn stepping-stones signals the way.

One hour later in dense tangled lakeshore bush I reach the beginning of the Blue Nile a few thousand years to late to be credited with the distinction of giving a lecture to the Geographical Society in London. But who cares I feel every bit as good a James Bruce (1730-1794) when he stood here claiming he found the source long before mobile phones or the Internet.

Unlike Bruce who went on to trace this water to their coming together with the White Nile all I have to do is to remember which set of stepping-stone I crossed in the first place.

I arrive back to be showered in glory to find both lasses snoring their head off. Too much fresh air, sun, combined with awe-inspiring paintings of a blissful ancient civilization has both of them in the land of nod.

After a late start and another visit to the tourist office we drive out to Tis Abay. Our intention is to visit the Smoke of the Nile one of Africa most amazing waterfalls. As independent traveller this is easier said than done. Arriving we are surrounded by a herd of guides and You, You, kids. There is no option other than whacking and hacking your whole way to the falls other than taking a guide. Although we make several heroic attempts to set forth on our own we are followed to the point of out right abuse. For the sake of tranquillity we eventually surrender. God knows the 18^th century explorer James Bruce who is credited with being the first European to see Tis Abay had less hassle than us.

I eventually agreed a ten-dollar fee. We cross over a small stone bridge to start a climb up a dense wooded slop which takes all of a half an hour. Another fifteen minutes we surface to the thunderous roar of a mini compact Victoria. Our first view is breathtaking. Photo no –cd the falls are in full bombardment. Set in a wonderful un polluted natural surroundings it has more of an impact on us than its more famous Victoria.

Gaining the main viewing vantage point the falls is in fact two separate falls.

One is plunging with great intensity into a narrow gorge while the other with a wider jumping off platform pours with greater volume but with a little less passion to join its more vigorous partner in the head long rush to the Hydro Electrical plant that will eventually cause trouble boil and trouble.

Rounding a bend to another viewing point we a meet by a flock of birds. Not the endemic white-cheeked turaco but five young bridesmaids in flaming red dresses. Their tightly bunned jet-black hair and rose-red dresses against the backdrop of the pouring white waters make a starling photo.

The European bride and her newly wedded handsome tuxedo wearing man radiate a feeling of happiness and love that is infectious. We all chat over a most welcome glass of bubbly. I find out that on its less spirited side of the falls it is possible to walk under the falls.

Leaving with the wedding party in full flow it is shock and horror to our guide when I point downwards. Much to his contentment I start down. We arrive at a small not so wide deep stream. There is nothing for it but to get the karks off. The guide is visibly scared stiff of water. Up to the Adams apple I cross without any difficulty he stay rooted to terra firma.

Working my way along the stream the roar of the falls is hearing-impairing. The spray is blinding.   Hugging the rock face I advance foot by foot till I reach the first vain of cascading water. The path ahead looks dangerous and uninviting so I chicken out. Returning to my spot where I crossed the stream the guide has long done a runner. Reunited with the girls we walk back to Williwaw guide free.

(To be continued)

Donation News: Not good. Zilch. You can still be the first.

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

Sorting Code 98-50-10.

ETHIOPIA:

What we know:

 FAMINE. DROUGHT. ADDIS ABABA. HAILE SELASSIE. BOB GELDOF. HAILE GEBRSELASSIE.

After a punishing drive in aching solitude, torrid heat and big vast skies we are beginning to wonder if we should have ever listened to our Sicilian friend in Dar es Salaam.

We arrive in Moyale too late to cross the frontier. Check into a small hotel for the night. Approaching the frontier early next morning there are no signs of activity. This is usually a warning that your departure is not going to be a pleasant affair. By now we are experience hands at border politics, and have seen most of the scams. This one turns out to be one of the worst. Every tactic from unloading and searching Williwaw to demanding undeclared currency and threatening export duty on the vehicle are tried in an effort to line the custom and excise pockets.

Eventually with the assistance of a flying doctor we clear the frontier late in the afternoon. It’s time to good-bye or good riddance to a country that is destroying its geological leisureliness, its beauty, its hospitality, its people, for short gain.

During all hassle the Ethiopian side is monitor the whole Kenya per lava from their frontier.

As a result they seem to take a pride in dealing with our entry professionally and welcome us with open hands sending us on our way with out too much hassle.

Relying on notes marked on our map by Paul our Dar es Salaam Sicilian we head for Jinka. He recommends spending some time in the Omo river basin area using Jinka or Bako as a base to explore the area and its native peoples.

The Hamar, the Galeb, the Dassanithch, the Bumi, the Karo, the Amer, the Bena, the Mursi, the Bodi, the Anuak, the Nuer, the Surma, all of which Paul lament’s to be disappearing rapidly.

According to him despite the marked differences of aid on each tribe its effects is fruitlessly in the long-term because ultimately it erodes the tribe’s culture and inevitably brings tourism. “These peoples are the most remarkable ethnic people left in the world.” “Now they charge for photos,” says Paul.    We make good time to Yabello our turnoff for Jinka but as always in no time we are in very rocky terrain returning to atrocious road conditions.

Not a person or animal relieves our monotonous struggle upward through Dry River courses that mender down from narrow rocky/sandy valleys. The long slow climb to Konso eventually ends at five thousand feet. Braking free we gaze down on a creamy red yellow colour world where every splash of green can be seen for miles. Terracing buttresses cling to the steep mountainsides. Here and there dots of small clusters of neat beehive shaped roofs surrounded by stone walls confess to human life. Each roof has a large earthen pot sitting at a slight angle on its peak to allow smoke out and prevent rain in. We have arrived in the drought Tuscany of Africa. The Konso are the principal and the least cut off group of this area of Ethiopia. They speak Cushitic a language that is a mixture of the other tongues of the Omotic languages.

Our welcoming is not what we are expecting.   Instead of painted faces or bear breast woman pounding maze our descent is watched by large carved wooden figures huddle together in small groups either in a field or standing beside the track. They watch us pass like non-representational ghostlike signposts. The odd one is decked out with a large phallic symbol carved on the forehead. They impart a petrifying feeling.

“They are guarding against evil,” says Florence. Both Fanny, and I silence response confirms her intuition. We stop at the first cluster of hunts. The entrance to the compound looks menacing. Two large dried tree trunks buried under an array of dried branches form a wishbone gap into a dark passage way that is blocked waist high by diagonally logs. We are in no rush to knock so we park under a large tree that overlooks the terraced ground sloping down to the next compound.

The spell of our Ethiopian visit is beginning.   Suddenly out of the confused mass of tangle petrified wooden appears our first Ethiopian. He is not skin and bone but wearing a suit, a tie and shoes. Unexpectedly in perfect English we are invited in. We enter with unarticulated expectations. A dog growls and is rebuked in a language totally non understandable.

Standing in the enclosure the dog crouches submissively on a small stone wall. The world has reverted several thousand years. We are on a different time clock. There is a strong smell of smoke, earth, and animal dung mixes with an overriding feeling of cramp, cold stone, thorns, and thatch. A drying table with some corn occupies a central position; a cow moo makes known the whereabouts in a dark stable.

Bending down to enter the upper level of the enclosure we follow him along the top of a small wall. In the main living quarters a man wrapped in torn ruff cotton cloth greets us. A corner of a sack adorning his head hiding a face that tells of a durable existence.

To our right in a room all on their own on a roughly flagged floor grinding stones with their stone rolling pins lay idle. An unlit cooking fire surrounded by pitch-black pots and large earthenware drinking water containers confirms that he is not the only occupant of the enclosure. We are waived to sit down. To our left is a low arched doorway of no more than three feet high leading to a short tunnel the entrance to the sleeping huts. The tunnel ensures no unwelcome guest arrive in the dark of the night. Any over amorous stud looking for a quick bonk could be easily club or speared before he ever got erect. Perhaps this is where the origins of phallic symbols come from.

Our young man explains that he is a qualified accountant on a visit home.

“Fuck me an accountant who ever have thought you meet one in this place above all places.” I have my suspicions when he is keen to be our guide. We explain that we are on our way to Jinka and will be in the area for a few days.

He is enthusiastic to show that he would make a very good guide promising a guided tour of the enclosure after a cup of Kosso tree tea. (We find out later that Kosso is the Amharic name for tape worm.) The tea tastes bitter like one of those medicines that tastes not too bad but has some hidden ingredient that only makes its self-known when swallowed. The tour over one is impressed with the cleanliness of the enclosure. The latrine is on the outside and all animal dung is collected for manure.

During our tour he explains that the wooded statues are caved in honour of Konso hero’s.   They are called Waga figures.   The deceased is usually in the middle surrounded by his wives and the figures on either extreme represent any his enemies that he has bumped off. Also any animals that he may have slain are carved and placed at the hero feet.   The phallic symbol is called a kallaacha; however he is unable to confirm my theory of their emblematical source.

Our young man gives us Irish directions to Jinka.   Pointing at one group of beehive roofs to the next and then over the nearest hill where his finger points to unseen further hills.

We leave skirting our way out from the first to last of the terrace walls. By the time we hit the valley floor ever-thatched roof looks the same. Although the land looks infertile every terrace has its Cabbage tree with maize, beans, yams, millet, it is obvious that the Konso are resourceful farmers.

Our route takes us north of Lake Chew. No matter what direction we look in a mountain ridge blocks the horizon. With no roads to speak off it is stop and ask but ask how. People are as uncommon as animals so we labour on blind up one craggy stone passage after another in the hope of finding somewhere.

A display of red totally out of kilter amongst the snarling bush and rocks traps our eyes. Two blooming plants of startling beauty invite us to consider our surroundings. Jinka on our map as the crow flies is only a stone throw away nevertheless getting there is turning out to be more than a bit of a nightmare.

There is nothing for it but to push on up our preferred mule track. A loud report threatens any further advance. Williwaw has snapped one of her coil springs. Luckily I had not got my thumbs around the steering wheel. (Top TIP: When driving off-road get into the habit of holding the steering wheel without your thumbs hooked around the wheel. If the vehicle hit a stone or dives down a rut it’s more than likely you end up with a broken thumb.)   If there is one quality a Land Rover has is it ability to limp on when others have given up the ghost. With every lurch sounding torturous we drive on.

Heaving and a tossing from port to starboard we are welcomed to Jinka by an orange moon.

Limping up a grass dirt runway that divides the village it’s too late to find the mission that Peter has advised us to camp in.   The only guiding electric light turns out to be the Bar. Here we are fed and stay for the night in a small room behind the bar. Even though it is stifling hot it’s a sleeping bag job under our mossy nets. Sleep is extremely difficult. All of us spend the night begging for dawn to arrive. When it does we find that we are seven years and eight months behind when we arrived. The Ethiopia calendar conforms to the Julian calendar and is divided into twelve months each of thirty days and a 13^th month of five or six days in a leap year. Hence the slogan that Ethiopia is the country of “13 months of sunshine.”

With Williwaw far from well the acquisition of a replacement coil spring is upper some on my mind. First daylight impressions of Jinka and its territorial surrounds do not offer much hope of finding one. It is obvious that if one arrives here on a buses or public transport your onward options are limited if you have or don’t have a set of wheels. The few vehicles parked outside the pub are packet to the roof. By the time we have moved into the Mission compound the cool of the morning is long gone.   Pitch No 113.

Here I am informed by one of the two priests running the mission, which also runs a small school, and hospital that my only hope of getting a replacement spring is to fly to Addis Ababa. The next flight is the day after to-morrow seven years ago. “You are in luck as Jinka is the only off-line landing strip that Ethiopian Airlines serve for miles around here.” “To morrow is market day so you’re best to book a ticket in the bar today.”

After a late afternoon visit to the School and the hospital I book a flight. As to what time the flight departs I am at a totally loss. However with a little help I discover that Ethiopians measure time in twelve-hour cycles starting at 6 am and 6 pm. Twelve-o-clock turns out to be six am arriving at eight am, which is two pm. Dinner is with our three missionary hosts. The conversation goes on into the night delving in and out of all subjects both biblical and classical.

Ethiopians are Axumites that is those people who live in the Ethiopian highlands. The expression Ethiopic comes from the Greek (burnt-face) and the terms Ethiopia and Abyssinia (the latter deriving from the Arabic word habishat) became exchangeable when the Europeans arrived.  Current Ethiopia is a spin-off of the 19^th –century scramble for Africa. It was once thought to be the kingdom of a bloke called Prester John.   Seventy different languages are spoken in Ethiopia. Ge’ez the language of Ancient Axum is still used by the Ethiopian Orthodox Church. Ahow means yes and Aydelem means no is about as much as I can remember of the subjects touched on.

Hitting the pit a three am with a twelve o clock start a joke about time comes to mind. This smooth talking Irish guy is in a bar when a cool looking babe walks in. He starts looking at his watch till the babe can’t help but notice. “Your date late?” No he said. “I’m just looking at my new sate of the art watch which I bought down the street. “ I’m testing it.” It uses alpha waves to talk to me.” “What it’s telling you” That you’re not wearing any panties” “Well sorry,” she said, “but I am.” “Jesus’, it must be an hour fast.”   Sweet dreams.

Jinka’s market day bears out that at least 20% of Jinka’s current population don’t know that they are Ethiopians and for that matter they could not cared less.

Accompanied by the usually pack of kids and dogs we descend a steep rocky path. Passing a butcher shop advertised by a few hopeful perched vultures on the roof the meat looks less than appetising. We eventually surface onto a relative large flat area. It is thronged with vendors sitting on the ground and shoppers from another world > A world of symbolism. Every thing is haggled over and is sold or not sold by the grain or the gram. My camera has me in trouble almost immediately. Over our journey I have taught myself all sorts of tactics to take photos without the subjects noticing. I am caught red-handed by a very annoyed young lady. She is a Mursi’s or a Surma I don’t have time to ask.

She confronts me head on. Her lower lip hangs over her chin like an orange peel. Beauty is in the beholder. The larger the plate that signifies the amount of cattle her perspective groom will have to pay is not on view. Her eyes say it all. Another click and there will be hell to play. I back off feeling like a sulking dog. I can feel her saying “I am not a weird specimen but a human being.”

Every moment and every face in the market is a photo one must have. Many a western coffee table bears witness to this temptation.

God knows markets bet supermarkets and hypo shopping markets any time for social interactivity. This one reflects the hardships, the cultural mix, and the daily lives of the region. We spend a day a wash with art in the form of body scarring that either illustrative of a kill or visual beauty depending on the sex of the human being. Every scar with our knowledge of enhancing beauty or brutality asks a question that cannot be answered.

AK 47s are carried around the market like handbags. Wounds and scars are shown off with pride.

Western clothing warns of in pending, impinging, imposing technological of civilized growth grabbing hold of this other wish remote and forgotten territory. Large tracks of uninhabited bush, hills, and the Omo River are still contested over to this day by each and every one against every single one. We return to our campsite with a longing to be able to communicate beyond the constraints of our sunglasses.  

Scattering the awaiting crowd the DHC –6 lands > There is no check in an hour in advance or have you left your luggage unattended? Or Gate 56, Metal Detectors, it’s a free for all. My spring comes in handy.

Fully loaded and I mean fully loaded the props fire into life with a cough of encouraging black smoke. We swing around, hold on the brakes till the plane shakes like a wet dog. Four or five whoops bumps and we are air-borne. First stop Arba Minch not that I knew.

The rugged highland landscape with dirt roads winding from one small village to the next takes form below.   Without warning a sharp turn we are on the way down over a lake. We land at Arba Minch. A half-hour later we are once more in the air following the rift valley lakes. The land soon changes to look like a large quilt. As far as the eye can see every square inch is cultivated.

It’s hard to believe that famine ravaged and lay waste to this land producing some of the most horrific and soul-searching pictures to challenge the priorities of humankind.

In such a short space of time from a world of half-naked, orange peel hanging lips, where bodies are a talkative art form it’s more than weird to walk out of an Airport into to a world of Sheridan and Hilton, taxis, traffic, and air pollution too tee-shirts and trainers.

The first thing one notice about Addis Ababa is that it is rather overwhelming busy, full of life, with beggars, raving loonies, children, street-hawkers, cripples, and confidence trick artists all by the ton. The whole place is infectious and far safer than Joe Burgh, or Nairobi.

Because of our long stay in Africa I have come to learn that it is unrealistic to think I can understand another culture because of my culture, but that it is possible to communicate. There is still a great deal of comatose double standards in our attitudes to ethnic cultures. On the one hand we wish to protect cultures without the bits we don’t like such as circumcision, scarring, snipping balls off and the like when in fact we should be accepting the whole packet, and not treating the cultures of the world as merchandise. The interesting thing about Addis is the total contrast between native and out of the ordinary cultures that are being absorbed into an Afro-western style city. Walking around is westernised facilities you’re snowed under with a spirit of excitement, and curiosity.

After some Taxi fare barging I am installed on the recommendation of my taxi driver in the Lido Hotel not far off the main drag five minutes walk too Mexico Square the city centre. “A spring no problem” “Come in morning 2pm that is 8am. Ishee (OK).My taxi turns up on time and in no time I am getting my first lesson in Amharigna > Ishee just does not mean just OK is also can be used to say hello and good-bye. “Chigger Yellem” says my driver. “Ishee” says I no problem says the driver which is chigger yellem. A spring says I, Ishee says he. We drive across the city with a small guide tour thrown in for good measure. Menelik 11 founded Addis Ababa or the New Flower in 1887 (our time). Addis has the largest market in Africa named Addis Ketema is about all I understood.We arrive in a street dedicated to the car industry. Stall after stall loaded to the hilt with scavenged car parts. It’s a breakers yard dream. As there is no possibility of I finding my way back to the hotel I indicate to my driver to wait on my. “Chigger Yellem,” with a large smile.

Everyone has a spring or knows where to lay their hands on one. I am besieged by children demanding, “You give” “Money” “ Franaji” to the point of irritation. Taking a landmark I venture into the heart of the scrap yard. Down an oily alleyway up another till I spot a mount of springs. “Aw, Aw.” My spring disappeared arriving back with another that is obviously not the same. “No, No say I (which means Is, Is, I learn later in Amharigna.) Another attempt brings more no, nos. I start rooting through the springs. This one >How much. Twenty minutes of good spirited haggling follows.

I have come to appreciate during the course of our travels that there is a cheapskate way of bargaining that one can get wrapped up in. It is practiced by many a traveller whether they be backpackers or fly by nights in the belief that every penny counts. It is contemptible and to be avoided. Bargaining can be done with fun and honesty rather than with humiliation and sheer currency pinching. A fair deal is a fair deal and a rip off is a rip off.

While all attempts to compress the spring fail miserably I strike a deal in US$ and as an extra freebie the hangings on kids are sent scurrying for cover. I return to my awaiting taxi arriving with the reformed herd of kids who are once more sent running this time with a loud > Hid (Amharigna for get lost) from the taxi driver and scram from me. On the way back to my hotel the guided tour takes up where it left off.

The Hilton>The Commercial Bank of Ethiopia >The Palace> The Dinquinesh > Lucy Skull – thou are wonderful to Ethiopians. Lions House > The Football Stadium > Menelik Mausoleum all offered as a stop with no chigger yellem.

Arriving at the Lido Hotel I agree the term for a pick up in the morning for the airport and my flight back to Jinka.   Jinka no bother. No the Airport. Isee Isee.

Showered I venture out for a look around. First it’s the bank for details re arranging the last transfer of funds. Armed with a small map of the city I soon cop on that none of the names on the map relate to any of the names of the streets or squares.   Every place has two or three names depending on whom you are asking. Taxis swoop over to you even doing u-turns in the hope of earning a few Birr. Beggars home in on you all deserving but I have decided to help only those that don’t hassle me. I make it as far as the Hilton.

A spot of lunch:Those of you who have the fortune to visit Ethiopia can image my surprise when rather large pancake-like sourdough bread is placed in front of me. For all attentive purposes it looks like a tin brown sheet of foaming rubber called Injera. Normally it has what is called the wot served on top, but here in the Hilton the wot is served in separate little dishes. The wot is stewed meat and different vegetables. I look around at my fellow diners to get a hint on how to tackle it. Simple rip of a bit of Injera till it snaps off and then scoop up some wot. Deposit the wot on the Injera and hope the lot fits in your gob.

It is filling like one of those gurn kinobles you get in Austria that feels like a lump of lead in your stomach. With a mind all of its own that endeavours with all it might to dragging you down a black run long before you have mastered a blue run. There you have it but what do you expect in a country where every bit counts. Washed down with a beer in the garden bar I am once again ready to run the gauntlet of the no names streets of Addis.

(To be continued )

(CONTINUATION)

With one of our passenger stuffed in the back we set off early to Marsabit on one of the worst roads on offer in Africa. True to form the radiator gives trouble. Our spirits plummet to one of the lowest point of the whole journey. The landscape is desolate to the point of being intimidating. Every stop is agonising while we wait for the engine to cool. (Top TIP: It is best to leave you engine running when cooling down an overheated engine. It allows the engine to cool quicker and at an even temperature.)

The heat of the day is so intense that our crammed in passenger in the back opt on several occasions between stops to hang on to Williwaw by standing on the door footplate. We arrive after nine hours of driving looking like a group of people about to take part in some science fiction move. The only visible features through the layers of dust are our eyes.

Marsabit surrounded by a dust bowel has three hotels with a large extinct volcano on its outskirts that stick out like a sore thumb.   Covered in dense forest it is totally out of kilter with the surrounding landscape. The town itself without difficulty could pass as an out post. A Wild West frontier town except for that large extinct volcano covered in trees to its south.   All esquires as to the possibilities of a convoy up to the Ethiopian border fall on def ears. With quite a few shady blokes giving Williwaw the eye we have no option but to stay the night in the hotel. Not the most congenial joint.

I place Williwaw under guard for the night with the strict orders that if I find either of my guards asleep on the job there will be no pay in the morning. Visiting her at two am I deliver a kick to the arses of each guard ensure they both stay awake for the rest of the night.

Awaking to yet another a blistering hot day we discover that our two passengers have arranged a lift in a truck. After a miserable breakfast we fuel Williwaw ensuring that the fuel is put through a filter from a large drum. (Top TIP: Fueling in remote places can be a disaster. The last thing one wants it to have to bleed the system. So never let the last few inches of a fuelling drum be pumped into you tank or Jerry cans. It will have sediment and water. When topping up you fuel in hot dry climate always earth your Jerry can and the vehicle. Static electricity is one of major causes of fire especially if it’s a petrol vehicle.)

Eventually with a sigh of relief we get going. We are relieved to be leaving Marsabit convey or not.   Anywhere will do but we are not expecting paradise. Consulting our bible it describes a campsite in the Marsabit national park & Reserve, which apparently is the extinct volcano we saw on the way into Marsabit as the Kenyan camping site of camping site. Hidden on the floor of the volcano is a small lake named Lake Paradise. We decide to have a look.

An empty hotel at the entrance to the Paradise does not inspires much optimism. The bible states that to camp in the park one must be accompanied by a ranger so before lifting the barrier we have a look for Saint Peter. We find a cat that gives Florence a smack for imitating the call of a lion cub.

Eventually we unearth the cat owner the only living humanoid. He is just as surprised to see us, as we are to have found him. We discover that we are the first people to visit this year and it takes a large quantity of control when the park attendant demands a 100US$ a day. I am tempted to tell him to stuff his campsite up his dark hole. Over a drink I cool off haggling the outrageous fee down to a reasonable amount. Assured that we could look after ourselves the invisible ranger requirement is also dispensed with. The gate is unlocked.

We commence a slow tricky climb to the volcano summit.   Emerging out of the trees onto the core edge the bible for once has got it right.   Below us captured in the reflection waters of a small lake is the complete core duplicated in faultless detail. A further twenty minutes of bouncing and lurching from one side to the other we arrive on the lakes shore disturbing twenty odd Coots sending them dashing like scud missiles in every direction.

Pitch No111 is truly in seventh heaven. We park on a high bank in amongst trees with large dangling vines. Our choice of site commands a clear view of the whole lake. There is utter and absolute silence with an eerie feeling that some thing will either roar or crash out of the woods at any moment.   On the other hand if one of us were to break wind the spell of the place would be shattered.   The sun is dipping fast with it becomes surprisingly cool quickly. A hot puff of air ruffles the lake waters making the surrounding reeds and tall grasses whisper.   A bird call sounds the alarm announcing the arrival of our first thirsty visitors. Two elephants appear on the lakeshore opposites us. A blacksmith plover is going mental at the uninvited intrusion. We are riveted to our binoculars. It is as if our souls are in communication with the natural tempo of life. Devoid of any other human interference and cocooned from the surrounding desert the countless documentaries that we had watched over the years come to life in one of the most beautiful and strange places.   This is our very own private safari.

(OUR VIEW)

With the excitement over I get a larger than usual campfire going while Florence practices some Tarzan moves on one of the large hanging vines. Dinner, a few whiskeys and the sound of the girls snoring bring an out of this world day to a close.

I awake early to bird sounds as clear as an alarm.   The air is still and has a crisp chill to it so I poke the amber of our fire to life. . The lake removes it misty cover slowly and is in its full sky blue by the time the girl’s surface. A hearty breakfast is interrupted with a snatch for the glasses. The early morning bathers have arrived. A herd of Buffalo emerge from where we had spotted the elephants. In no time the lake is full of swimming buffalo. Their massive horns float like Viking ships each with yellow-billed Oxpecker’s manning the deck.

We spend the day sitting under our plate form in the shade sketching, reading, and sweeping the lakeshore with our glasses. The bird book takes another bashing. Fly time comes and goes. A troop of jumpy baboon entertains us with their sympathetic nervous systems on approach the water edge. A spooked gazelle gives us a scare.   Late in the afternoon with a ware eye on the now grazing buffalo I venture down on to the lakeshore. The tall grass makes visibility untrustworthy and it not long before I feel uncomfortable and exposed. Better to be safe than sorry so I give up any hope of walking around the lake.

As much as we want to stay it’s time to packed up and make ready to leave. I make on last visit to the lake with a bucket. Our campfire needs a dousing to ensure that it is well extinguished. (Top TIP: Campfires might look out, but in very dry area the ground its self-will catch fire. It is good practice to ensure that every last ember has no life.)

Climbing out of the core Williwaw engine booms like a roaring dragon emerging from its den.   On the way in we had not notices it due to the beauty of Paradise but now we could be heard in hell. Cresting the lip of the core the surrounding desert bellows out before us looking far from welcoming. Arriving back at the gate we stop for a drink “You know that our famous attraction Mohammed died some time ago.” “Mohammed was one of the best known elephants in Kenya.” “He had tusks that every poacher would have died for.”

“Over a 100 lbs each side.”  

Our destination is Lake Turkana 250 km long and 40 km wide to our west. Like Lake Nakuru, Lake Bogoda, Lake Baringo, Lake Turkana is a fast shrinking lake. Once connected to the White Nile when it was over a hundred meters higher it is still the largest permanent desert lake in the world.   When it was considerably larger and long before white man laid his exploration eyes on its waters it was known as Lake Zambura or by its local name Basso Narok (Great Water). Since then in time–honour practice Count Samuel Teleki von Szek renamed the Lake Rudolf in honour of the Crown prince of Austro- Hungarian. It remained so named for quite some time till acquiring other names such as the Jade Sea the cradle of mankind till in 1975 it reverted to Lake Turkana.

While we bump our way over rusty sun-baked rocks we also feel obliged to rename it.

Considering it is evaporating at a phenomenal rate each year and in honour Richard Eskine Fere Leakey we rename it. Lake Leakey. Quite appropriate in such a harsh part of the world where a cloud or a raindrop is a rare as any Turkana Boy skeleton a mere 1.6 million years old.

The lake very existence is an amazing glitch in its self. Back then it must have been quite a different place. Looking around now nothing appears to survive except the hardiest acacia and the odd tuff of wiregrass. Survival is very much the key anxiety of any day-to-day life. This is the land of the Turkana Kenyan’s third largest tribe related to the Maasai. With no towns or roads to speak of the Turkana are detached to this day from any modernisation. Described as one of Kenyan’s most confrontational and belligerent people we look forward to our first encounter.

In a country that is basically overrun with the need to cash in on the Tourist frantic search for time compressed experiences in the virtual reality of exotic locations we once more skirt Marsabit with a great feeling of privileged to have had Paradise all to ourselves.  

With the benefits of Paradise long forgotten in searing heat with a heartless hot wind that blows continuously we labour on over kilometre after kilometre of unrelentingly brutal landscape.   Eventually the windswept vastness of the lake appears. In the land of droughts an utterly new world spread itself out before our eyes. Reaping the rewards of deforestation, topsoil erosion the polished surface of the soda-dense water stretching away beyond what the eye can see. In this land of drought the lake is one of nature’s wicked tricks for there is not a drop to drink. We arrive at Lyangalai and settle into sunset strip campsite for the night Pitch No 112.

Although we are just north of the hottest region in Kenya the Suguta it is once more surprisingly fresh. With no wood to be had for miles a fire is out of the question.   It’s a night for the sleeping bags.

Morning divulge a land of violent volcanic upheaval. Black sand, rocky hinterland and extinct volcanic cores dot the shoreline. Our Camping host tells us that a mere two million or so year ago the lake used to stretch 160 kilometres further south beyond the Elephants Stomach (an Extinct Volcano).

Preferring to try my hand at catching a Nile perch, a Tiger fish, or for that matter anything we turn down an offer to visit south Island by boat. “Watch out for the crocs” gives me plenty of confidence. Several hours later having tried every lure in my box, and resisting the temptation of sticking my toe in the drink I return empty-handed.

That evening we listen to a story that encapsulates what can and does go wrong with an Aid programme. During the course of our travels, all the projects we saw that worked well were small and sustainable, built with the full participation of the locals, and combined local environmental and social knowledge.   More importantly they gave dignity, not aid for the sake of aid. .

You would think that the west would by now have coped on. After years of ploughing aid into projects that had no convincing overall concept other than they look good on paper, rely on expensive western expertise and costly hi-tech input it is obvious to us that such aid is futile. Africa black hole has received over the last decade $294 billion in loans. It’s good to see at long last that the donor interests are now being put on the back burner with more responsible Aid. However the IMF, the African Development Bank and World Bank still continue to judge countries by the scale to which they embrace privatisation and liberalisation when they would be better off to support loans on the basis of accountability policies of the participating countries and the bodies involved.

The west nevertheless continues to thinks that money is the solution to the entire African problem with plenty-abandoned projects bearing baring witness. > Groundnuts in Tanzania, Bottled Milk in Sudan, Canned Mangoes in Ghana, Grain Storage in Senegal, Wheat growing in Tanzanian, Lemons in Kenya, Eucalyptus trees in Uganda and Water in the Sahara.

Sausages and beans in cans to predominantly Muslim areas where there was and still is great famine.

But all of these don’t quite live up to the story we are now listening to. Back in 1980 Norway attempted to set up a fish processing plant at Kalokol on Lake Turkana.

IT IS NOW A SHRINE TO AID MONSTROSITIES a blot on the landscape and a gravestone of sheer folly.

We all know that the Norwegians love fish. But why grow them in Africa.

Without asking the locals, and with little or no prior study of the lake (that is subject to wild fluctuations depending on the rains in the Ethiopian highlands) or the environment it was decided to turn the nomadic cattle loving Turkanas into fishermen.   Millions were invested in setting up a plant in a scorching hot region where there were no roads; no fuel no fishing boats and where fishing was considered as an unworthy occupation.

Then apparently along came someone who dumped a few Nile perch from a helicopter into the lake. They promptly went about eating every other fish scale companion fish. (Nile Perch with the assistance of another well thought out programme had already cleaned out Lake Victoria to the extent that they are turning cannibalistic.)

It is no wonder that we are becoming more and more sceptical of government aid when it is disappearing down dark holes in the creation of show case projects that have little relevance to everyday living.   We all know that there is no easy fix for a continent where over 300 million people survive on less than a dollar a day > Where sickness in the form of a wave floods over it every day > Where corruption, greed, and illogical use of power is widespread > Where over 600 million people live in rural isolation > Where as a whole they are unaware of the IMF, World Bank, Television, and Electricity> Where all over the place lies donor aid rusting in the noonday sun, bearing witness to the lost cause of technology.

There is great talk these days of the developed world removing its protective subsidies on food and trade barriers in order to help the third world, make poverty history. Africa countries however must be still sheltered by trade barriers to allow them build up their industries before entering the free market otherwise fair trade will destroy them.

In the mean time it is not the job of the IMF, the World Bank, to place countries in hock for the sake of a few dollars rather it’s their job to maintain the diversity of African cultures and to let Africa have space to borrow from the western influences so they can adapt them to their own beliefs.

Most people on the continent lived in societies that define both self and others by ties of blood or power. The cruellest gift of colonialist days is the persistent inferiority complex, a befuddled sense of identity. Considering all that the continent has endured from slavery to colonialism most Africans display a racial tolerance, which is short of miraculous. We all know that in the final shout that it is only the people’s of Africa that will resolve their tragic dilemma but one way or the other.   We all belong ultimately to Africa.

The days of thinking that Africa cultures and the societies of Sub Sahara Africa form a single continuum, reflecting an underlying racial unity, which articulate itself in the “savage rhythms” of African music, the “sensuality” of African dance, the “primitive vigour” of sculpture and masks, from which was once called the “Dark Continent” are not yet totally over.

Just walk into any AFRICAN ART EXPOSITION and you will see.

Objects are still labelled with not the name of the maker but with the name of a “tribe” or some ethnic group. The legacy of the old European way of thinking what unites Africa is that it is the home of the Negro.

There can be little doubt that resolving the problem of trading barriers will do a lot to balance the haves and have-nots but one of the great dangers is that developing countries are fast becoming the information deserts of the underclass’s. There is a need too to prevent technology from encroaching on a nation’s people freedom of opportunities or intelligence. The United Nations should be addressing this problem as urgent perhaps by insisting that all microchips should be able to talk to each other.

Today’s Africa’s life (as it did long before it was subject to Colonisation, to slavery, to aid programmes that painted it with the one colour) remains in its diversity. It is still far too simple when speaking of a continent of hundreds of millions of people to lob the whole continent into a singular, coherent, African nature. Just look at the recent European Union problems.

All aspirations and diversity of cultures must be at the core of any assistance to gain any respect. Unfortunately to today’s technologies have a life of their own no longer subordinate to larger social goals. Globally Mobil capital of the world has only profit as it goal. Our journey bear’s out that most the developing trajectories that most African countries are on have little to do with the real needs of their people.

The G8th pontificating can’t pacify the vested interests of large multinational corporations bottom line.

As I have already said the only hope for a fairer world, for fairer trade, for an end to poverty is to harness the might of the world’s Stock Markets.

By morning we are having second thoughts about running parallel with the lake up to the Ethiopian border. Considering the condition of the dirt road and potholes it is a daunting journey of 250 kilometres. Prudence triumphs so we give the petrified forest of Sibiloi a UNESCO world heritage site a miss and double back to North Horr crossing into Ethiopia at Moyale.

   (To be continued)

Donation News. Zilch/

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

Sorting Code; 98-50-10.