Two weeks and little-to-no internet. Going dark for two weeks is very strange, very different from my life at home. A little liberating, but I missed you. I like hearing from you.
There’s a lot to tell—life is so good here. But in this post, I’ll tell you about my 4 day trek through the Semien mountains in Northern Ethiopia.
Okay, so here’s the story. From June 10-June 14, six other Cherokee volunteers and I (me, Conor McWade, Matt Keshian, Nathan Lo, Ryan and Austin Howe, and Weronika) flew from Addis Ababa to the Lalibela airport in the North of Ethiopia, arriving at around noon on a landing strip surrounded by desert mountains. Conor and I had a strange experience in the airport that involved a big, bearded man and a toilet stall, and from there we crammed into a minibus and we were off—winding through some scattered villages where women balanced big yellow jerry-cans on their heads, where thatched huts grouped together and the shacks of corrugated metal sparkled in the sun-scorched desert landscape. We drove to the town of Lalibela, the home of the famous rock-hewn churches of Ethiopia.
And then we toured the famous rock-hewn churches of Ethiopia.
In my opinion, Lalibela is lots of hype. The churches were interesting enough, but not mind-blowing. They presented us with a short Powerpoint on the churches, complete with text-animations (the single-letter fly-in mostly), then tried to overcharge us, but after arguing (and maybe angering the priests, oops), we were let in. We spent maybe three hours touring three churches, swatting at the swarm of flies that attacked us.
That’s one thing about flies though, they don’t discriminate. The kids we would see in the villages around the churches lived with flies in their eyes, nestling in their tear ducts, and they didn’t mind. And then there we were, flies in our faces too. The stupid “white skin premium” that we experienced in Addis didn’t count for anything there. Flies don’t discriminate.
Anyway, about Lalibela. It’s a touristy thing to do, and while it’s worth the entrance fee, it’s not worth a two-way flight and a weekend. Good thing our trip wasn’t just Lalibela.
Our plan was a half-day in Lalibela, and then a 4-day trek through the Semien mountains. Lalibela undershot my expectations, but the Semien mountains shot my expectations into smithereens. Here’s the wiki if you’re interested:
From Lalibela, feeling a bit disappointed, we crammed again into a rickety old Land Cruiser and started our drive through the switch-back mountain roads to get to the head of our trail before nightfall. And as we drove higher and higher, the town started to disappear, and the scenery became just clusters of thatched huts, goats and shawled people on the road, and mountains. Beautiful mountains, touched by bits of light coming through the thick gray clouds.
We reached the trailhead and strapped on our packs, and started following our guide Funtow (who had slept the whole drive) through the rocky trail. Trail is a loose term—there were times through the trip that we were just hiking through people’s tilled fields. We hiked up a hill for half and hour until we came to the lip of a small ledge in the hill. We climbed over the ledge and the hill flattened out, and there were five huts on the edge of the cliff. We walked to the huts and the edge of the cliff and gasped. The cliff looked over a beautiful canyon. It was dusk, but the hazy sight of the canyon was enough to convince me that the trip would be worth it.
We climbed the big boulders along the cliffside as the light went, and once it got dark, we went inside and ate some soup around a small, smoky fire. After dinner, we threw rocks off cliffs (Conor’s favorite), did some light calligraphy, angered a colony of ants, and sat on a cliffside boulder in the complete darkness. And we were happy.
Each hut had two beds and a concrete shelf, mud-and-rock walls, and a thatched roof. So legit. The first night was a little rough—something made me sick, and the room smelled like pure deet after “someone” had arachnophobia, but the next morning was glorious.
The fresh air was delicious, and with the sun shining bright, the canyon was breathtaking. For breakfast we had honey with sourdough bread, and some tea made with thyme from the mountain itself. Again, so so happy.
That’s was a typical night and morning on the trek. That day, and during other days, we’d hike about 7-8 hours to our next sleep site. We’d hike through tilled fields guarded by rabid dogs, paths shaded by tunnels of tall cactuses, through switchbacks cut into the mountain rock, through clusters of boulders, cliques of boys practicing using their Eucalyptus rope whips, through high, wind-swept plateaus, through the wild desert mountains. They’re a different sort of beautiful—an expansive, echoing beauty. A liberating beauty. And the people we’d see were distinctly beautiful too. They were old, and a little mysterious. Their clothes told stories—old and tattered. The soles of their shoes flapped down the dusty mountain paths past us. Their men’s pants were covered with patches, sewn with colorful threads, and the women wore patterned dresses, and slings where they’d carry their children. Their heads were almost always covered, with old wool caps worn down to the crown of their heads, or turbans wrapped tight around their heads. The men, all ages, wrapped a coarse woven sheet around their chests like a shawl, covering their chest and arms.
In the mornings, after breakfast, we’d strap on our packs, or strap them to the donkeys (yup, we had donkeys. We tried to ride them, and they didn’t like it. One almost neutered Ryan with a timely kick). We’d hike until lunchtime, where we’d untie a pot stuffed with injera from the donkeys, and then all (or, the bravest of us) squat in the dirt, in the shade of a tree, around the pot of injera, hand-sanitize, and squish our fingers into the packed injera, removing a chunk and dropping it into our mouths (as if our fingers were a backhoe-claw). Along the hike, we’d take stops to photograph, slide down slopes of loose dirt, hurl big rocks off cliffs (Conor’s favorite), breathe, and rockclimb the big boulders we’d pass on the path (my favorite part of our hikes).
One our second day, we were hiking when we passed an area thick with boulders that we named “Balderdash,” we were close to our sleep site, so we kept hiking intending to return after lunch at the site and some water (we were very dehydrated). After relaxing in out huts in the foothills, we returned to Balderdash. The others relaxed and read on the flat-topped boulders, while Me, Nathan, and Funtow (our guide), and a bare-footed Ethiopian boy that joined us, began our climb up the line of boulders that zig-zagged up the side of the mountain and into a ravine thick with trees and brush. Ascending each boulder, we went higher and higher up the mountain, and it felt so liberating. Natural rockclimbing in Ethiopia. We kept going when the line of boulder reached the ravine. Up and up, shimmying along sides, vaulting over the little pools of water collecting between the boulders, wedging ourselves through cracks in the side of the ravine. We came to the end of the ravine, a high, smooth curve in the rock. We couldn’t keep climbing, so I lay against the rock. The wind coming through the ravine collected in the curve, and the wind washed me as I lay there and closed my eyes. We kept going, now hiking into a Eucalyptus forest, and there Funtow stopped to teach us how to make rope from the Eucalyptus bark, and there we picked and debarked our walking sticks (I loved my walking stick. It had a “Y” at the end and I used it to jump.) I climbed a Eucalyptus tree and it bent back over the edge of the mountain, seeing the foothills from upside-down, and I felt free.
That night, after a good dinner, Conor and I decided to explore. Our sleep site sat on a hill in, in a windy valley surrounded by high mountains.
We walked down the side of a hill a bit, and then turned off our headlamps. It was completely dark, and as the wind howled through the valley, bristling the brush around us, we were exhilarated. We noticed faint lights moving in the dark, and decided to call the other boys. We all huddled around with our sticks in the dark, and decided to explore more. Conor and I snuck into the valley with our sticks, lights-off, as Kesh spotted us with the big Mag light. Stupid boy fun—the best.
The next day’s hike took us over high, beautiful plateaus and wide, dusty valleys where we play fought kids with our sticks, threw rocks off cliffs, and where I started stick-jumping (it became a trademark for me on the trip. My stick was super-flexible, like a pole vaulting pole, so it sent me high).
So much fun.
Our site that night was the highest one out of the four, and on the side of our site was a series of rock formations that jutted up, and upon which you could see everything.
The next day might’ve been my favorite. We woke up to black eagles diving down the cliffs and circling our site, and the canyon below looked beautiful.
(that's me and Conor's shadows)
The hike that day was so great. We hiked through villages where groups of men offered us local bread and local beer (it tastes like Guiness, and came in a water bottle. It was the color of muddy water, and looked like it too, with little particles floating around it). We hiked through hayfields and green country, chest-bumping on the edges of cliffs, until coming to our site.
(how the hell did Ryan get sideways?)
Bro-bump.
When we reached our site, it was picturesque—little huts bunched on the edge of a high cliff.
Great plateaus of land surrounded the base of the cliff, and after lots of hot tea in the main hut, I set off on my own to explore the plateaus around the base. Supposedly, somebody had seen monkeys there…
So, there I am, hiking around, holding my camera, when I hear shouting from above me. “Monkeys!” It’s Nathan, Ryan, and Veronica, and I ask where. “Go around the side!” So I kept rounding the plateau until I came to some land around the base of the cliff that sloped around to the right side. There was no path, just thick, knee-high grasses (with pricklies).
I carefully climbed up the side of the slope until I heard a scream. I looked down the slope a little, and there on the edge was a big female baboon. She screamed again, louder, and I ducked into the high grass, waited for a while, then came up with my camera and got her.
I kept creeping closer, and when she’d see me she’d scream. Eventually, more baboons came, and so did my friends. The Big-Daddy baboon came into sight, and I stopped coming closer (they’re dangerous).
Austin climbed the slope and hid in the grass behind me, and we decided we’d try to get closer. We stood up and started chasing them, first walking, then jogging. The monkeys noticed, and started screaming. They took off—and they’re much faster. They were rounding the slope, when we saw Conor and Kesh above us. They told us they’d go around the other side, and we’d corner them. Ohhh buddy.
We saw their silhouettes sprinting across the top of the mountain as Austin and I kept pushing around the slope. There were six baboons, and as soon as we saw them reach the edge of the mountain, we thought they’d escaped.
But then, suddenly, they started turning back. And then sprinting towards us! We thought we were in trouble, that they were becoming territorial, so I readied my stick and got a rock ready to throw. But then, we saw Kesh and Conor coming around the side of the mountain! We were cornering the baboons, the plan was working!
So we took off, carefully moving through the grasses balancing on the slope, and Kesh and Conor kept chasing them. The baboons were sprinting by this time, down the slope it seemed. We were closing in on them and right before they climbed down the side of the cliff to cling there in safety, I hid in the grass and got some great photos.
It was straight Nat Geo style.
Afterwards, we sat on the slope of the mountain, on the edge of the cliff, talking and laughing, feeling fine. It was beautiful there, and as the sun was setting, as this was the last day, we were satisfied.
That night, the stars were out. I stargazed for a bit, then came in to the hut, and Conor and I laughed about all sorts of things for a long time. I think I cried multiple times—so funny. Also, we think somebody stole our candle, because in the middle of the night, the door was wide open, knocking against the side of the hut with the wind blowing in, and our candle was gone. Not melted, gone. Dun-dun-dun.
And then, the next morning, we said goodbye to the Semien mountains and hiked to meet the old Land Cruiser.
We drove down the mountain roads and to the airport, where I decided I couldn’t leave the stick behind.
So, I wrapped a t-shirt around the top of my stick, and suddenly developed an ankle injury. I hobbled into the airport, and the other played along, asking me “are you ok?,” and I solemly said to them “I’ll be ok.” The airport guard offered to help me through the security checkpoints, and other tourists asked what had happened. From the lobby, through the flight, and in the airport in Addis, I kept the act up. They put the stick in the cargo bay, tagged it with a luggage tag, and I hopped onto the airport, staying off my right foot. When we landed in Addis, they had a wheelchair waiting for me, and I thought, “oh, this is too much,” but it was too late, I was locked in. The Ethiopian airlines staff wheeled me through the airport, and I waited in the baggage claim until my stick came through the conveyor belt. They handed me the stick, and I hobbled through the airport, until I stepped outside, and then the act ended, and my foot felt numb from not moving, and our great journey had ended, and we were happy. And I had my stick J
And that's the end of that. More to come (today, I have internet. I'm sneakily sitting in a nice hotel and using their wifi. Ha!)
The Earth is cool. Life is cool,
-Chris
