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The little defoliating bastard. He was eating all the pretty pink flowers in the trees. Moments later he made a mad dash across main street and almost got hit by a Toyota Hilux. Silly monkey was eating my pretty flowers and deserves whatever comes his way. Later in the day a (the?) monkey made an ambush on the offices. With Beady eyes and red in tooth and claw he made a feint through the open door and but was deterred by his rock-throwing pursuers.
And later in the day…30 minutes to prepare raw meat? No, not sushi but Kitfo. It’s more of a raw meat mash with a couple dozen spices thrown in. YUMMY.
With the investor’s gone I was allowed some time to decompress. Or rather suffer constant travails. First let me introduce the house.
While it might look like a house. Be built like a house. And taste like a house. It did not function as one. Since moving my belongings in on Sunday there was no water available. Dust coated everything. It was a hollowshell that bellowed self-importance but ultimately had little to offer other than a pretty exterior
Returning to Mekelle near 9pm we stopped to collect our bags. As we took a moment to ground ourselves after what had been a tumultuous 5 days I received a call. Aberash, the recently hired in-country representative, wanted to meet with me. I mentioned a hotel that I was considering staying at and told her that after I had checked in I would meet her in an hour. 5 minutes later I received a call from Aberash informing me that she was at the hotel waiting for me. Ooops, it would be the first of many communication breakdowns. Normally I am none too picky about my appearance. Typically I don’t smell bad (though not particularly good either) and although some might disagree (shhhh) I’m not to prissy about my appearance. Shirt. Check. Drawers. Check. Shoes. Check. Maybe some pants for good measure.
However, having spent the last 5 days wandering around one of the hottest places on earth, being blasted by acidic and sulfurous geysers, and living with camels and their falafel, I was a singularly filthy human being. Taking a quick rinse from a mixture of sink and overhead pipe I gave the ears a good scrub and put on my cleanest dirty clothes.
Erik of course had no incentive to gussy himself up and so remained begrimed. A quick introduction with Aberash and then we met up with Christo and Christina to swap photos. The Russian, although invited was nowhere to be found. Hmmm. (a few days later Erik received an email from Mark informing us that he no longer wanted to be our friends and that furthermore he never wanted to see us ever again. He asked us, somewhat unpolitely, to forget his email address). Erik and I celebrated a successful trip with a few of the local wobbly pops and slumbered nearer to dawn than was wise with an 8am meeting with the regional investment office looming only slightly above the horizon.
Awaking at 6am with more than a few groans I packed my bags once again. Meeting Jim and Joerg was a sudden submersion into the real world once more. Together, they formed the exploratory arm of MCI’s investment team. Jim worked with KPMG as a management consultant and had been provided by KPMG in a pro bono effort to fulfill the MCI mission. Joerg was remarkably friendly East German who had pursued (been sent? Wandered into?) graduate education in the Soviet Union and at some point in the last several decades become heavily involved in investment promotion in developing countries. With experience in over a hundred countries his knowledge and ability to navigate the confusing arena socialist turned democratic capitalist governments was invaluable.
4 days of meetings and countless handshakes and macchiatos later I had gained intimate knowledge about every major industry in Mekelle and grinned toothily at the region’s president, the city’s mayor, several thousand goat and sheep skins, and a slew of doctors, directors, and executives.
The next morning was a mad dash for Dallol and the site of the bandit attacks 3 days earlier.
Teeming with guns, some operational, some most likely not, we joined up with a mass of French people whose Capri pants and euro-feel was as comforting as it was out of place.
Dallol was miraculous as only a vast expanse of delicate, wafer thin structures, boiling pits of sulfuric acid, and impossibly vivid yellows and greens can be amidst a monotous sea of lava rock and dust.
We also had the opportunity to visit surface salt mines that had been mined nearly continuously for thousands of years. But besides thousands upon thousands of camels, armies of salt workers, and hundreds of thousands of blocks of salt ripped from the earth through a mixture of brute force and primitive metal tools there wasn’t much to see.
Waking up in the morning we were still uncertain where we would go, what we would do. The night before it had not been fully determined if the Eritrean military had a hand in coordinating the attack. Had we had entered into a new chapter of the Ethio-Eritrean perched on the tip of Africa’s Horn.
Utilizing impeccable logic we determined that it would be relatively safe to visit an active lava lake experiencing recent volatility.
After 6 punishing hours driving we arrived to “corruption corner.” The Afar, interested in obtaining a portion of the significant tourist proceeds flowing to their lava strewn desert had devised an elaborate social etiquette system for bribery. We had been informed that we would need to pay 350 ETB before arriving and had budgeted accordingly. However, the process was not as simple as handing over a plain manilla envelope with nonconsecutive small denomination bills. Instead it was necessary to spend hours in pointless conversation tentatively broaching the subject, until the chief and his assistant had convinced themselves that they were justified in accepting our money as in the best interest of bureaucratic order.
A crisis of conscience for a tribe that has famously been described as one of the most violent and aggressive in Africa did not seem to fit. But hey, maybe they’re just misunderstand.
As dusk rolled through the black lands and burnt grasses, we arrived at the foot of the volcano. Eating dinner and waiting for night we sat watching the full moon sitting heavy on the horizon, looming large and jaundiced. The skies were muddied with massive clouds stranded listlessly above.
And under the yellow cast we walked. No flashlights, no noise. Passing camels and Afar we meandered across the sharpened landscape. Finally, nearing the base we looked up and began our ascent. Hours after setting out we crested the flat-topped mountain. A kilometer in the descent an eerie red glow spewed from the earth, mixed with smoke and gas.
Descending to the edge of the caldera required a 20 minutes scramble over hollow and shifting rocks. Reaching the edge and looking down was like peering into the primordial furnace of life. Animated and ever-changing, the lava bubbled and hissed and spat like a petulant child. It was beautiful beyond reckoning. The rest of the night time blended as we wandered around the lake’s rim, dazed and beholden to its miraculous nature. Near dawn we found a flat spot and settled down amongst shards of volcanic glass. Considering the blinding full moon, a post-apocalyptic landscape, and hell boiling over not more than 100 meters away I consider that I slept quite well.
Waking well before sunrise we crept around careful no to wake our guide too early. Cactus Jelly and flatbread sated us and with the first rays of light we left Bera Hile and our fortified hilltop school complex. 3 hours later after crossing two gorgeous rivers flowing over dark granite we came to the Town of Ama dile .Ama dile would serve as the base for exploring the Danakil over the next 4 days. After a brief lunch of shiro (apparently it was the third straight of fasting for a minor saint or miracle) and we began the drive to Dallol. 15 minutes after leaving the village 2 empty land cruisers, save wide-eyed screaming drivers, came hurling out of the indiscriminate desert. Hoptem yells and they respond “Shifta” In the border regions with Eritrea no word inspires as much fear as shifta. Bandits – we spin around, dirt flying into the arid heat. We return to Ama dile in a third the time.
As the story unfolds it turns out that 7 vehicles and 28 French tourists had been “detained” by the Shiftas. Kidnapped? Killed? We waited as a militia formed. Mounting Howitzer-esque weaponry upon the top of our Land Cruiser Hoptem and the local militia swarmed out of town towards the east. Over the ensuing afternoon cars and men limped back. By nightfall and after much worry the last tourist had returned. However, two Ethiopian drivers had been kidnapped and were still with the Afar bandits.
I fell into a burning ring of fire
I went down down down, but the flames crept higher,
And it burns burns burns, the ring of fire, the ring of fire.
And the earth’s gaping maw swallowed me whole
Joke: A Swede, Two Spaniards, an American, A Russian, an Ethiopian, and a handful of Afar tribesmen are sent to the hottest places on Earth.
The Russian receives disability payments from Israel for insanity. The Spaniards, after years spent traveling have a deep-ground mistrust of Africans, The American has been coughing for two weeks and the Swede gets grumpy from time to time. The Ethiopian speaks limited English, and the tribesmen want nothing more than your money. All of it.
A recipe for success?
Day 1: After buying a couple crates of fruits an vegetables in addition to rice and pasta we began the lengthy drive to Berahile. 4 hours on dirt mountain road and we arrived a little past lunch. Feasting (fasting) on beyanitu we returned to the guard station. Alas, no guard was to be found.
So…a Russian, a Swede, 2 Spaniards, and an American wander to the hottest place on Earth. And there is one Ethiopian. Sensitive but ultimately hapless in the face of discordant multinationalism. After a late start caused by dithering, black market transactions, general shopping, fruit shopping, and bidding farewell to our guide’s family we started the bumpy trek to Bera hile. After several stops we arrived to find the man with the key for the room where we needed an “official” piece of paper to be missing. With the man, the key, and the official piece of paper out of our reach we settled down to a game of competitive pick-up sticks with the local community. Ultimately, it turned out that the man and the key were 26 km in the direction from whence we came. Ultimately, the guide and the Russian were sent back (the Russian as collateral) to retrieve either the man or the key. 3 hours later they returned and we dispensed with 3 minutes of bureaucratic paper work in order to provide justification for a thoroughly unnecessary governmental position. Unfortunately, by the time this process had been completed darkness had descended upon us and we were unable to proceed into the night. (for fear of the wild things…and falling off precipitous cliffs.)
Thus began the first bout of haggling that would ultimately save us hundreds upon hundreds of Birr (~50 USD). We had already paid for 2 scouts and a guide for the day which were legally required for proceeding past Bera Hile. Surprisingly after nearly an hour of valiant arguing from our guide, Hoptem, and myself (modest aren’t I) we retrieved 300 Birrr. In Africa this is triumphant indeed! We had been refunded money by the civil service. WOW.
Flush with success the Russian, Erik and myself opted for a spot at the “hotel” – someone’s house quickly emptied of their belongings and converted into a place for faranji co-habitation. At the price of only a dollar this was a steal. Once our bags touched the floor the priced was quadrupled and incensed we left.
Returning, to the guard station we equivocated and finally settled on staying at the locally elementary school. Sometime soon after this our guide threatened to quit on us and call his manager to have another driver sent. After a couple beers, dinner, excessive cuddling with local children and 4 hours later Erik and I approached Hoptem about the next morning’s plan. After some heavy handed bargaining (i.e. Erik saying “let’s leae at 6 am” Hoptem – “No”. Erik – “Let’s go at 6. Hoptem – “No” Erik – “so 6 it is” Hoptem – “OK”) we arranged to leave early the next morning.
So that night we spent in Berahile, miles from nowhere and miles to nowhere. Somewhat confused about our experiences the Russian attempted to sum everything up with a pat “T.I.A” – This is Africa. However, that worn traveler’s saw doesn’t quite fit, and never did.
