Ethiopia: Camels and Osama in Babile, Harar, Day 7, Thursday

The camel market! Visions of colorful blankets and tassels and cushions adorning the animals; people calling out to each other; hustling and bustling in a bazaar-like atmosphere. Maybe that's at the Monday camel market, but this was Thursday.

Photo credit: zz77

Thursday at the Babile Camel Market (about an hour from Harar) is a hot and dusty field enclosed by a not unattractive cement-block wall overlooking a beautiful vista of mountain paths and unusual rock formations. Men hang about chatting. Camels - and there are plenty! - stand around, sometimes lie around - in groups. A few women.

There is, of course, always the would-be guide hopeful of some (in this neck of the woods) baksheesh in return for his so-called services. One such urged me to follow him to a particular location in this vast field, while I, like a recalcitrant donkey, persisted in going my own way, thank you very much.

Photo credit: Carole Rich

On several occasions I found myself in the center of a circle of men, which felt a little odd. They shot me questions (the usual) and I responded. (Once a woman approached me to try out her French. We did exchange a brief conversation in same, taxing our limited vocabularies.)

Some folks encouraged me to buy a camel (50,000 birr) because, after all, I was rich. I demonstrated to each joker that I could not fit a camel into my bag ... (isn't there a Biblical verse along these lines?)

Another guy suggested I buy him a cup of tea, to which I responded that everyone would like the same, and I estimated up to 100 people here, and besides, he and his compadres had now been interviewing me for 15 minutes, so he should be buying ME a cup of tea.

In each circle where I found myself, at turns, the individual with the best English translated his companions' and my questions and comments. In one circle, the translator pointed to a man outside the circle, "He says he is Osama bin Laden." I looked over at the guy and said, "Hey, we've been looking for you! There's a reward! Come with me!" Later, the guy said he was a soldier for bin Laden. Who know; maybe so.

Photo credit: motionpictureart

Another individual, a Somali, said he was on the refugee list to go to America; his brother was already in Dallas. I think he expected his name to come up in two years.

Eventually, I moseyed out, ready to get back into Harar. A couple of boys attached themselves to me en route, again as would-be guides, later asking me for baksheesh as I got on the return minibus. No.

The minibus ride back was fun - lots of back-and-forth among the passengers and with me. I regurgitated, upon request, my vast Amharic and Oromiffa vocabularies, plus my one word in Somali, learned just
that day -- "nebbit" (hello).

We were stopped for a military search just outside Harar, with all of us being patted down and our bags peered into. The driver said they looked for contraband guns; another person later said contraband
electronics from Djibouti. Probably both.

Back in Harar, I sought out a woman vendor who'd gifted me two bananas in the morning. She and I had exchanged friendly shouts of "faranjo!" and "habesha!" along with smiling, Ethiopian chin-and-brow lifts. I
bought a kilo of mangoes, then distributed most of them among the hotel guards and other hotel staff at the entrance, then ate the rest for my lunch. Juicy.

In the afternoon, I put in some time in the internet, then picked up tiny potato-and-hot pepper sambozas for dinner, along with a small round of traditional country bread for breakfast in the bus tomorrow.

I wish I could stay longer in Harar. Sean McLachlan, the online travel writer, told me of the pleasure of walking in the walled city (Jugal) by moonlight. In the narrow, curving, cobblestoned streets, a hyena might brush against your thigh as it made its silent night-time rounds.

Sean was also in the practice of spending an entire day hanging out with a tailor in his streetside shop. I saw Sean doing exactly that one day. Borrowing Sean's idea, I would spend an entire afternoon and evening with a woman vendor, pulling up my own stool to sit under her umbrella. Maybe I'd even shout out "faranjo!" when I saw one pass. Or maybe I'd shout out "habesha!" to all Ethiopians who walked by.

But not enough time for either of these things.

As it was, I showered with my bathroom light turned off so I could look up at Harar's full moon through the high window.

Ethiopia: Hyenas, Fresh Goat, and a Crispy Roach in Harar, Day 6, Wednesday

Credit: Marcus Baynes-Rock at Hyenas in Harar

 Woke up still feeling a little queasy, but far better than yesterday. I popped another Cipro then went upstairs to see Irish Edith off for her return to Addis. The thought of coffee didn't send the right signals to my stomach, so I skipped that and had cold water with bread and "marmalade," the ubiquitous orange-transparent gelatin that passes nationwide in Ethiopia for something nothing like marmalade.

I had work to do online, so after a pleasant breakfast chat with Edith, I walked up to the internet cafe. By the time I finished there, it was time for lunch. This was a great day to check out that hotel/restaurant, more or less across the street from the Ras Hotel, that had caught my attention the first day I arrived in Harar.

It sat high behind a wall amidst flowering trees and shrubs. The adobe building looked immense, and was tropically pretty in its "fascist yellow" facade.

How odd, a military guardhouse at the gate. Came to find out it was a hotel owned by the Department of Defense. After checking out the bathroom, I selected a seat at one of the outside tables. No menu. I just ordered a coffee, which was very good. And for heaven's sake - only 2 birr (about 12 cents US)!

Decided to lunch instead at the reliable Fresh Touch down the street. Ordered the vegetarian pizza. When it arrived, I dressed it with their wonderfully spicy chili sauce. Oh. Wait. I did order the vegetarian pizza, right? So what's with the crispy-curled roach sitting so perkily atop a pepper? Waiter!

Just as I was waving down the waiter, in walked New York Ed and a pretty girl with an easy smile. She turned out to be Imti, from Germany via Sudan by birth.

I substituted an indifferent pasta-with-vegetables dish for the pizza. (Gonder is definitely the champion of an excellent "macaroni" with vegetables.)

After Ed, Imti, and I finished our lunches and enjoyed two delicious cups of coffee each, Ed pushed off to the internet cafe, and Imti and I continued our conversation. Interesting! She's an engineering student just finishing up an internship in Ethiopia, related to these cobblestone projects I've seen in Harar, Nazret, and Awassa. It's a German-Ethiopia partnership designed to provide jobs, training, and beautification of Ethiopian streets. Imti and her friend are in Harar doing some in-country tourist travel before she returns to Germany.

Tonight was hyena night for me, and unlike Atlanta Tom, who casually walked outside the wall over to check out the hyena man on his own, I knew I'd want a guide in the scary, hyena-riddled night.

I knew also that Aziz, who was to have escorted me last night (until I got sick), would probably be unavailable tonight, as his Spanish girlfriend was in town. My plan was to walk over to the cafe in the main Jugal square and locate a Plan B guide on the fly. At the same time, I had it in my mind to hire Abdellah, the guy I'd met the other day at said cafe, who is deaf. This turned out to be exactly what I did. Abdellah appeared happy as hell to be hired and we negotiated the price with the help of another local man.

Abdellah is one of those charismatic individuals who radiate good vibes and who attract goodwill in return. It was clear this local gentleman was fond of Abdellah; he made sure I really meant to hire Abdellah as my guide in the event Aziz didn't pan out.

Abdellah and I agreed to meet at the cafe at 6:30, and he dashed off while I hung out over a coffee and people-watched. A guide popped up, and joined me at my table. Did I need a guide? I explained that I was waiting for Aziz, but if he didn't show up, Abdellah was my back up guide. The guide said he doubted Aziz would be by, as his Spanish girlfriend was in town. (Harar is a typical small town - everybody knows everyone's business - heck, even the tourists know!)

Though late, Abdellah arrived, and off we went. I realized right quick that it wasn't going to work for Abdellah to get ahead of me, as he couldn't hear me if I called out to him. I tucked my arm into his so we stayed connected. It was nice. Just about everyone knew Abdellah - and liked him - as evidenced by the constant friendly, smiley greetings between him and other passersby. We emerged through a gate I hadn't visited before. It was already dark and the hyena man was already engaged with the hyenas.

Unbelievably, I fed the hyenas three times: I held out an 18" skinny stick with a strip of meat dangling on its end and handed it right to the hyenas' mouths. Yikes! At one point, I felt a nudge at the back of my knee. I whirled around, saw that it was Abdellah, and I slapped him hard in the chest in mock outrage. Everyone laughed.

Some idiot dad (an Ethiopian tourist) had this little toddler daughter feeding the hyenas. Put me in mind of idiot American counterparts who have their young'ns feed bears by dumpsters.

Credit: Hyenas in Harar

About the hyenas, it surprised me how beautiful they are! Their faces, heads, and ears! Lovely!

Credit: Hyenas in Harar

The beautiful illusion splintered as soon as I saw them move. Their walk evoked all of these negative anthropomorphic prejudices: "tail between its legs," "slinking around," "skulking," "craven."



I never saw the beauty for the presumed ugliness of the hyenas' posture.


Abdellah escorted me to my hotel, as agreed upon. We smilingly parted, and I saw him affectionately grab the head of a nearby youngster, and the two walked away with their arms around each other's shoulders.

I walked upstairs to the restaurant, where the waiter encouraged me to order the goat, as it was very fresh. I did, and it was.

While I thoughtfully chewed the tender meat, I wondered if it came from the pretty brown and white goat I saw from my balcony window earlier today, bleating sweetly at a woman retreating from the spot where he was newly tethered.

I thanked him for his sacrifice.


Marcus Baynes-Rock, a PhD candidate, studied hyenas for some time in Harar. You can check out his two interesting blogs on his research here (for 2009 through March 2010), then here for period til April 2011. 

Ethiopia: Downpours and Dyspepsia in Harar, Day 5, Tuesday

Afternoon. Another pounding rainfall. From my balcony:

Photo credit: Nina Wessel

• People crammed under the storefront eaves. A woman holds high one of those immense baskets of baguettes, protecting it from the rain and jostling from neighbors.
• Women vendors with umbrellas sit tight on their stools or yellow water jugs.
• A man rushes to affix an orange tarp over part of his store's tin roof.
• Water rushes down the rocky road beneath my balcony, and I now add the power of water as another contributor to these rocks' polished surfaces. Many such rains have scooped out the dirt "mortar" in which the rocks may have been laid originally, explaining why the road surface is similar to a dry creek bed.
• Two little girls lose their shoes, temporarily, to the force of the water drainage along the sidewalk.
• A truck filled with large, thick, flat rocks goes down the road. Like coals to Newcastle, it seems to me.
• I look further down to my right - there, the road is a roiling stream - a young child could be carried away in the depth and force of the water.

Photo credit: 4shared

I am in my room this afternoon because I'm ill. Started with a headache that wouldn't go away, then nausea and diarrhea. I took two cipro pills; will take another before I go to bed. I called Ed, a fellow traveler, and asked if he would let the guide, Aziz, know that I will be unable to keep our appointment to see the hyena feeding this evening.

Late morning:

Hanging out in the cafe by the Orthodox church in Jubal (Harar's walled city)'s main square. Trying to get caught up in my writing, but am easily distracted by the goings-on around me:

• That woman over there, who evidently lives by a storefront wall with her infant and toddler. A German woman, Emily, bought medication for both kids. She believes the infant will die within 2 weeks of her return to Germany, a few weeks hence. The mother devotes much of her time to chewing chat. Chat reduces hunger, so the mother may not eat enough to provide sufficient milk to nurse the infant properly. But this morning, mom engages in some housekeeping --> she sweeps the pavement in front of her blanket; shakes out the blanket; waters down the dusty area in front of her blanket; uses a water bottle to wash her feet, calves, and face.
• The cafe guard, with his donkey whip, keeps on eye out for obnoxious children or others, at the ready to chase them away.
• Incredibly, I engage in a conversation with a young deaf man named Abdella. (Abdella's best friend is also deaf, but his sign language is not as good as Abdella's.) My sign language is very rusty, but Abdella can finger spell words that I can understand, and we have a limited communication. There is evidently a school for the deaf here. As with so many other Ethiopians, however, there is no job for him.
• Aziz, a guide, joined me at the cafe. We make an arrangement to meet here at 6:30 this evening, and we'll then walk out to see the hyena-feeding man. I'm kind of nervous about this, even though I've never heard about a tourist being mauled by a Harari hyena. We also agree to meet for lunch tomorrow at one of the markets, so I can try camel meat.
• A child about five years old kicks a younger child, later kicks a goat (twice), then works mightily to push a large rock off an empty tire that serves as a parking marker. Ah, a bully in the making.

Photo credit: Stefan Gara

Early morning:

I got up early for breakfast to see the Dutch couple off from Harar. They enthused about their side trip to the camel market in Babile yesterday, so I make a plan to stay a day longer in Harar to catch the Thursday market.

The Dutch couple leaves, and Edith, the Irish woman, arrives for her breakfast. I remain and we chat. Then Sean, the writer, who turns out to be (sort of) from Columbia, MO, arrives, and he joins us for breakfast and conversation.

Ethiopia: Color in Harar, Day 4, Monday

About 4:00 p.m.

Jacaranda tree. Photo credit: able-travel.com

Sitting at the Kim Cafe. Painted lilac, which matches the blossoms of the jacaranda trees across the way.

Young men walk by with their plastic bags of chat leaves.

It just finished raining and the air is slightly chilly.

A guy tries to engage me in his alleged campaign against FGM; wants me to come to his house so he can show me his "documentation." And then hopes I will give him money for his campaign.

Later ... scenes from my balcony

A crazy man rotates in place several times, stands still for a moment, and then walks off in the direction in which he stopped.





Immense baskets - about 3 feet across, resting on tops of wheelbarrows, filled with freshly baked baguettes and rolls.



Onions, tomatoes, garlic, chat, peppers, bananas, avocados, mangoes, chat, samosas, doughnuts, limes, chat, potatoes ...



A kite (type of eagle) sails above the market today.

Blue tuk-tuks up and down, up and down, up and down the road.

Two men carry blue water barrels, then load them atop a minibus roof, already crowded with yellow plastic water jugs.

No scarf, shawl, or dress is the same in Harar -- plaids, florals, stripes, embroidered, plain. Gold on black, yellow on blue, butterscotch, black and yellow squares interspersed on a dull orange, pinks and greens -- bright green, pale green, dark green, teal.

Tin roofs. Satellite dishes (probably contraband from Sudan).

View to right of Hotel Belayneh balcony. Photo credit: Kokoryko

A medieval agrarian kingdom off to my right -- great if you're royalty, but mostly populated by peasants.

Dogs slip through and around the market, quietly, alert for a tidbit and watching out for gratuitous kicks and stones issued by passersby.

A truck attempting the polished stone road can't get a grip on the wet and slippery rocks and slips and slides before it gains purchase.

A young boy, maybe seven, gestures and speaks to himself. Maybe an imaginary friend? Autistic? OCD?

Morning

I found my way back to the traditional guest house where Ed was staying, then he, Aziz, and I set out on our walking tour. To tell the truth, kind of a bore, with the exception of an almost-fight between Aziz and the guy who wanted to show me his grandmother's souvenir shop on Saturday. Aziz pronounced this guy crazy (a designation one hears frequently in this town). Guide competition is fierce in Harar, and I think the other guy believed (mistakenly) that he had some claim as my guide.

Unfortunately, the guides in Harar evidently have zero training on being a guide, even if they can produce a card designating them as such. In my view, there is no value in hiring any of these guides; one is just fine buying a Harar map in any of the museums for 30 birr -- at least until the so-called guides learn something of the art.

Photo credit: travel-adventures.org

We ended our tour at the cafe next to a church in the main square. There, met a German woman, Imma, who fell in love with Harar and is renting a house within the walled city for a month. She has been helping a woman care for her baby and toddler, believing, nevertheless, the infant will die soon after she returns to Germany.
The mother devotes her life to chewing chat. Chat reduces the appetite, and the mother is poor to begin with, and the infant may not be receiving enough nutrients from the mother's breast milk. Mother and children live on a section of sidewalk in front of a store.

Also met another guide; he's been suffering from hepatitis, but evidently took some traditional medicine and believes himself cured.

An American man walked into the cafe, sat down, and made note of having been able to "file his story;" he pulled out a spiral notebook and began writing. I'd have had no compunction about introducing myself, but I was hot and tired, and in the moment, couldn't muster sufficient interest to stir myself.

In the evening, Americans Ed, Tom, and I (and later, Irish Edith and the Dutch couple) gathered by plan or accident in the Hotel Belayneh Restaurant. I'd heard from various travelers about the pleasure of visiting Iran, and was dismayed to learn from Ed that Americans can't go there the way other nationals can. Evidently, we can only go as part of a guided tour. Well.

In talking about an alternative to Iran - a place with similar pleasant qualities, such as culture, scenery, friendliness of people - the consensus among the other Americans, the Dutch, and the Irish was that Syria was the place to go.

Edith and the Dutch couple went to the Babile camel market today and waxed poetic about it. It operates on Mondays and Thursdays. So - maybe I'll stay til Friday so I can check out the Thursday market.

Ethiopia: Baksheesh! Harar, Day 3, Sunday

Irish Edith, the Dutch couple, and I took a contract minibus to the small town of Koremi ("tinnish" - "tiny" in Amharic, one of my new vocabulary words). This trip was taken on the basis of a recommendation in the Bradt Guide. Disappointing and depressing.

Koremi and its immediate surrounding are home to the Argobba, an ethnic group one adds to the mix of peoples in the Harar region - Harari, Oromo, and Somali. In this neck of the woods, the square houses are of golden stone.

Whatever might have been in the past or will be in the future, Koremi presently offers only an exchange of the occasional gawker and the requests for "baksheesh" from young and old in Koremi. I asked the minibus driver if there was a souk here where one could buy something to support the town in a way other than just handing out birr. Turns out, no. Not even homemade bread or yogurt or cheese -- nuthin'. The Argobba girls and women wear necklace and bracelets of plastic beadwork. I cast about for a small piece I might buy. I spied a girl with a bracelet. "Sintinoh"? I asked ("how much"?). She replied with 70 birr, but with the driver's assistance we negotiated this to 50 birr. The girl removed her bracelet, gave it to me, and I felt good about it. Hopefully, she did, too.

Some of the kids and I did enjoy a lively debate regarding the "faranjo" business, touching each other's arms, hair, and clothing, making distinctions between American and Irish and Dutch, for example, instead of just white ("faranjo"), and Argobba and Harari and Oromo, instead of just "brown." (Nevertheless, I strongly prefer "faranjo" to the "you, you, you!" one hears in Awassa.)

Hot, dusty, and thirsty, we drove back to Harar quietly. An interesting note along our return route: There are tree "houses" or "stands" in the fields. These are for guarding maize from thieving birds and chat from thieving humans.

Pizza at Fresh Touch. Photo credit: LNewman

Upon our return to the Hotel Belayneh, we dispersed without processing our day. I went directly to my room, got something to drink, and rested a bit. Later walked to Fresh Touch Restaurant where I ordered an excellent vegetable pizza.

Harar's smiling condom is everywhere. Photo credit: Clare H-P

While I contemplated my tropical-like surroundings, I glanced up at my table umbrella, appreciating its orange and yellow color, and then noticing the artwork. Ah, a smiling condom with sunglasses. Must be related to the smiling condom on the sticker in my hotel bathroom. In that scenario, the happy guy with sunglasses is pointing at a picture of a toilet.






 


I was joined by Ed, a New Yorker, who arrived in Harar several hours earlier from the north. Another  American, Tom from Atlanta, joined us a few minutes later, also a new arrival. We exchanged the usual, "Where have you been"? "How long have you been/will be in Ethiopia"? "Where are you going"?

We walked back to the Jugal area (walled city). Tom was meeting up with another new arrival, this a woman from Norway. She, Tom, and Ed were staying at traditional Harari houses (now guest houses) within Jugal. (My Hotel Belayneh is just outside the wall, overlooking one of the markets.)

Photo credit: "Stormshadow" at skyscrapercity

Ed had retained a guide for an overview tour of Harar tomorrow, and agreed that I might join them. He  showed me the way to his guesthouse, gave me a little tour, and then he, and the owners (a daughter and her

mother), and I chatted about local culture. He walked me back to my hotel, and we popped up to the top-floor restaurant for a beer. Tom and the Norwegian woman were there having dinner, and we had a nice
conversation, the Norwegian woman reporting that one of her first experiences in Harar yesterday was being hit on her back by local men.

Harar is, indeed, an unusual place.

Ethiopia: Houses and A Fight, Harar, Day 2, Saturday

Breakfast in Hotel Belayneh restaurant. Man next to me had a huge stack of bills he counted. When he finished, he raised up a pant leg and pulled out a second stack of bills, and counted that. An unprepossessing fellow, I wondered what his business was.

Apropos of nothing --> Virtually every curtain rod in Ethiopia is this really ugly turned steel rod.

Have met an Irish woman and a Dutch couple here. Edith, the Irish woman (Dublin), freely shares her age, so I'll share it here - she's 69 and like Barb (from Connecticut), a woman of similar age, she travels alone.

Edith arranged for a contract minibus to the little Argobba town of Koremi tomorrow (Sunday), and she welcomed me and the Dutch couple to join her; we'll split the cost.

Following breakfast, and despite several guide solicitations, I explored the walled city, Jugal, within Harar, on my own. One guy persisted at my side, wanting to show me his grandmother's souvenir shop. Eventually, I lost him.

I stopped in the Harari Cultural Museum, which has a traditional Harari house inside its compound. The main room ("living room") has built-in adobe "benches" covered with cushions on the seats and backs. There are seating areas for the woman of the house, other family members, the elderly, for guests, and children.

Photo credit: "StormShadow" at skyscrapercity

There are niches in the walls which hold vessels for spices, medicines, money, and other things. Injera baskets and baskets for other uses hang on the walls. An upstairs room, historically used for food (and other) storage, serves as a bedroom in these modern times. There is a niche bedroom off the living room which is the honeymoon bedroom, where a newly-married couple was ensconced and could not leave for a week or so. Family members passed sustenance to the couple through the window between the living room and the honeymoon room.

Photo credit: "StormShadow" at skyscrapercity

In the Harari Cultural Museum compound was also a very large house at the head of high, wide steps. Not sure how to describe the style (there are several here in Jubal) - sort of an Indian Italianate Swiss and something else style. The Rimbaud House here is an example, as is Haile Selassie's house here. The ballroom-size public room in the house at the Harari Cultural Museum is now used as a community meeting room. Indeed, a meeting was in progress while I was there, so I sat in on it, joined by a sweet little girl who scrambled up into the chair next to me.

Photo credit: "Stormshadow" at skyscrapercity

Most of the 20 or so meeting participants were women. The topic was HIV. The meeting ended and I moved on, swiping away more would-be guides as I continued exploring the streets of this centuries-old, walled city.

I came across Edith, the Irish woman. She was on the hunt for the Mermaid Cafe, a cafe recommended for its juice. I joined Edith in her search and we eventually found it, gratefully escaping the strong sun. We chose our respective lunches, which for Edith was a plain doughnut and mango juice, and for me, a flat, savory pastry with a cold Ambo.

Photo credit: "Stormshadow" at skyscrapercity

Edith told me that a year and a half ago, she suffered a stroke while driving her car. The car crashed, and she lost two fingers. Although she lost her speech for awhile and had weakness in one of her arms, she made - for the most part - a full recovery. Edith had experienced no red flags prior to the stroke and did not possess any of the typical risk factors. Edith theorized that in a previous trip to Mali, she contracted an infection that plagued her for some time, and that this was a contributor to the stroke.

Edith said she felt joyous when traveling.

All of a sudden, a fight broke out between two men in this tiny cafe. One chased the other into the street; it was a serious affair -- the one kneed the other in the crotch, then added more blows. Whoa, Harar is a tough town! After considerable pommeling, the smaller of the two men (who'd had his balls crunched) ceded the fight and took off.

(As I write this, I remember my walk in the Bale Mountains. In a pasture far below our walking path were two small herds of cattle, each with a bull. Despite the distance, I could hear one of the bulls snort and paw the dirt; I could see the dust blow up around his legs. Though old news to Ayano, I watched enthralled by the melodrama below -- even got to see the bulls butt heads and engage their horns. I saw the aggressor give way to the other bull, and walk back to his herd.)

Photo credit: "Stormshadow" at skyscrapercity

When it was all over between the two men, I turned to the guy behind the counter to ask what it was all about. I remarked that one of the guys was smiling at the end. The counter man said in English, "That's because he kicked his ass," and the counter man pointed to the smiling victor, seated against the wall behind us. I laughed, and asked again what it was all about. Allegedly, the smaller man had followed Edith and me into the cafe with the intent to hassle us in some manner. The "smiling man," already in the cafe, had admonished him and also instructed him to leave the cafe. Things escalated from there to the fight we witnessed. Who knows? We thanked the smiling man for his chivalry, regardless.

Ethiopia: Wild and Beautiful Harar, Day 1, Friday

Harar! Exciting! Beautiful! Energetic! Wild!

I'm so glad I came; even after only a few hours here, I know it is a fitting finale (more or less) for my trip.

My arrival in Harar began on a sour note. First, some guy unloading the bags from the bus charged me 3 birr for lifting my bag from one spot to another spot, oh, 2 feet over. I said, "Why"? Based on Betty's Big Bus Blow-up in Arba Minch, I do believe this is not kosher. I checked around to see if other people were paying, and if so, how much. My observations were inconclusive - some seemed to pay; others didn't. I gave the guy 2 birr.

And then I found I'd attracted a would-be tour guide (who also wanted to escort me to a particular hotel). It was beginning to feel like Lalibela. Don't even want to go into the details. I had previously settled on Hotel Belayneh as worthy of at least one night's stay, so I persevered there. I shook off my "guide" after a while.

The room at the Hotel Belyaneh is ok, and the water is rationed here, so there is only running water for 3 hours in the morning and 4 hours in the evening. The cool thing is my shaded balcony, which overlooks part of the so-called Christian Market. Wow - I spent two hours just taking in all of the live theater:

A view from Hotel Belayneh. Photo credit: Kokoroyko

Photo credit: Lil and John

Photo credit: Worldwide Gourmet

A man carried what looked like a vicious dagger in his hand while he walked about the market. There was no artistry to it; just a big, deadly killer. Short handle and large flat triangle of lethal metal. [Note: I have since learned this was probably an agricultural tool, e.g. hoe, but I haven't been able to confirm. If yes, it is called a "tor" in Amharic and huaram in Oromiffa.]

Two men walked about, each holding a wooden stick, the tops of which were tucked beneath their shirts or vests. I wonder if they were curved, scimitar-like weapons like the one I saw yet another man carry with him. If it was a weapon, I couldn't figure out how that would work. Maybe a harvesting tool? [Note: I later learned this is a mancha, a tool that harvests chat.]

Several young schoolchildren returning home looked up and saw me on my balcony. We exchanged a few of the usual "My name IS ...", but then a little of the "faranji fever" struck them, so they got slightly carried away. The hotel guard, an older gent, dashed out from his booth brandishing his cane, and the children jumped and scattered with squeals of combined fear and excitement. It made me laugh.

Two seated women, market vendors, in vibrant colors, engaged in a conversation in which they used their hands to tell their stories, their hands like strong ballet dancers: jumping, turning, bowing, at times moving in toward the other woman, then retreating.

Chat sellers, all women, each with one over-sized breast, it appeared, until I saw one woman pull out a large drawstring bag, bulging with birr notes.

Photo credit: Charles Fred

Another woman kept her money pouch around her waist, beneath her caftan. This woman perused the clothing wares of a walking male vendor; every few moments, the woman would, with some violence, pull the man toward her; I wasn't sure why - to compel him to show her a different item? Keep him in place as they continued to dicker a price?

Goats nibbled on fallen chat leaves, but generally left them be.

Donkeys, carrying firewood, had colorful rags tucked beneath their tails, presumably to catch their droppings while they were on the city streets.

A wheelbarrow, overloaded with large, heavy logs, overturned on the street beneath my window. The rocks that comprise this road are so smooth from the constant foot, animal, and vehicular traffic, they are slippery.

A stocky man, perhaps in his 30s, sprawled on the pavement, crying loudly. Someone had done him some injustice. He was mentally impaired, whether from chat abuse, some mental retardation or a combination of the two? Another man, very poor, assisted him into a standing position and they walked away together.

A trio of young Oromo girls, each holding a donkey laden with firewood, approached a store owner about selling wood. He looked it over and disdained the wood. One of the girls must have persisted in her attempts to sell him the wood; the store owner put his hand on the side of her face and pushed her away.

Eventually, I pulled myself away from this engrossing theater and went upstairs to the restaurant. I had a surprisingly good veal cutlet, which came with a potato and shredded cabbage salad, served at room temperature.