durban: my introduction to south africa

Thursday, June 5

Finally arrived in Durban and glanced the Indian Ocean after three flights and many hours in Frankfurt & Johannesburg – roughly 30 hours of travel. Happy to say it is balmy, welcoming, and the beginning of a new adventure. 

Although we arrived on time to Durban, my luggage didn’t.  The strange part was that I had just had my bag in my hand a few hours before in Johannesburg, where I had to take it through customs and recheck it.  At least I knew it was in the country.  Fortunately, the woman handling lost luggage claims was on it – if she had anything to do with making sure my bag found its way to me, I would have it before nightfall.  She took my information, telling me that 786 (my house number) is a lucky number for Muslims, though she herself wasn’t a Muslim, it was just something she knew from her encounters with Muslims, ending with, “Your house is blessed.”   She told me they would call me when my bag was located and sent me on my way. 

Long story short, although the owner of the guesthouse where we stayed that night assured me I'd be lucky to see my bag the next day at the earliest, he brought it to me singing a song as soon as we returned from dinner.

 

We exited the airport and found the shuttle bus that would take us into the city and eventually dropped us at Gibela Backpackers Lodge.  A serene enclave in Morningside.  Fortunately, we had landed in a safe spot – a relative bubble in the city – as this was the only area of the city Elmar (the owner) told us we should find ourselves after dark. 

Elmar gave us a full orientation to the ins and outs of his fair city, complete with map drawings.  All I could manage this night was a walk along Florida Avenue (funny, since I had told Kathi that several things – the architecture of a hotel, the palm trees – made me think of Florida).  We meandered the full stretch of cafes, restaurants, and storefronts; toasted our arrival to ZA at dinner; and sent off quick emails to family to let them know we had arrived – followed by falling exhausted into bed.  

Friday, July 6

Already I am beginning to feel acclimated to my surroundings.  We meandered around the city today, taking in the sights but having no true activities or agenda.  After breakfast we headed to the beachfront, about a 30 minute walk from our guesthouse.  The stretch of Sandile Thusi Road
that links our guesthouse to the ocean is unspectacular at best though it is listed on the map as a pedestrian route.

I can’t get over the smog, especially since Durban is touted as a major tourist attraction with fantastic beaches and a lively scene both day and night.  While today was a clear, sunny day, this city doesn’t seem to enjoy the bluebird skies we welcome back in Colorado.  Rather, a grayness caps the skyline as if trapping the city and its inhabitants in a dark cloud of diesel fumes and residual smoke.  While it’s not so bad that you can’t seem to escape it, noxious odors rise and waft from time to time, reminding me that I am walking around in an unhealthy environment.

When we arrived to the beachfront, I dipped my toes into the Indian Ocean.  Though the water was slightly warmer than it was cold, I'm not sure how others were braving a swim.  This is the first ocean I've been too that boasts its shark nets, designed to keep the beaches safe and free of the Great White.  Must be some hardy nets. 

Sailboats were adrift out on the water, and sailing vessels were much farther out beyond them.  I spotted a perfectly cylindrical shell at the base of what looked like a question mark drawn in the sand.  I bent down to pick it up and it “heaved” ever so slightly as though it were adjusting itself in the sand. Kathi said “that one’s still alive” just soon enough to prevent me from picking it up.  I had nudged it gently and it sunk itself deeply into the sand as if it were being absorbed by the earth.

 

We spent the next 20 minutes searching them out along the shoreline.  Waves would wash over them and they would attempt to anchor into the sand, sometimes successfully holding their ground, other times flitting away as the water pulled back into the ocean, the muscle / snail drifting kite-like with its body spread wide like a fin or sail.  At first I thought they were purposely doing this in order to navigate or be pulled by the force of the retreating water, but this was more likely an unsuccessful attempt to anchor into the sand.

Being a pedestrian – crossing streets in particular – seems to present the greatest safety hazards I’ve encountered thus far.  Not because I forget to look right instead of left because this is foremost in my mind and I always look left (they use the British system of driving on the left side of the road here).  Quite simply it’s because drivers believe that vehicles have the right of way.  Always.  Even when the little green man beckons you to traverse the street.  Even when vehicles are turning against a red light.  Even when you make eye contact with drivers.  And they will let you know by passing so closely that you feel a wash of wind sweep your body as they pass and your knees buckle slightly in relief that you weren’t just hit and dragged down the street or vaulted back to the sidewalk.  I’ve noticed that this treatment isn’t reserved for tourists who don’t get the rules of the road.  Time and time again I have watched locals dodging in and out of traffic, getting honked at for having the nerve to walk across the line of moving vehicles, or jumping back and forth between them in a real-life version of Frogger.  While I imagine that drivers don’t intend to hit pedestrians and would rather not have to scrape blood and body parts off their fenders, it’s a wonder people aren’t getting run over at every turn.  Kathi and I have actually established some rules of our own – no telling stories or fumbling with anything in your hands while crossing the street, cross with your eyes averted over your shoulder while crossing rather than watching where you’re headed, and always use the hand stop or grab to save one another from close calls.  So far, so good.

Overall, it seems easy to be here.  Perhaps it’s because Durban is a big city in a developed country and things don’t seem as foreign as I expected they might.  Plus, with nearly everyone here being English speaking, it’s quite easy to figure things out and find my way around.  The city feels multi-culturally diverse, and this seems to be promoted (this stood out on an political billboard for the ANC – African National Congress – that I passed by) though I wonder what this is truly like.  How has coexistence developed since the ending of apartheid?  What racial tensions exist?  What disparities?  Do blacks and whites live together peacefully and amiably?

 

a little taste of heaven before reaching addis…

we stopped for lunch at the ethio-german park in debre libanos, established by abenet shifferaw, an ethiopian who, after living in germany for over 37 years, returned to his home country to build a hotel. i felt as if i had stepped into an ethiopian villa – the architecture of the buildings has a euro-african influence, with stone pathways, simple landscaping, and aesthetic rock-pile sculptures. the terrace looks out over a vast valley through which runs the jemma river, a tributary of the blue nile. we soaked in the sun under vibrant blue skies and puffy cumulus clouds, their shadows cast over the quilted green and brown hills.
after a scrumptious lunch of traditional ethiopian foods, we took a short hike down to the portuguese bridge. built in the 1540s or 1550s, this rugged stone bridge stretches over the gur, a small river that cascades over basalt rock, feeding into the larger tributary below. here we were entertained by a troop of baboons loitering on the hillside. the babies scampered about, chasing one another and tumbling this way and that, or clung close to their mothers tummies or backs. my favorite of the bunch was the lion baboon – the chief male of the troop – who sat sunning himself on a rock outcropping near the falls, enjoying the wind whipping through his mane-like hair. his chest bore a scarlet red mark, giving him the name blood heart baboon.

on the road…

i am currently on the road, heading south on the final stretch of our northern tour, roughly 100 km from addis ababa. we have been out for nine days, connecting the dots between addis, lalibela, gondar, and bahir dar, with layovers in dessie and debre marcos, and now closing the circle by returning to addis.
something i didn’t expect on this journey was discovering the importance of the road – a well paved strip of asphalt snaking through the country: crisscrossing the mountainsides, winding through valleys, traversing the plains and plateaus. the surface of the road is unexpectedly superior to what i imagined. at times, we have hit rough patches or stretches riddled with potholes and in need of repair, and of course there have been times when the road was nothing more than smooth, hard-packed mud, some sections of which that were less than superior, filled with jagged rocks or cut up into deep, soupy trenches. nevertheless, for the most part, it has been smooth sailing at 60 – 80 kph (and despite the varying quality of the road, tsouri, our driver, clips along on the muddy, less maintained sections nearly as fast as when we’re on the newer, freshly paved highway).
no stop signs or stop lights direct traffic; no mile markers, billboards, or road signs alert you to your location; no intersecting roads veer off in different directions. rather, traffic is managed by the careful maneuvering between the driver and the numerous users of the roadway – endless streams of pedestrians, men and women carrying heavy loads to and from the market or the fields, children or adults herding their animals, and young men holding up fruit and other items in hope that you will stop to make a purchase; goats, cattle, sheep, dogs, donkeys, and camels; bikes, motorcycles, horse-drawn carts, tuk-tuks, blue donkeys (aka taxis), cargo trucks, and other buses. somehow, tsouri deftly manages this relationship, weaving in and out, adeptly communicating with the horn and adjusting our speed as needed. we've come to a complete stop only a handful of times throughout our entire journey, usually due to a herd of cattle blocking the road or the need to divert around road repairs. now and again, we come to a junction in the road, and only then do we learn the direction and distance to the next biggest city.
we continuously pass through towns and villages, though these are separated by great distances. here it is apparent that the road plays an important role to the people, as they have built themselves up directly along its path. entire villages have relocated due to the construction of the road, often erecting buildings that sit close and hug the edges of the road itself: a vital artery of their daily lives, providing a means of connection to others, whether allowing villagers access to one another and the city for supplies and medical attention or bringing commerce and travelers to them.
i am left wondering about all of the people and places that exist beyond the reach of the road. those who live a six hour walk or perhaps days away; those who do not know it exists. how is it that they get by?
from what i can see, tradition and culture are juxtaposed with modernization, creating strange ironies that cause me to question their delicate interplay. it has been common to see gigantic steel towers connecting electric lines across vast expanses of open farmland and then to spot a man plowing his field with a single wooden hoe pulled by two cattle or a collection of round huts made of wood and straw just a few hundred meters from a tower, knowing that electricity is unknown to its occupants while the power lines direct energy to the city. or to have kids who live in one or two room houses without enough money for a pair of shoes to ask for my email address or request that i send the photo i snapped of them, while i doubt they have any way to access a computer let alone the internet.
i wonder how the lives of the people have changed with the development and renovations of the road – one such project was completed just last month, and i am reaping the benefits of much easier travel than those who have passed this way before. obviously, improving the roads and increasing infrastructure will increase tourism. most likely this will also increase access to the things every ethiopian needs – water, schooling, medical treatment… one can only hope. i wonder what other advancements will come due to tar and asphalt. i wonder what new struggles will surface and what conflicts over resources will erupt. my wish is that the people reap economic benefits and positive outcomes from the road, though i also hope that they are able to hold onto those things that make their culture uniquely its own. only time will tell.

lalibela boys

the town of lalibela is unlike any i have ever visited. it is known (well, at least to the locals and travelers here in ethiopia) for being the holy land of the country – the “second jerusalem" – filled with rock hewn churches carved from or into the stone landscape in the 12th century. the population of 14,000 consists almost exclusively of orthodox christians; no mosques are to be found in the area. everyone wears a small silver or gold cross, usually strung around the neck on thin black thread. coming from addis, lalibela feels like a small hidden treasure with its religious traditions and slower pace.
the town rests at an elevation of about 2400 meters. entering the town, we drove through what appears to be a wealthier area – everything seeming more refined and developed; the people well dressed. we continued to draw attention, with onlookers staring as we passed and children smiling and waving wildly. many buildings are situated right on the edge of the road as usual, but just below a hidden embankment, small compounds of huts of a bygone era are nestled in between the newer, more modern buildings. two worlds have collided here or in the least have found a way to coexist. we continued upward, the town built into the hillside as though it belongs there. eventually we came to the town center, filled with all of the things i have come to expect – wandering goats and donkeys; people going this way and that; stone cutters at construction projects; small shops selling bananas, mangos, and avocados or small historic replicas and trinkets – and a few that continue to surprise, such as the obama souvenir shop.
the boys here capitalize on the tourism industry. they flock to tour groups intent, specifically, on attaching themselves to an individual within a tour group whom they befriend. suddenly, they begin to turn up at the beginning or end of any of your tours or activities; they know where you are staying and loiter at the entrance gates of your hotel or request to meet you there in the evening; and they begin to weave their tale, bent on selling you on their story. the guidebooks warn travellers about them, and one can’t help but question their motives and intentions. even still, i find them compelling beyond belief.
my lalibela boys are kitreb and tazic, two teenage boys upon whom i first stumbled when i emerged from bete medhane alem (house of the savior of the world). they were perched above me on a rock escarpment and did the usual – called down to ask where i am from, followed by “obama is the best!” and a flurry of questions. they posed for a picture, requesting i send it to them as little folded bits of paper cascaded down from above, upon which they had written their names and both a postal and email address.
at the end of our tour of the churches, they were waiting to introduce themselves more formally – to tell me about their school, their families, and the lives they live and what they hope to achieve. suddenly they apologized and bolted away, running down a skinny footpath to the road and into the tangle of the town. apparently, a policeman wasapproaching to scatter the boys who had swarmed around our group as a whole – an action that became commonplace throughout our stay. anytime boys came running toward me but kept going right on by, i knew i would soon see a policeman, oftentimes brandishing a large stick.
kitreb and tazic became my boys because they definitely attached themselves to me… our group could leave one place and end up somewhere new, hours later, and there they were, smiles on, wanting to pick up the conversation from where we left off.
on our second day in lalibela, my group took a guided mule ride to a mountain monestary. we loaded up on the mules just outside our hotel, each mule driver competing to secure a rider, and headed off toward the town center. sure enough, kitreb emerged from the crowds, offered a toothy good morning, and began to walk alongside me and converse. by the time we reached the outskirts of the town, tazic had arrived, and the two boys accompanied me to the point where we dismounted our mules and walked the final stretch to the monastery as well as our descent from the mountain. this has to be my favorite time with them, when our conversation seemed most genuine. tazic described his love of running, boasting that he runs five kilometers every morning, while kitreb spoke of football. i told them about scout and how in the states we treat our animals quite differently – they looked at me in disbelief when i explained that scout lives in the house with me and that i love to take her for walks and play fetch with her, as here, dogs are solely used for guarding a home (or living as a stray).
their greatest hope is to find someone who will agree to sponsor them – to send money for their schooling – so they can attend private school or move to addis ababa to attend university and have money for rent and the daily costs of living. kitreb says he would like to be a doctor, explaining that healthcare is very limited in lalibela and not of the best quality; tazic aspires to be a water engineer, describing the systems he would like to design to provide clean water to his village. both boys say that if they leave in order to acquire a better education, they would return to lalibela afterward as they want to help their own communities.
this scenario is bittersweet. perhaps these boys are tangled up in the legendary scam of the lalibela boys, wanting nothing more than to find some unsuspecting tourist who will fall for their story and issue them money unquestioningly. perhaps their story is genuine and their best bet for fulfilling their dreams is to find some compassionate traveler who is willing to set up a legitimate sponsorship. the latter is the story of habtu, our tour operator. he himself is a former lalibela boy who worked shining shoes and practiced his english with the foreigners who wandered through his town. on one occasion, he made his way into the heart of a man with whom he shared his dream of getting an education and beginning his own tourism company. several years and one sponsorship later, habtu is now 25 years old and running the best trip through ethiopia that i could hope for.
i believe in my heart of hearts that these boys truly are good kids, trying to get by and make the best of their lives with the situation and opportunities they’ve been given. i completely empathize with their efforts to engage the foreigners who happen upon their town. little else exists in terms of options. education seems to be their ticket to a better life, but even that is a rare commodity if one doesn’t have the means to make it happen.
for the time being, kitreb and tazic will venture forth with me, as their friendliness and eagerness have left impressions on my heart.

Driving north through the countryside…

Through this last stretch, coming down from the mountain, we have snaked through the hillside. Small clusters of huts appear now and again, and I wonder what has made these people settle in this particular location? What has drawn them here? What interactions do they have with the world outside of their immediate surroundings? Young children pop up suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, to call to us and wave frantically, calling “you!you!you!you!you!” or shouting “hi!” their curious eyes bigger and rounder than usual as they hope for some sort of interaction. Many of them can whistle like there’s no tomorrow. Pretty cool trick they must have learned herding their animals.
We stopped for a bathroom break in a small grove of eucalyptus trees and decided to walk a short distance of the road. The bus drove up ahead and by the time we reached it, children were running to join us. They came from all directions: some from up and down the road; others from the surrounding land, racing barefoot down rocky embankments to be sure to reach us before we would drive away. Within minutes an entourage of over a dozen kids assembled. Their bodies were dusted with a thin coat of dried mud, giving them a silvery sheen. They wore no shoes on their leathery feet that must be rugged and strong, barefoot on the rocky soil. Elise interacted with them most naturally, crouching down to their level to speak with them in animated tones and pantomimes, relaying that she heard them coming due to their running and panting. Soon, she was playing with a small boy who clutched at his mother’s skirt as Elise tried to circle her in order to reach him. He laughed and giggled and played along, always peeking around his mother to find Elise again and again.
The landscape has transformed once again. Here the soil is much drier and rockier, a lighter shade of brown, making me wonder if it is as fertile as the lands we have seen in other areas. The trees are scrubbier, with the acacia prevalent, its branches turned upward as if giving an offering to the sky. Other plants remind me of the creosote, sage, and scrub brush found in the desert landscapes of Big Bend or Arizona. Different forms of cactus or succulents – century plants, aloe, and __________ (the tea plant) are mixed in.

rainy season

four p.m. our meeting room grows dim as the skies darken to a threatening grey. thunder builds, its rumblings drawing closer with each passing minute. the wind picks up. soon, rain pours down in loud orchestral rhythms…. after a short while, the rain lightens and the thunder rolls away, growing more distant though continuing its undulations. the storm appears to have passed…. the rain picks up once again, hitting sharply against the stone entryway and pattering against rooftops. the air continues to cool and the world feels calm. within 45 minutes from its beginning, the rains quiet down and the cloud cover begins to break up. the sun glints through, casting a soft luster on the world. birds reawaken with song and a rooster crows in the distance. the cool earth sighs; i feel at peace.

seven thirty p.m. i sit outside, capturing passing thoughts in my journal against the waning light. the air feels refreshing and light against my skin. the power has gone out, and the meeting room glows in candlelight. others rely on the glow of flashlights to peruse books and continue conversations. suddenly, the lights jump back to life, flooding with space with a harsh brightness. our eyes adjust, and we carry on with our pursuits.

nine p.m. lightning flashes against the dark spaces outside our windows, momentarily washing everything in strobing, bluish illuminations. thunder builds once again, now keeping rhythm with the flickering bursts of light. sheets of rain spill down once again. i step outside to breath in the storm, rooting me in this place, familiar to my childhood home, making me feel comforted and safe.

Impressions of Ethiopia

Sunday at 1:20pm

Impressions of Ethiopia…

Driving from the airport to the guesthouse, I met with my first sights and sounds of Ethiopia. Only the main streets are paved with rutted and rocky dirt roadways and alleys jutting off in every direction. Traffic is thick yet maneuverable with bright blue taxis lining the roadways, the heavy odor of diesel and burning trash permeating the air. Pedestrians wander the streets, some seeming bent on their purpose, while others’ destination or purpose was unclear to me. Some areas seem far removed from anything of significance; then turning a corner I find myself in the midst of a crowded area strung with small shops and fruit stands. Burros wander the streets, seeming to be granted the right of way. I wonder if they are someone’s personal property or if they are more communal and shared. Now and again, one is burdened down with sacks that appear to weigh much more than it can bear, though it seems unphased. Shantytowns pop up amongst the more developed areas, with fencing constructed of corrugated metal and rubble strewn across the muddy yards. Clusters of uniform, tall pale yellow buildings with brightly painted rooftops provide public housing in the valleys in the distance. Further still, the landscape becomes more rugged with hilltops and mountains jutting up from the valley floor. Overall, the scenes remind me of landscapes I have seen in Guatemala and Jamaica.
_________________________

Matsi, my greeter, welcomed me with a warm smile and loads of questions. His name means “increasing perception.” He explained that his father pursued a higher education, something of an anomaly here, and he was named after his father’s endeavor of knowledge. He asked what I anticipate about my visit and my first response: delicious food. He laughed, saying “Not mosquitoes?” Apparently, many visitors to his country are leery of the discomforts they may experience, concerned they will contract malaria or have nothing to eat.

Honestly, beyond that I think I have no expectations regarding what I will find; I’m leaving myself open to this experience. I am just beginning to build background knowledge of the culture and history of this place, and I have yet to fully invest in the specifics of the program I have signed myself up for. While I am here, I want to be a strong observer and ask many questions; I want to engage with the people living here and learn of their interests, joys, struggles, and accomplishments.